《Ferrian's Winter》


 Chapter One

    Enemies, friends, suspicions rise


    The answer in the future lies.


    Night had fallen over the warm, still countryside. A soft summer breeze whispered through the meadow grasses, continuing over the gently sloping hills until it reached a gathering of small golden lights scattered along the dark border of the Valewood Forest. There its gentle presence was overwhelmed by the music and laughter of a night time festival.


    Ferrian looked down from the hilltop at the little village and sighed. The summer breeze found his short blond hair and rustled it affectionately, like a father might do to a son. Starlight glinted in his strange silver eyes and the chirping of crickets and the songs of the night birds mingled with the nearby jaunty music.


    But the beauty of the night was lost on Ferrian.


    Just another night, he thought. Just another town. Shifting his small pack to his left shoulder, he began to make his way wearily towards the golden lights.


    The festival was well under way by the time Ferrian entered the town. Streamers and brightly coloured decorations lined balconies and footpaths, and cheerful violinists played in the background, somehow managing to make themselves heard above the chatter of voices and laughter and clatter of wagon wheels. Crowds of people milled around in the streets, and the occasional rowdy cheer announced that the taverns certainly hadn¡¯t gone unnoticed. Ferrian jostled his way through the crowd, the heat from the lamps making an already warm night stifling. Despite the sweat trickling down his back, however, Ferrian didn¡¯t mind. In fact, he welcomed it. I would rather have the heat any day than that accursed cold...


    Ferrian swallowed nervously and tried to block the thought from his mind. No, I¡¯m not going to think about that any more, he told himself, and concentrated instead on reaching the nearest tavern.


    It wasn''t easy. Beggars grabbed his arms every few feet, seeking a few spare coins for another glass of ale, and merchants shoved all manner of goods in his face, including a few dubious items that Ferrian couldn¡¯t identify and didn¡¯t think he wanted to.


    The tide of the crowd finally pushed him up to the door of a large tavern called the Bramble Barn, and Ferrian decided this was as good a place as any to stop for the night. Besides, the dodgy merchants were still elbowing their way towards him, waving their gaudy trinkets. Ferrian went inside quickly.


    It was even hotter inside than on the crowded streets, if that were possible. Inside his cloak, Ferrian was sweating profusely, but he dared not take it off lest someone recognise him. The tavern was crammed to the last seat with celebrating revellers, and smelled strongly of sweat, ale and smoke. No one even turned around when he entered.


    Ferrian walked quickly over to the bar, where the barman greeted him. "Good Summersday, friend!" he said.


    Ferrian stared. He was quite young for a barman, and although his tone was cheerful and he was grinning, there was something vaguely ill-disposed about his small peering pale eyes. He was dressed in gaudy festival garb, the colours clashing so violently that Ferrian was almost blinded by the parries. He tugged his hood down a little lower, scraped his fringe over his eyes and tried to avoid the barman''s unnerving gaze.


    "Uh, isn''t it night-time?" he muttered.


    "Ha!" the barman said. It was more of a statement than an actual laugh; Ferrian thought it sounded rather sarcastic. He was disliking this barman more and more by the second. "Care for a drink?" the strange, thin man inquired.


    Ferrian nodded, placing two triangular jade coins in a neat stack on the counter. "And a room for the night, too, if that''s possible," he added, worrying as he rummaged in his money pouch if he had enough coinage to spare.


    The barman swept the javens away, at the same time shaking his head. He flourished his hand at the packed room. "No accommodation left to spare, friend," he informed the boy, still with that odd grin. "The taverns are popular at this time of year."


    Ferrian sighed and stuffed his money pouch back in the pocket of his worn pants. "Never mind then."


    "Where do you hail from, young friend?" the barman asked as he filled a glass tankard from a keg.


    "Not here," Ferrian replied. He wasn''t in a conversational mood, and the way the barman kept calling him ''friend'' was starting to annoy him. He watched the man carefully from beneath his fringe. Something bothered Ferrian about him, but he wasn''t sure what it was.


    His drink materialised in front of him and Ferrian grabbed it and made at once for the door.


    "Hoi!" the barman called.


    Ferrian stopped in the middle of the crowd, but didn''t turn around. His heart pounded.


    "Be sure to bring that tankard back when you''ve finished with it, friend! No fobbing it off to the purse-pinchers outside the door!"


    Ferrian sagged a little in relief. He raised the glass in acknowledgement and continued to the door. In his haste to leave he ran straight into a burly man coming in and spilled his drink all over them both.


    Thankfully, the man was already quite plastered and merely boomed with laughter, causing those sitting nearby to join in. As Ferrian scurried away, he heard the man''s companions urging him to slurp the spillage up off the floor. He didn''t look back to see if he took up the offer or not, instead preoccupied with finding a nice shadowy quiet place to sit and drink and think...


    A cool black alley presented itself as though in answer to his wish. He slipped eagerly into its embrace.


    A few paces later, he emerged onto a narrow street. There was nobody to be seen back here and no streetlamps, only the coloured glow from the lanterns on the main street filtering through gaps in the buildings. Ferrian could make out looming dark shapes beyond the first row of houses on the opposite side of the road that he guessed must be trees. A park, he thought. Looking left and right, he crossed the road quickly and disappeared into the shadows.


    Had he thought to look behind him at that moment, he would have glimpsed a dark shape briefly silhouetted at the end of the alley.


    The park was pleasant enough, although the grass was dry; but there was a large pond in the centre, and this was where Ferrian decided to sit. Sipping his drink, Ferrian stared into the calm, mirrored waters, into his own silver eyes, and saw there reflected sadness, weariness.


    There he saw the familiar cold, merciless ghost that would not let him be.


    His curse.


    He had been running ever since he was a child. Running away from everything ¨C his past, his present, but mostly his own looming, inevitable future. It wasn''t that he was a coward, or perhaps he was, he thought gloomily. After all, what difference did it make? The outcome would be the same, whether he was brave or frightened or a fool, because he could not escape himself.


    He ran because he had no other choice.


    His earliest memory was of living with a gypsy caravan. He didn¡¯t know who his parents were, or if they had ever been with the caravan at all. There always seemed to be someone different taking care of him. He smiled thinly as he remembered the colourful silks and beads they wore, the scent of spices and musky perfume of the women.


    They had travelled a lot ¨C always, he was travelling, even in those early days ¨C a different place nearly every day. But he hadn¡¯t minded then. The gypsies had been kind to him, bringing him up like he was their own child.


    But he wasn¡¯t their child. He knew it instinctively, even though the gypsies never told him outright that this was so. But they visited many towns and Ferrian met other children who had parents, and so he began to wonder why he didn''t have any of his own, why he called all the adults of his makeshift family by their first names and not mother or father. He began to wonder who his parents were, and then why they did not live with the caravan and whether or not they were still alive.


    He had tried to ask the gypsies about them, but they refused to talk about his real family. It had puzzled him then and it puzzled him now. Every time he brought up the subject, they somehow managed to slide the conversation onto a different topic. He had been very young then and eventually had simply given up, accepting that he was not supposed to know, hoping they might tell him one day when he was older.


    But one strange, elderly woman treated him differently than the others.


    She was nice enough, and took care of him, but every now and then he caught her looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he was certain she knew a secret, something no one else in the caravan was aware of. But then one day something happened to change his life forever, and he finally realised why the old woman had been so suspicious of him.


    It had been a fine spring day. The gypsies were on their way to Sel Varence, the capital city of Daroria, to trade silk and spices. The journey was a long one, and only half way finished when the caravan came upon the Barlakk Mountains.


    There was only one known pass through the Barlakk Mountains. It consisted of a long, wide wooden bridge spanning a deep river canyon, and was known as Merinriver Break. Normally the Break would be easily crossed, but this year the winter had been unusually harsh and the weight of snow on the mountain tops had caused a huge avalanche, which had crashed down the cliffs and smashed the bridge to pieces. Work to rebuild the bridge was already well under way by the time the caravan got there, but repairs would not be finished for at least a month, likely longer.


    The gypsies were forced to stop and consider their options. They could either backtrack, taking the long way southwest to Skywater where the Barlakks dwindled into more easily passable hills, or they could wait here for the bridge to be rebuilt. After much discussion, it was finally decided that they would wait.


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    As far as Ferrian was concerned, it turned out to be the worst decision they could have made.


    The bridge workers shared their supplies with the gypsies, so the caravan had plenty of food. But after a week or so the weather began to turn foul. Ominous looking clouds rolled in over the mountain peaks, blotting out the sunshine, and the temperature dropped with a suddenness that was startling. Workers and gypsies alike cursed the cold rain that fell in sheets and slowed progress of the bridge. Everyone assumed it was just bad luck that the weather should turn nasty now of all times, and fully expected to see the sun again within a week.


    Unfortunately, their predictions came to nothing, as insubstantial and hopeless as the mist that cloaked the canyon. The sun sank deeper into a quagmire of dark clouds, and every day seemed colder than the last. Then it began to snow. Work on the bridge slowed even further and finally stopped altogether. The workers huddled freezing in their tents, and the gypsies in their caravans, while the snow fell more and more heavily around them. With nothing else to do, they had plenty of time to think and to talk, and fear and suspicions arose as they dwelt on why they were having such bad luck. One of the women was a fortune-teller, and one night cast her coloured stones into a bowl, and came back to them shaking and wide-eyed, telling them a curse was amongst them: that this bad luck was no act of nature.


    Sorcery! Fear quickly turned to anger as they turned accusatory eyes on their companions.


    That night, Meriya, the mysterious old woman, came to him as he lay huddled in a blanket in the back of one of the caravans. He was cold, certainly, but for some reason the others seemed to be suffering more than him. It was as if he was used to these freezing conditions ¨C but that was impossible, because the gypsies mainly stayed in the warmer climates. He had been lying awake, puzzling over this, when Meriya entered quietly.


    "Ferrian, are you awake?" her grating voice whispered, barely audible above the howling of the wind outside. Ferrian looked up with bright, silvery eyes at the old, craggy figure, heavily cloaked and hooded, and opened his mouth to reply.


    Instantly, Meriya clamped a strong, cold hand over his mouth and yanked him to his feet, cutting off his voice. "Just shut up and do as I say," she whispered harshly in his ear, and jerked him roughly to the door of the caravan.


    Snatching his winter cloak from a hook on the wall, she ordered him to put it on. Ferrian did as he was told, too confused and frightened to argue. He waited in silence as Meriya lit a lantern, then she bustled him out of the caravan and into the freezing black night.


    It seemed to Ferrian that they walked for hours in the blinding blizzard. He trudged slowly along through the deep snow, freezing and frightened, Meriya giving him a push every now and then to keep him moving. Sometimes he stumbled and fell, and when he did she cursed and hauled him to his feet so roughly that he thought she would yank his arm right out of its socket. His fingers and toes felt numb, and the wind hurled stinging ice into his face. He quickly lost all sense of direction in the whirling blackness, and all he could do was let Meriya lead him blindly on into the storm. She seemed to be angry with him, and Ferrian wondered miserably if he was being punished, though he couldn¡¯t for the life of him think what he¡¯d done to deserve this.


    Finally, they stopped, and Meriya grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around to face her. The wind howled deafeningly around them, almost drowning out her words. The lantern swung crazily on the belt at her side, the flame almost flickering out. "Ferrian!" she yelled above the storm. "You must stay here! Do not try to follow me back!"


    Ferrian could hardly see her face through the darkness and whirling snow. Tears came into his eyes. "Am I being punished? Did I do something wrong?" he yelled back.


    The old woman''s voice wavered, the harsh lines on her face softened and her eyes turned down in sadness. "No, boy, you haven¡¯t done anything wrong. But you can never return, do you understand me? You¡¯ve brought the Winter on us all, and if you don¡¯t leave now, we¡¯ll all die!"


    Ferrian yelled into the storm, the tears crystallising instantly into ice on his face. "But I don¡¯t understand!"


    Meriya had taken her hands from his shoulders and was turning to leave. She pulled her cloak more tightly around her frail body and unhitched the lantern from her belt. Calling back to Ferrian one last time before she left, she said: "I¡¯m sorry boy, it¡¯s not your fault..."


    Then she turned and was gone, leaving him alone in the snow and pitch darkness.


    Ferrian remembered that night vividly. He recalled staring after Meriya for a long time after she¡¯d gone. Then, despite her warning not to, he¡¯d followed her. It made no difference in any case. He¡¯d been totally lost. He couldn¡¯t see anything but pitch blackness, and the only sound he could hear was the mournful wail of the wind.


    Why didn''t I die that night? he thought with a mix of longing and frustration that the gods had been so cruel as to force him to live out his fate. Somehow, he managed to keep walking, even when he could no longer feel his feet or the sting of ice on his skin, even when his thoughts had retreated into a hazy fog. He barely remembered what he experienced out there in the darkness. His first distinct memory was of opening his eyes to find himself staring at a wall of ice, clear and blue like the sky was trapped inside.


    He had turned around, stiffly, snow falling off him in heaps, to see the sun had found a chink in the clouds and was spilling long, fragile streamers into the valley.


    There was a chasm right in front of him, snowflakes drifting serenely into its unimaginable depths. He would have shivered or gasped, or wondered why he had not fallen to his death in the darkness, but he was too numb and dazed to do any of those things. He had wandered far up into the mountains where the canyon narrowed into a cleft, and the great soaring waterfall that fed the Merinriver had turned to crystal.


    It took him a whole day to find his way back to the gypsy encampment, but thankfully the weather improved a little as he walked. When he arrived at the Break, however, he found it deserted, the bridge still unfinished and the gypsies and workers gone.


    There were fresh tracks and the snow was churned up and muddy. Bits and pieces of things were lying around: personal belongings, litter, construction materials. Two tents were still standing. A package of dried fruit was spilled open on the ground near one of them, apparently dropped and forgotten. The camp looked as though it had been packed up and evacuated in great haste.


    Ferrian ate the fruit and sat in the snow until a Sirinese merchant family, travelling to the Coastlands and unaware of the impassable bridge, took pity on him and gave him a ride in their fancy wagon back to the Outlands.


    He shook his head at the memories. That was ten years ago. Back then, he¡¯d had no idea what Meriya meant when she said You¡¯ve brought the Winter on us all, but now he knew only too well. She¡¯d known all along, that was why she had always been so suspicious of him. It wasn¡¯t because she didn¡¯t like him.


    It was because she¡¯d been afraid of him.


    It had taken Ferrian years to fully understand why the gypsies, the only family he had ever known, had abandoned him; but the truth was that if he stayed in one place too long, the Winter would come.


    At first, he had tried to ignore it, thinking it might play itself out, hoping he was deluded in assuming that the weather could change simply because of his presence. But the ''Winter'', as old Meriya had referred to it, never went away. It simply became progressively worse until he was afraid that it might take someone''s life. He had seen elderly women and young children rugged up and coughing because of it. He had seen roofs torn off houses in the violent storms that his curse created. Eventually, he was forced to admit (to himself only, he dared not speak of this with anyone else) that he was the cause, and the only way he could stop this from happening was to keep travelling, to leave each town or each place before the weather got too bad.


    Thus, he¡¯d been wandering from town to town ever since.


    He hunched his knees up to his chest as though for protection from his ravaging secret. Some people already suspected him, of this he was certain. He¡¯d stayed a little too long in some places, and a few canny observers had noticed that the bad weather had started when a stranger had arrived and gone when he left. He winced as he remembered a particularly nasty experience when he¡¯d arrived at one village, only to be run out of town by the enraged villagers and accused of being an ¡®Evil Spirit¡¯. Rumours spread fast around these country villages, and his silver eyes made him conspicuous.


    Ferrian plucked a dandelion from the ground where he sat, and tossed it idly into the still pond. He watched it float gently on the dark waters, against a background of reflected stars. I¡¯m sick of it, he thought. I¡¯m sick and tired of the running, of the fear. He felt so alone. Making friends was impossible ¨C every time he tried he was forced to leave suddenly, unable to explain to them why. More than once he¡¯d wondered how this could have happened to him.


    Maybe that''s exactly what I am after all, he thought. An evil spirit. Despair settled around his shoulders like a cloak, and try as he might, he could not shake it off.


    He rested his head on his updrawn knees. All his life seemed scarred with misery and fear, apart from those distant days before the madness, when he''d lived with the gypsies and played with their children, oblivious of his curse. Would he ever find happiness like that again?


    It would be so easy, he thought in the silence of his head, to just slip beneath those dark waters. Then no one would ever have to see me or fear me again...


    A strong hand grabbed Ferrian''s shoulder, almost causing him to fall into the pond prematurely. He jumped to his feet, knocking away the hand, his own reaching for his knife.


    "Whoa! Hold on there kid, I mean you no harm!" The stranger stepped back hastily, both hands raised to show he was unarmed. Ferrian put his knife away hesitantly. The stranger lowered his hands.


    "Sorry about that, my boy. Didn¡¯t mean to scare you." He held out his hand in greeting. "The name¡¯s Trice. Commander Grisket Trice of the Freeroamers."


    Ferrian stared at the hand warily. Freeroamers? He knew of them, of course. The Freeroamers were a small but dedicated group of law enforcers who patrolled the small towns and hamlets of the Outlands, places the King had deemed too insignificant for his precious officers of the City Watch.


    Ferrian glanced off into the humid darkness, and his hands felt sticky with sweat. There was no one else around. The two of them were alone in the park.


    The heavy ball of fear in his stomach started to swing with greater momentum. He had feared for a long time that the rumours of the Winter would eventually reach the Freeroamers. Had they finally found him out?


    "Young lad like yourself shouldn''t be hanging around back here at this hour," Commander Trice warned. "Especially by yourself."


    He could not read anything in the other''s eyes that would indicate he had discovered Ferrian''s secret. Ferrian had to force himself not to swallow. He turned away and slumped back down on the grass. "I can look after myself," he muttered.


    Commander Trice grunted. "If you say so." He walked over and settled himself beside Ferrian on the grass. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.


    Ferrian glanced sidelong at the Commander and noticed that he, too, had brought a glass of beer with him. For some reason that evoked a prickly, disturbing feeling in Ferrian''s spine.


    He could not make out the details well in the gloom, but Trice appeared to be middle-aged, of average height and broad-shouldered. The way he held himself also suggested he was very fit and no doubt an experienced fighter. He wore the recognisable Freeroamer uniform: black with a cobalt left sleeve, accompanied by a sleek pointed hat with a long gold and black striped feather leaping from the band.


    Trice sipped his beer and chatted casually, about the weather and other, more inconsequential things. Ferrian sat in silence, only half-listening. It was getting late, but the sounds of the festival drifting from the town centre were as animated as ever. Ferrian was tired from his journey, but the night was still stiflingly hot and he didn¡¯t think he¡¯d be able to sleep tonight anyway.


    He remembered the dark thoughts that had clouded his mind just before Trice had interrupted him. The realisation chilled him to the bone, but his opinion hadn''t changed, nevertheless.


    The Commander eventually lapsed into silence. The two of them sat staring at the glassy reflections before them for awhile.


    At last Commander Trice pushed himself to his feet and brushed the grass from his clothes. "Well, time to be off," he sighed. He nodded to Ferrian. "Nice meeting you, kid." He started to turn away, then paused and gave the boy a long, considering look.


    "Watch yourself," he repeated. "A lot of no-good types around these parts, especially the Bladeshifters, said to be headed this way, due to arrive within a week or so. Just so happens that''s why I''m in town, if you were wondering." He gestured into the moonlit night. "Got Freeroamers scouting about, but I decided to come here myself to arrest their leader in person." He chuckled darkly to himself. "Should be an interesting confrontation."


    He glanced back at Ferrian, his expression turning grim. "But it could be an unpleasant one, so if you plan on sticking around Meadrun, boy, try to keep out of the way, if you can."


    Ferrian nodded. "Thanks for the warning, sir."


    Grisket smiled and touched the point of his hat. "Don''t mention it: that''s my job."


    Then he turned and disappeared silently into the shadows of the trees.

 Chapter Two

    Revelation, confrontation


    Tragedy from elevation.


    The valley gleamed like new-forged gold in the early morning sunlight: a polished nugget nestled in a ring of featureless grey stone. High above, a wistful summer daydream, distant peaks speckled with white snow faded into the glorious blue sky. To the north, a long waterfall dropped like a crystal lance from the cliffs before winding along the valley''s bottom, etching out the contours of the reed-beds with its gurgling song.


    On either side of the glittering river, perched on ledges in the cliff face like sentinels facing each other down, were two castles.


    The one to the east was white, its high towers and parapets rising to the sky like ivory arms seeking to embrace the heavens. Window frames and doorways were decorated with delicate silver and gold scrollwork. Not yet embraced by the shining orb rising behind it, its walls nevertheless seemed to emit a cool, unearthly radiance, as though some remnant of starlight from the vanquished night had become trapped in the stone.


    The one to the west was its brother, a shadow even in the sunlight, a twisted and corrupted doppelg?nger. Its towers were black and spindly; like a basket full of burnt fingers, they clustered together among the battlemented walls. Upon the steeply sloping rooftops, spires like razor sharp nails raked the air. Crouching in the gloom of doorways and eaves were numerous black stone gargoyles, carved into hideous forms. The dusty breeze that flurried through the narrow open windows blew out again whispering of malevolence.


    In the latter of the two castles, Lord Arzath stood at one of these windows, facing the morning sun as it climbed over the ragged peaks and matching it glare for glare. Warm fingers of air twitched the black hair about his shoulders and quickly pulled away again.


    Directly opposite him, the white castle sat in the shadow of the mountains, cool and serene and silent, unfazed by his latest attempt to smash it into a pile of majestic rubble.


    The latest assault hadn''t gone well.


    The extremely annoying thing about lightning magic, he reflected, seething, was that it never hit the same spot twice. By its very nature, it was unpredictable, all but uncontrollable, even for an accomplished sorcerer such as himself. While devastating in close quarters, focusing such erratic energy on a large target at a distance with any sort of accuracy was nothing short of laughable. All of his strikes had gone wildly astray ¨C either grounding themselves on nearby pine trees or simply bouncing off the impenetrable shield of magic that his brother had constructed to protect his castle from exactly this sort of attack.


    It was like trying to kill someone with a thousand needle pricks, each one on a different part of their body.


    But even needle pricks could hurt, if there were enough of them. His strategy had been to bombard the shield with such a massive amount of magic that Requar''s mind would not be able to endure the pain. The shield was an extension of his consciousness ¨C in essence, a barrier composed of sheer will.


    castle, penetrated his


    He had ceased the attack, after that.


    At least dear Requar should be nursing an interesting migraine¡­


    His fingernails dug into the warm jet stone of the window ledge so hard that his knuckles showed white through his lean hands. That white fortress was a mockery. It was a farce, an insult to every sorcerer who had ever lived.


    For it was Requar who had destroyed the art of magic; his own brother had wiped the School of Magical Studies from the face of Arvanor in a single catastrophic stroke.


    Now it was just the two of them.


    No, not even I,At least, not yet¡­


    Arzath snorted. Not that his brother would have been able to stop him, but the less of his plan Requar could deduce the better. Unfortunately, he still required one more item to make his weapon complete...


    There was a hesitant knock on the door of his chamber. It was almost too soft to be heard, but nevertheless Arzath was irritated at the intrusion on his ruminations. Not bothering to turn around, he flicked his wrist and the door flung open behind him. "Yes?"


    The servant entered quickly and Arzath turned from the window to face him. Seeing whom it was, Arzath cursed inwardly. That damned Cimmeran again.


    Cimmeran looked nervous. He was fidgeting with the hem of his cloak, and his eyes roamed all over the room.


    "Well, spit it out, damn you!" Arzath snapped.


    Cimmeran swallowed hard. "Lord Requar requests that you meet with him above the waterfall at midday, to discuss a peace treaty..." his voice trailed off as his master''s eyes narrowed, like a Muron sizing up its next meal.


    Swallowing again, the servant quickly tugged a sealed letter from his pocket and held it out with a shaking hand, cringing noticeably under the force of Arzath''s glare. The sorcerer snatched it and ripped it open, giving the message no more than a cursory glance before striding to the open window.


    Then he paused.


    He looked down at the half-crumpled letter in his hand. Slowly, he smoothed it out and read it again, this time with more care.


    He grinned.


    On the opposite side of the valley, a tall handsome man stood alone at his study window, watching the sunlight bathe the dark blotch on the other shore that was his brother''s castle. Long white hair trailed in a neat braid down the back of his exquisite embroidered cobalt waistcoat. His fine facial features retained the essence of youth, but his eyes betrayed an age and knowledge and sorrow far beyond that of a single Human lifespan.


    He was twice as old as any man should rightly be, and he was beginning to feel it.


    Wincing, he turned away from the depressing view, touching the throbbing spot between his eyes. His brain felt as though it had been mashed and burned at the same time, but at least the pain wasn''t as bad as it had been two days ago, directly following Arzath''s attack. It had been one of the most vehement and enduring sieges that Requar could remember, and it had taken all of his strength and focus to maintain the integrity of his shield. The scent of smoke and expended magic still lingered in the air.


    Arzath was getting desperate.


    He sighed and collapsed into the chair behind his desk. Leaning over the mess of papers, books and fountain pens, he rested his forehead in his hand. Then suddenly he grimaced and thumped his hand down on the desk.


    Requar was tired of this unceasing war. That was why he had sent Arzath the message. He knew it was a vain gesture, a token attempt to communicate with his irrational brother on a reasonable level. Arzath had probably used it for fire kindling by now.


    But at least he''d tried.


    He stared gloomily around his small, bright study, but found no answers in the crammed bookshelves or polished cabinets filled with herbs and curative potions. He found even fewer answers in the meticulous handwritten research notes littering the desk in front of him.


    leaped out at him, like an accusation.


    Scowling, he scrunched the paper up and threw it across the room, then returned his aching head to his hands.


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    A few minutes later, his blue eyes opened again at a gentle prodding from the magic he had set to protect the castle. Even that slight touch caused him to shudder.


    Someone had approached the keep.


    He pushed himself up and peered out the window, then left the study and headed for the stairs.


    His high leather boots echoed on the polished marble floor as he crossed the spacious foyer. He took one of the gilded handles, pulled it and beckoned the servant to enter.


    Cimmeran stepped into the cool foyer, panting and looking hot and haggard from hurrying from one side of the valley and back again twice. Anxious though Requar was to hear his brother''s answer, he led the servant into the commodious and elegant dining hall, where a flask of red wine and two crystal glasses waited on the long table. He poured Cimmeran and himself a drink and waited until Arzath''s servant had quenched his thirst sufficiently before asking for the message.


    Cimmeran wiped his mouth on a dirty sleeve. "Lord Arzath has agreed to a meeting at midday at the aforementioned place," he stoically intoned.


    Cimmeran repeated the message he had rehearsed.


    Cimmeran looked anxious. He glanced around with wide eyes, as though wondering if he''d said something offensive. "Um, y-yes?" he stammered.


    Requar was taken aback. He had never seriously expected his brother to take up his offer. He was expecting something more along the lines of a sarcastic reply, or at worst, another all-out assault on his castle. The fact that Arzath had agreed to a, ah ¨C in theory at least ¨C civilised meeting was a significant step forward. Perhaps he had finally realised that this war between them was pointless.


    But Requar doubted it. More likely, Arzath simply wanted the opportunity to insult him in person. Requar shook his ruminations aside. It didn''t matter. At least he now had a chance to speak to his brother face to face.


    If he was lucky, he might even get a couple of words in before Arzath tried to murder him.


    He nodded again, carefully keeping the relief from his face. "Thank you, Cimmeran. You may rest here until you feel ready to return to your keep."


    At his words, Cimmeran stiffened, his bony hand tightening around the slender stem of the wine glass. He looked up at the sorcerer with a pained, despairing expression.


    Requar studied his eyes and read there the familiar, unspoken plea. He sighed deeply and shook his head. "You know that if there was anything I could possibly do to help you, I would not hesitate..."


    Cimmeran looked back down at the empty glass, then went to the table and poured himself another drink.


    Requar watched him gulp it down, then placed his own unfinished glass on the table, turned away sadly and left the servant in the dining hall with the remainder of the wine. He felt sorry for the poor man, but could do little to help him while he was under Arzath''s control. His brother had placed powerful possession spells upon Cimmeran that reacted to the slightest attempt at interference. Simply touching him was hazardous, as Requar had discovered one day when he had thought to examine Cimmeran, worried about his malnourished condition. A fierce bolt of violet lightning had leapt forth and struck Requar''s hand, burning it severely.


    The injury had taken little effort to heal with his own magic, but he had been careful to keep his distance from Arzath''s servants and minions ever since. Cimmeran himself had not been scathed in the attack, but it was a clear warning that Requar was not eager to ignore.


    But despite the frustration he felt at his inability to free Cimmeran from his violent, hate-riddled master, he looked forward to the servant''s visits, brief as they were. He lived alone, his magnificent white castle so full of promise and yet so empty, as it had been since he had built it. Developing relationships with people was exceedingly difficult with Arzath snapping at every step he took.


    The sun at midday was a formidable opponent.


    At the far end of the valley, upon wide flat rocks laid in a shelf above the sparkling waterfall, Lord Requar sheltered from the sun beneath the prickly, gnarled boughs of an ancient, weather-beaten pine tree. A sweltering wind ruffled his white braided hair as he gazed over the peaceful vista below.


    From this vantage point, the whole of the valley lay spread out before him, golden and slumbering, cradled protectively in the hard grey hands of the Barlakk Mountains. Requar watched it sleep, beginning to share in its drowsiness as he listened to the reassuring lullaby of the waterfall churning out of a cleft in the rock face below his feet. In the years before Arzath had settled in this valley, he had often come up here to sit in peaceful solitude with the wind as his only companion, and stare at nothing, and think about nothing.


    Aside from the splendid view, there was a much more important reason Requar had chosen to meet his brother in this particular place ¨C it was the only neutral ground in the valley. The river marked the boundary between Arzath''s domain and his, thus the only piece of ground that wasn''t riddled with spells was this cliff where he stood.


    Requar sensed his brother''s presence long before he appeared, in the susurrus of the dry grass. Sure enough, a few minutes later Arzath emerged from between the boulders at the far side of the ledge. He had forgone his cloak in the heat, clad in familiar black save for the gold arabesque stitching on his vest and a matching gold-coloured loose-sleeved shirt. Upon seeing Requar he paused, then folded his arms and stood where he was, disdaining to advance further. His eyes were fiery green chips beneath his black hair.


    The two sorcerer brothers stared at each other. The roar of the falls filled the uneasy silence.


    "I must admit," Requar said finally, unable to prevent a wince as he pushed himself away from the tree, "I''m surprised you came. I expected my message to be floating pieces of ash by now."


    Arzath raised an eyebrow. "It is."


    "And yet, you came."


    Arzath was smirking. "Did you enjoy my present?" he said viciously.


    Requar nodded solemnly at the damaged black castle. "Did you enjoy mine?"


    The smug look vanished from Arzath''s face in an instant, Requar''s words igniting a telltale flash of anger in his eyes.


    He stalked across the cliff top towards him.


    Requar let him come.


    Arzath¡¯s arm snapped up, his hand surrounded by a crackling nimbus of violet energy.


    Requar''s arm came up at the same time.


    They stood two yards apart, each bathed in the glow of each other''s magic.


    Requar sighed. "How many of these confrontations have we had before, Arzath?" he said, shaking his head. "This feud between us has gone on for more years than I''d care to count. I am growing tired of this nonsense. It has to end."


    "Oh, I intend it to!" Arzath snarled.


    "I take it you didn''t come here to listen to anything I have to say," Requar said. "You never listen, do you?"


    "Nothing you could possibly say would be anything I''d care to hear."


    "Then what are you doing here?"


    Arzath barked a laugh. "Isn''t that obvious?"


    Requar stared at him in dismay. "I thought better of you," he said quietly. He shook his head again. "I thought perhaps..."


    "No one remembers the School any more..."


    Well,


    Requar said nothing. With his arm still raised, he closed his eyes and turned his head away.


    "And you don¡¯t even have the backbone to deny it!"


    "I was... only trying to protect you..."


    Requar stared back at him in horror. "What?! No...!"


    "Oh, don''t bother! I told you, your excuses mean NOTHING to me!"


    "So, that is what this war is about?" Requar demanded heatedly. "Vengeance?" He could feel his grip on his own composure slipping, the heat of the sun boiling long-buried emotions to the surface.


    ¡°Vengeance," Arzath hissed, "is all I have left!"


    he thought as he desperately threw out a wave of blinding white light, turning aside Arzath''s lightning bolts, which struck the rock and grass flinging up chips of stone and left black scorch marks smoking all around him. One bolt deflected into the pine tree, igniting its dry sun-beaten limbs into a raging conflagration.


    The burning tree was every bit a match for his brother''s anger. Unable to rise, Requar could do nothing but endure Arzath''s strikes and hope that his strength held up long enough to outlast his brother''s wrath. The pain in his head was intense ¨C he was still not fully recovered from the last assault ¨C and he could see nothing beyond the flare of his own magic and the smoke gathering in a thick cloud around him.


    Then, abruptly, the attack ceased.


    Requar kept his arm raised, shielding himself, a globe of light poised in his hand. Panting, he peered through the haze for Arzath...


    The black-haired sorcerer lunged at him.


    Requar swung a leg at him, tripping him over, but Arzath fell right on top of him and immediately slammed a fist into his face. Dazed, Requar suffered a second jarring blow before he managed to recover his wits long enough to hook his right fist at Arzath''s jaw in return.


    Arzath went sprawling.


    Requar pushed himself into an unsteady sitting position to find his brother spitting blood beside him. "What is this... going to achieve?" he asked painfully.


    Despite his own pain and weariness, Arzath laughed breathlessly.


    " Then he threw himself onto Requar again.


    The two brothers fought violently, kicking and hitting out with fists, tearing clothing and rolling over and over on the ground. Arzath did most of the attacking, while Requar desperately tried to defend himself. Neither of them used magic this time.


    Then Arzath managed to pin Requar on his back again. Wrapping his hands around his brother''s throat, he began to squeeze tightly, crushing his windpipe. Out of pure survival instinct, Requar grabbed Arzath''s shoulders and used his very last reserve of magic to fling him off.


    It worked: Arzath released him and fell backwards, as though shoved by an invisible hand.


    Requar rolled over, coughing, trying to force acrid air into his tortured lungs. He had neither physical strength nor magical energy left to spare. Another blow would be the end of him.


    But no further attacks came.


    When at last he managed to force himself up, a few minutes later, he found that Arzath was nowhere to be seen.


    He looked around through the ashes drifting from the smouldering tree, but his brother was simply gone. Confused, Requar stood up. Where was he? Had he used a camouflage spell...?


    And then he noticed how close he was standing to the edge of the cliff.


    Despite the burning glare of the sun, his entire body froze over. A patch of brown grass right on the precipice was flattened and broken.


    Requar wasn''t sure how he made himself move, made himself step forward to look over the edge, past the leaping arc of the waterfall... but he did.


    He reeled, and stumbled backwards to save himself falling over, and crumpled to his knees on the dusty rock. Nothing else in the world had changed: the crickets were starting to chirp again in the grass behind him. In the direction of the black castle, a Muron shrieked. The sun continued to glare down on him pitilessly.


    Everything had changed.


    For a long while, Requar just stared at the ground in front of him, shocked. But it wasn''t the passing smoke shadows or cracks in the weathered stone that reflected in his eyes. It was the body of his brother, lying broken and motionless on the rocks far below.


    Arzath was dead.


    The reality of what had happened barrelled down on him, swept him away like a charging beast, piercing him with sharpened tusks of madness, terror and grief. His fingers clawed at the dust.


    He screamed.

 Chapter Three

    Death comes swift imprisoned here


    The coldness stems from more than fear.


    Ferrian left Meadrun early, before the sun had risen, walking down the quiet, sleepy street alone. Drunken revellers were slumped over hay bales and across the pavement, snoring, some with half-empty tankards hanging from limp fingers. Streamers and other debris from the night''s festivities littered the town. Ferrian picked his way through it all, careful not to disturb anyone or draw attention to himself. Hopefully, he could slip out of the town without being noticed. Hopefully, no one would remember that he had ever been there.


    Disappointment, however, dogged his steps. He regretted having to leave so soon after arriving; he hadn''t even managed to get a good night''s sleep, unable to stop thinking about the meeting with Commander Trice. But his decision was inevitable. He certainly did not want to be hanging around when the Bladeshifters showed up, especially if there was going to be a confrontation between them and their arch-enemies, the Freeroamers. He didn''t feel like being killed by a wayward arrow or taken hostage for the sake of a few grubles. The Bladeshifters were fond of playing games; when they were around, anything was likely to happen.


    he thought with a sigh.


    His thoughts drifted back to Commander Trice. The man had seemed friendly and gracious, his concern fatherly, but something about him vaguely bothered Ferrian. Why, exactly, had he followed Ferrian out into the park? Just to keep an eye on him? Sure, it was his duty to look out for people, but still... Ferrian couldn''t help feeling that there was something more to it. Something more... ominous.


    With an effort, he pushed the thought away. It didn''t matter now. He was leaving, and with any luck, he wouldn''t run into any of the Freeroamers again.


    He was determined to make sure they never found out what he was.


    Despite his misgivings about the Commander, Ferrian''s mood gradually improved throughout the morning. Leaving Meadrun behind, he entered the cool, green shade of the Valewood Forest, just north of the village. Gathered in a secluded pocket against the Barlakk foothills, the trees here were thick and fragrant, and the air heavy with the scent of wildflowers. The stillness resounded with the flutelike calls of forest birds, a mysterious symphony high in the treetops. The sun lifted into view over the hills, clear and warm, throwing intricate dappled patterns on the well-travelled road and lighting the way ahead with bright, hazy beams. Ferrian felt his spirits lifting with it, breaking free of the black shackles that had gripped him only hours earlier. Thinking about what he had been contemplating doing to himself as he sat by that pond caused him to shiver in horror.


    He wasn''t even sure that death would free him from his curse; for all he knew, it might permanently hang around his corpse. Would he have turned into an icy ghost and haunted that damned pond forever?


    He shivered. He wasn''t sure when it was that he had first realised that the Winter was caused deliberately by magic. He didn''t think it had come to him as a sudden revelation, but more a gradual awakening to the truth. He thought perhaps he had known ever since that day Meriya left him out in the blizzard. The whispered, fearful voices of the bridge workers and gypsies had haunted him ever since.


    We have a sorcerer in our midst...


    Ferrian was no sorcerer. But perhaps he had come into contact with one in the past, while he was too young to remember or understand. Perhaps that contact had left him with this unshakeable curse.


    He had been determined to find this person ever since. It was the only meaningful goal that had ever truly given him comfort, and he wrapped it around himself tightly, like a thin cloak to ward off the abominable cold. He only wished he knew where to look. So far, his searching had uncovered nothing but insubstantial rumours and fairytales. Sorcerers, it seemed, were much like the demon-wraiths that were said to dwell deep in the mountains: they flitted about the countryside leaving terror in their wake, and nobody could track their movements or even adequately describe what they looked like. Nobody had ever seen one first hand, only known someone ¨C a friend of a friend ¨C who had. Sometimes, he wondered if that was really all they were: shades of legends past come to tease and torment the present.


    But on this hot and blazing morning, he refused to be disheartened. He could not afford to. If he did, he was lost.


    .


    It was then that someone stepped out of the trees. He strolled out into the middle of the road, directly into Ferrian''s path, whistling like a traveller who had merely stopped for a leak.


    But this was no traveller.


    Ferrian stopped dead in his tracks, startled that a man so huge and wearing such dark clothing had managed to conceal himself so perfectly in the sunlit trees. His eyes were so big and black they gave the impression of hollow pits boring into his skull. The rest of his wide square face was covered in scars, and the parts that weren''t were hidden in black hair, coarse and tangled and speckled with bits of leaves, like a great bush of charred heather. A fiery red beard, tapering into a braid that hung down to his waist, completed the alarming picture. He turned to face the boy, sunlight glinting dully off the enormous grimy axe resting on his shoulder, and grinned.


    "''allo, Silvereyes!" he said.


    Before Ferrian could utter a word or react, his vision was obscured by hessian and a second later went black as it tightened around his throat.


    It was not pitch black as Ferrian had first thought. A tiny crack in the high, rocky ceiling let in a faint, golden streamer of sunlight ¨C just enough for him to make out the walls of the cell he was in.


    He lay where he was for awhile, letting his vision adjust, then pushed himself into a sitting position. Where he had been taken to was a mystery, but he had a fair idea who it was that had abducted him.


    The Bladeshifters.


    He doubted it would have been the Freeroamers: their Guard House surely wouldn''t be this rustic and besides, that giant bearded man hadn''t been wearing a Freeroamer uniform. There was probably no uniform in Arvanor that would have fitted him.


    He looked around his newest prison. The floor, walls and ceiling were rocky and uneven, with no furnishings, not even straw. It was little more than a small cave with an iron door set in one wall. Peering closer, he thought he could make out what looked like barrels in the far corner. Perhaps this was a storeroom. Perhaps there was something over there that could be useful¡­


    Getting to his feet, he started towards them, then hesitated. A flash of movement to his right caught his eye. It was something silver and metallic, turning itself over and over rapidly, catching the thin shaft of sunlight.


    Ferrian stared at it, half-mesmerised by the strange flickering motion. Then all of a sudden he jumped in shock and stumbled back against the opposite wall.


    It was a knife, being twirled in a black-gloved hand.


    Now that the shaft of sunlight was out of his direct vision, he could clearly see the silhouette of a man leaning against the wall.


    Ferrian went cold. He hadn''t even realised that he was there!


    "Took you long enough," a voice said from the deep shadows. The figure appeared to take some items out of his pocket and fidget with them for a few moments. Then a match was struck and fire flared, and Ferrian caught a glimpse of the man''s face as he lit a wad of rolled up black leaves in his mouth.


    He looked surprisingly young, Ferrian thought, perhaps only five or six years older than himself. His hair was short and dark, slicked into messy spikes, with one long bleached lock falling across his eyes. He was of average height and his physique was very lithe and slender, bordering on skinny. He wore black, close-fitting clothes, and his leather jacket was adorned with a remarkable assortment of miscellaneous metallic debris ¨C broken chains, pendants, badges, rivets and studs, nails, even old clockwork cogwheels.


    Ferrian regarded him warily. "You''re the leader of the Bladeshifters," he said quietly.


    "Yep," the other affirmed. "That''s me. Eltorian Nightwalker. Heard of me, have you?"


    "I have now."


    Nightwalker laughed. It was not a horrid laugh, but one of someone sharing a joke with their best friend. He straightened from the wall and stepped into the light, and he was grinning. "Good answer!"


    Ferrian''s eyes wandered quickly around the cave again and came to rest on the door, only an arm''s length away to his left.


    "Go on!" Nightwalker encouraged, waving his knife at the door. "Try it!"


    Ferrian didn''t move.


    "Oh, come on! You know you want¨C"


    Ferrian launched himself at the Bladeshifter leader.


    It was an act born of pure desperation and panic, but his options were rapidly narrowing and he didn''t value his own life very much at this point in any case. He was tired of running and cowering, tired of being intimidated and afraid¡­


    Nightwalker stepped aside and with a quick flick of his leg sent Ferrian crashing to the floor. He sighed, then bent down and picked the boy up with one hand, propped him against the rock wall and brushed him off. "Here''s a lesson for you, kid," he said. "Don''t mistake confidence with complacency. But I''m a reasonable guy, so I''m going to give you a second chance to try and overpower me and make your grand escape. Here," he offered Ferrian the hilt of his knife. "This might help."


    Ferrian shook his head, wiping away the blood leaking from his nose.


    "No? Are you sure?" He waved the knife in front of Ferrian''s face. His smirk was infuriating.


    Ferrian gritted his teeth and ignored him. He had already made one stupid mistake; he wasn''t about to make another.


    Nightwalker shrugged, and the knife returned to twirling at his hip. It never stopped moving, as though the hand controlling it had a mind of its own. He took another deep draw on whatever toxic weed it was that he was smoking.


    "W-what do you want from me?" Ferrian stammered. "I¡­ I don''t have any money¡­"


    Nightwalker laughed again, which dissolved into a bout of coughing. He took some time to regain his composure as he was choking and laughing at the same time. For an instant, Ferrian regretted not having taken the knife.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Oh, you have nothing that I want," the Bladeshifter leader declared in some amusement once he had recovered.


    "What?" Ferrian cried, furious. "Then why have you locked me up in here?"


    They stared at each other for a long moment. Ferrian swallowed. "I don''t know what you mean," he answered finally. "He isn''t interested¨C"


    "Oh?" Nightwalker cut him off. "You two seemed to be getting along remarkably well last night!"


    Ferrian caught his breath. "You¡­ you were there, spying on us? In the park?"


    . I''ve been skulking around that damned town for days waiting for the old fool to notice me!" He snorted in disgust. "In any case, that''s irrelevant. What did he talk to you about?"


    "Nothing!" Ferrian sighed in exasperation. "The weather!"


    Nightwalker''s eyes narrowed. "Amusing," he said. "I like that in a prisoner. However," his knife appeared suddenly at Ferrian''s throat. "I''m starting to lose patience. What did Trice want with you?"


    Nightwalker ignored the remark. He simply stared at Ferrian. Finally, he removed the dagger and stepped back. "Hmm," he murmured, tapping the blade on his teeth, giving the boy a curious look. Then suddenly he turned and went to the door.


    "Wait a minute!" Ferrian cried. "You haven''t told me what you want with me!"


    The Bladeshifter leader paused at the door and turned, giving Ferrian a smile. "I think I''d like to test you," he replied, then opened the door and stepped out.


    "Oh, incidentally," he added, leaning back in, "this door was never locked." He patted one of the thick iron panels, winked at Ferrian, then closed and bolted it behind him.


    In the darkness of the cave, Ferrian slid to the floor in frustration.


    The thumping sound bounced off the rough stone walls of the underground passage, but there was no one around to hear it.


    "Nightwalker!" Ferrian banged on the frost-brushed door until his fist was red and sore, as he had been doing every day for the past five days, but as usual, nobody responded. Finally, exasperated, he slumped against the door, fighting back tears. No matter how hard he listened, there was nothing to be heard save the maddeningly monotonous drip, drip of water trickling in through the crack in the ceiling. It was gradually creating a clear little pool in a recess in the floor.


    The drips had already begun to form into an icicle.


    Neither Eltorian Nightwalker nor anyone else had come back to his cell since the leader of the accursed gang known as the Bladeshifters had left him. He''d heard no footsteps or sounds of any kind beyond the door, nothing to suggest that anyone even remembered his existence. Perhaps the Bladeshifters had simply lost interest in him, abandoned him. Forgotten about him.


    But he didn''t think that was the case.


    Neither were storms and blizzards.


    that it hadn''t been the most notorious band of outlaws in the whole of Daroria.


    Nightwalker was, as he had explained, testing him. Waiting to see if there was any truth to the rumour. Waiting for the Winter to come.


    There has to be a way out of this,Maybe the Bladeshifters will all freeze to death before I do¡­


    But that wasn''t a very comforting thought, considering they were the only ones who knew that he was locked up down here.


    With nothing else left for him to do, Ferrian went over to the barrels. He had discovered that one contained hard baked maize cakes, and the other clean water. There was enough there to last a couple of months, but he was quite sure that the cold would claim him long before food became a problem.


    He snatched one of the cakes, but he had no appetite, despite his hunger. He sat down dejectedly on the floor with his back to the barrel and began to despair.


    He was hunched in the corner, wrapped tightly in the canvas sheet that had been used to cover the barrels, when he heard the noise. Two more days had passed, and he had ceased bashing on the door, having sunk instead into an apathetic funk. He lifted his head a little. He wasn''t convinced he had heard anything at all ¨C even though the clanking noise was quite loud and abrading ¨C having resigned to the fact that nobody was coming back for him.


    Then the cell door screaked open and a figure in a dark cloak stepped through, peering into the shadows for his whereabouts.


    Ferrian snapped alert at once.


    The door was open.


    At that moment in time, nothing else mattered. Despite what had happened earlier, he leapt to his feet and ran towards it, thinking to shove past Nightwalker and escape. If he was quick¡­


    But his legs had other ideas. Cramped and frozen, his knees buckled. He tripped on a projection of rock and stumbled straight into his abductor.


    This is it,


    But no pain came.


    Instead, the figure grabbed him and dragged him out of the cell. Ferrian struggled. "Get off me, GET AWAY FROM ME!" he yelled. "Why are you doing this to me?!"


    The figure hissed angrily. "Quiet, kid! Do you want to get us both killed?"


    Ferrian went still. He recognised the voice. It wasn''t the cocksure drawl of Eltorian Nightwalker; it was older...


    "Commander Trice?" he gasped.


    "You''ve got a lot of explaining to do, boy," the man growled. Ferrian could not see his features in the dark, but his tone of voice suggested the rescue had put him through a great deal of trouble. Nevertheless, Ferrian sagged in relief. He didn''t care what the Commander of the Freeroamers intended to do with him, as long as he didn''t have to spend another minute in that rapidly freezing cave.


    "How did you find me?" Ferrian asked.


    The Commander gave a snort. "At this time of year, a forest covered in snow ain''t too easy to miss."


    Now he knows, as well.


    "Later. We need to get out of here. Now." He started moving, dragging the boy with him. Ferrian allowed himself to be pulled along. He had little choice in the matter; he could see or hear nothing save the scrape of their boots, but the Commander seemed to know where he was going. The air had a close, earthy scent to it. Ferrian reached out an arm and his fingers brushed damp, cold stone. The passage was quite narrow, and from the extreme unevenness of the floor appeared to be some kind of natural fissure in the rock. Ferrian stumbled often, his toes throbbing and his ankles twisting awkwardly, but Grisket Trice did not slow. Enduring the pain, Ferrian struggled blindly to keep up, to force his lethargic legs to work.


    "The Bladeshifters¡­ they''re¡­ they''re still around?" he panted.


    "A few," Commander Trice muttered. "Minus that one." He hesitated. "And a couple of others¡­"


    "You killed them?"


    "No choice, kid."


    Ferrian felt rather ill. "And¡­ Eltorian Nightwalker?"


    "Didn''t have the pleasure of meeting him."


    A wave of terror emanated out of the frozen rock walls around him, leaching into his bones. "He''s still out there? He''ll come after me!"


    "No he won''t."


    "What?"


    "It''s not you he''s after. Watch your step¡­"


    Despite the Commander''s warning Ferrian fell heavily, cracking his jaw on something hard-edged. Pain lashed through his face, and he tasted warm, coppery blood in his mouth. Somewhere above him, the older man cursed and dragged him back to his feet. A few moments later, another burst of pain speared his eyes as a brilliant white crack opened before him, spilling light down a flight of rough-hewn stairs.


    The two of them crouched still and silent as the Freeroamer checked that the way was clear. Ferrian saw the glint of a drawn sword in his right hand. His left still clutched Ferrian''s arm firmly.


    After a few long, tense minutes, he pushed the trapdoor open and they emerged into daylight.


    Ferrian looked at the world around him. It was snowing in the forest. Trees, ground and undergrowth were all covered in a thick white blanket, and a chill breeze raked the air. Broken branches littered the ground, the trees unable to cope with the sudden heavy white burden. Ferrian squinted up at the sky through the holes in the canopy, shielding his eyes with his hand, and noticed that it was heavily overcast with menacing grey clouds.


    He glanced over at Grisket Trice, who had closed the trapdoor carefully and was piling large rocks on top of it. His shoulders and black hat glistened with a thin layer of ice. His bearded face was grim.


    The Freeroamer straightened and wiped his hands on his cloak. "That won''t hold ''em for long. We''d best get going," he said gruffly, and started off into the forest.


    Ferrian followed.


    They crept quickly through the forest, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Bladeshifters. The Commander kept his sword drawn, scanning the trees constantly for movement. Snow fell, soft as feathers, and Ferrian''s hands and feet, already painfully cold, numbed further. He wished ruefully that he had a cloak, but all his possessions had been taken away by Nightwalker. His jaw ached, and he reached up with a stiff hand to touch it gently. It was bruised, but not broken, he found with relief.


    The black form of Commander Trice walked ahead of him, the long, striped feather bobbing along with each footstep that crunched in the snow. They walked for quite a long time, the Freeroamer saying nothing nor even looking at him, save to check that he was still following. Ferrian wondered where they were going, and his anxiety began to increase. The Freeroamers were law enforcers, but their methods of dealing with criminals were often unorthodox. There were many people in the Outlands who strongly opined that they were little better than the Bladeshifters. Ferrian had no idea if he was really any safer with this man than he had been with Nightwalker. Perhaps less so.


    He had developed the unpleasant feeling that he had just become a piece of meat in a vendetta sandwich¡­


    He stopped walking and turned around to face Ferrian, looking him straight in the eye.


    Ferrian stared back at him, lost for words. He swallowed and lowered his eyes guiltily to the ground. "How long have you known?"


    Ferrian was taken aback, and a little confused by the fearsome tone in Commander Trice''s voice. "W-what? I don''t know what you¨C"


    Grisket grabbed the front of his tunic and flung him up against the nearest tree. Snow showered down on both of them. "Don''t play innocent with me, kid. I know you''ve been travelling from town to town, bringing winter and destroying property and livelihoods wherever you go!" His voice rose in menace. "Are you a sorcerer, is that it? Do you enjoy using your powers to ruin innocent people''s lives?"


    Ferrian had gone pale with fear. Trice was still holding his sword, and he couldn''t help glancing at it. He found that he was shivering, from much more than the cold. "No... no! I''m not a sorcerer, I swear! I never meant to ruin anybody''s life! You''ve got it all wrong..."


    The Commander tightened his grip. "You just admitted that all this¨C" he waved his sword at the gloomy white forest¨C " is your doing!"


    Ferrian choked on a knot of despair. He was on the verge of tears. How was he supposed to explain something that was unexplainable? "The Winter¡­ the Winter is my fault, but I didn''t summon it here! I don''t know how to use magic! It just comes whenever I stay in one place too long!"


    He took a deep, shaky breath. The words coming out of his mouth sounded strange. He had never shared his secret with anyone before. "It''s always been like that. It''s a curse. I move around from town to town to stop this stupid Winter from happening! All my life I''ve been forced to live with the fear that someday I might take someone''s life¡­" His voice was beginning to break, but he couldn¡¯t stop the words from flooding out.


    Ferrian was shaking, struggling to hold himself together.


    The Commander of the Freeroamers continued to glare at him for a long moment. "You''d be surprised how much we have in common, kid," he growled. "Don''t presume that you''re the only person in Arvanor with problems."


    Ferrian fell silent at once, regretting his words. "I-I''m sorry, I didn''t mean¨C"


    "Ah, hell," the Commander sighed. He released Ferrian and stepped back, rubbing his hand over his face. "Hell," he repeated.


    He turned away, scowling up at the clouds as though they were responsible for all the ills in the world. From the silver-eyed boy''s perspective, they were.


    The Freeroamer shook his head. "Don''t apologise, kid. Wasn''t right of me to speak to you like that without first hearing your explanation. Old habits die hard. Truth be told, I didn''t think a sorcerer would''ve been careless enough to let himself be caught by Eltorian Nightwalker, but I had to be sure." He stared down at Ferrian for a few moments, as though still making up his mind, then crouched slowly in front of him. Ferrian was surprised by what he said next.


    "I believe you. You want to know why? ''Cause I''ve seen what real sorcerers can do. You ain''t one of ''em. You''re just a na?ve kid, frightened out of his wits by something he doesn''t understand, and I don''t blame you. Magic scares the hell out of me, too.


    "And I''ll tell you something else. I give you my word I''ll find whoever did this to you."


    Ferrian stared at him, a little shocked by his abrupt change of heart, not knowing what to say. "You¡­ you don''t have to do that," he managed finally, shaking his head.


    "I do," Grisket Trice replied. "It''s my responsibility to protect these lands from whatever might threaten them. You''re not the one who''s causing all this destruction. The bastard who put the curse on you is."


    Ferrian said nothing.


    Grisket Trice sighed and shook his head. "Trouble is, I''ve still gotta bring you in."


    Ferrian''s heart sank all over again. "You''re arresting me?"


    The older man gave him an apologetic look. "I''ve got a reputation to maintain," he replied. "Reputation''s the only thing that gets you respect around these parts. A lot of folk have heard the rumours about you. They know I''ve been chasing you, even if you didn''t. They''re expecting me to catch a sorcerer. They want someone punished as retribution for their ruined property." He scowled. "Doesn''t take much to shift the balance. If I don''t return to the Guard House with someone in chains, the countryfolk''ll have my blood. And the Bladeshifters''ll be only too happy to join in the spilling."


    Ferrian stared gloomily at the snow. "But what good will locking me up do? The Winter will come back. It always comes back¡­"


    "Aye," the Commander agreed. "The same thing will happen there as here." He nodded at the branches around them, dripping icicles, and sat for a moment in thought, scratching his bearded chin. Then he shrugged. He pushed himself up with his sword, sheathed it, and held his hand out to the boy. "Ah well. We''ll have plenty of time to work something out on the way there."


    Ferrian stared at the offered hand, not moving.


    "You can trust me," the Commander reassured him, his voice gentler now. "I''m not in the business of hurting innocents." He paused significantly. "Unlike Nightwalker."


    Still, Ferrian hesitated.


    The other man smiled suddenly. "C''mon. Let''s get moving before the Bladeshifters catch us gasbagging."


    Ferrian looked up into his eyes, and noticed how different they were to Nightwalker''s. This man had risked his life to break him out of the Bladeshifter''s prison hold. If that wasn''t reason enough to trust him, nothing was.


    He''d never had someone to look out for him before.


    He took the leader of the Freeroamer''s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and even managed a smile of his own.

 Chapter Four

    New lives started, old ones gone


    Another life shall be reborn.


    The golden heat of the afternoon sun melted through the open window and speared like liquid gold at an angle across the polished black marble floor. The chamber was clean, but pitifully small and contained only a bed against one wall and an old wooden table with its single, lonely chair against another. The furnishings were sparse, but adequate, and this tiny chamber was where the servant Cimmeran had lived for the past ten years of his life.


    It was at the small, arched, north facing casement that he stood now, staring out the window of the gloomy black keep, not feeling the burning light which seared through his plain black servant''s garb and shoulder-length, gold-blond hair. He was leaning dangerously far out the open window, heedless of the two-hundred-foot drop directly beneath him, staring in utter disbelief at the waterfall at the northern end of the valley.


    He had witnessed, in its entirety, the vicious fight between the two sorcerers. He had watched in horrified fascination as they met on the rocky ledge at midday, the exchange of magic, the ensuing fight and finally, Arzath¡¯s demise. Now, he stood in shock, his thin body so still it could have been carved from stone. But the shock he felt was not due to horror, or anger, or even fear ¨C but pure, unmarred joy.


    Arzath was finally dead! After all these long, torturous years, his evil, hateful master was finally gone. He had hated Arzath with a passion, but had feared him like he had never feared anyone before...


    The Memory was creeping back up out of its hole, dark tendrils searching...


    Squeezing his eyes shut, he blocked it, forced it away. It was a repulsive thing, a horror that could not be allowed to reach his consciousness. It would destroy him if it did.


    He would not allow it to ruin the profound joy of Arzath¡¯s death. He deserved to revel in the glory of this momentous event!


    After a few moments, he noticed the heat from the window burning his face like a red hot iron. Opening his eyes, he stepped away into the shade. His black robes were cooking him, making him sweat as surely as if he were in an oven, so he ripped them off and threw them into the corner.


    Enough thinking about the past,


    he thought wistfully, and he hoped they still fit. He had lost a lot of weight since Arzath had kidnapped him and forced him into servitude.


    He shuddered. The Memory was surfacing again. He beat it back down, angrily, distracting himself by trying on the clothes.


    Cimmeran descended the stairs quickly, hoping to leave while the place was still in chaos.


    And chaos it was. It seemed everyone in the castle had either seen or heard about the fight on the waterfall, and Arzath¡¯s death had caused a wave of uncertainty amongst his followers.


    Cimmeran hurried through the long, dark hallways, keeping to the shadows. But he needn¡¯t have bothered. No one paid him any attention. Griks lumbered around in stupid confusion, and Cimmeran ducked behind a marble pillar as one of the winged reptilian Murons slunk past, black as the darkness, eyes yellow coals glowing in its narrow head.


    He descended the lower levels and before long, he had reached the kitchen.


    Not a soul creeped down here. The place was deserted; the ovens abandoned. Food was left half-prepared on benchtops, and lanterns flickered in the gloom. Cimmeran had the pick of the whole place, so he gathered up anything he could find and stuffed all his supplies in a discarded sack. Then, slinging the sack over his shoulder, he departed the hot, silent kitchen.


    He was halfway up the stairs when he realised suddenly that he didn¡¯t have a weapon. Cursing quietly, he paused on the steps, lowering the sack. The armoury was further down, in the underground levels. He didn¡¯t have time to go scratching around down there for weapons, so instead he left his sack of provisions on the stairs and returned to the kitchen.


    Cimmeran thought irritably, pulling out drawers and opening cabinets.


    Finally he came across a long hunting knife in one of the drawers at the back of the room. He looked it over quickly, the silver blade glinting in the dim lantern-light, then stashed it in his belt. Not the best weapon in the world, but it would suffice.


    Cimmeran made his way swiftly back to the sack where he¡¯d left it on the stairs. Snatching it up, he flung it over his shoulder and walked quickly back up the dark stairway.


    Cimmeran paused at the hidden door and looked around him. The corridor was dark, musty and very empty. High windows let in a dim grey light, which floated down to the floor like misty cobwebs. This corridor was located in the west of the keep, where the walls of the castle were built right up against the cliff face. No-one ever came down here, except for him. He knew all the castle¡¯s secrets ¨C all its hidden passageways and doors, all its rooms and corridors, by heart.


    Apart from him, Arzath had been the only other person who knew about them. The sorcerer had trusted Cimmeran with this information, mostly because he sometimes needed him to leave the castle secretly, or fetch things without anyone knowing, or spy on people.


    But perhaps trusted wasn¡¯t the right word. Arzath had made it perfectly clear: tell anyone, and you¡¯ll meet a fate worse than death.


    And Cimmeran knew only too well that he had meant every word.


    So he hadn¡¯t told a soul, and now it turned out that that information was coming in very useful. He turned to the shadowed alcove where the door was hidden, and hesitated.


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    What was he going to do when he left? Where would he go? He considered momentarily going over to Requar¡¯s castle, but then dismissed the idea. Requar was a friend, and kind to him, but he didn¡¯t think he could stay in this valley any longer. He feared that whoever became the new Lord of the castle would find out he¡¯d escaped, and come after him¡­


    And besides, he didn¡¯t trust sorcerers, not even Requar. The amount of magic being tossed around over that waterfall was a little too disturbing for his liking.


    So, his mind made up, he touched the carefully hidden latch and the door slid open from the black-stoned wall soundlessly.


    Shifting the sack to his other shoulder, he took a deep breath and disappeared into the gloom of the mountain, the door sliding back into place behind him, as if it had never been.


    * * *


    Lord Requar sat in his bedroom chamber in his glorious white castle, the light growing deeper and the shadows longer as the day wore on towards dusk. His sky blue eyes, rimmed red, stared outwards at nothing.


    Another death. They were piling up over the years. He had never wanted it to end like this. Arzath had been terrible and angry and cold-hearted, maybe even evil, but Requar had never wanted him dead. He had been his only brother, his only remaining family, and despite everything, he had still cared. Now he was gone.


    For two centuries they had been warring with each other, and now, finally, it had come to this. One stupid fight on a cliff top that he ¨C he remembered sharply ¨C had started. No matter how he looked at it, Arzath¡¯s death was his fault. If he hadn¡¯t suggested that foolish meeting... Arzath would be alive today. Plotting and scheming for his death, surely, but still alive.


    He buried his head in his hands, wanting to cry, but having no tears left to shed. His long white hair trailed down his back, now uncurled out of its braid. His mind kept going over and over the events of the day, wishing he¡¯d done this, wishing he¡¯d done that, but the fact remained that Arzath was dead and nothing could change that. He tried endlessly to tell himself there was nothing he could have done about it, but it did nothing to ease the guilt that smothered his head like a hot blanket.


    Requar rose from his chair and walked over the deep, soft, blue carpet to the window. He looked out to the west, where the summer sun was setting behind the mountains at the rear of Arzath¡¯s legacy, his castle, tingeing the black stone gold.


    He hadn¡¯t even had a chance to retrieve the body. He¡¯d spent the remainder of that shocking day sitting atop the waterfall, breaking apart, until the sun fell. By the time he¡¯d forced his feet to carry him back down the mountain, he couldn¡¯t find Arzath¡¯s body anywhere. He¡¯d thought it had been swept away by the river, until walking back along the cliff, he had noticed two of Arzath¡¯s Grik minions carrying him back to the castle.


    didn¡¯t want to know.


    Closing his eyes, he turned away from the scene at the window, walking over to his bed and sitting down on the blue covers. Too tired and weary from grief as much as physical exhaustion, Requar laid back on his bed and tried fervently to get some sleep.


    But despite his weariness, his mind was hounded by nightmares and sleep would not come.


    * * *


    Crysk, walking beside him, nodded. ¡°Yeah. Why don¡¯t Kyosk git it ¡®imself, seein¡¯ as he wants it so much?¡±


    The two hulking Griks lumbered along beside the river, their craggy, gold-encrusted shells glinting in the late afternoon sun. The grass beside the river was dry, and it crunched loudly beneath their heavy, booted feet. ¡°I mean, he¡¯s just gonna eat it all ¡®imself,¡± Crysk continued. ¡°We ain¡¯t gonna get none...¡±


    Crysk yelped and ducked as Grogdish swiped a rock-like hand at his friend''s head.


    ¡°He¡¯s der Master, Guthead! He gets anyfing he wants!¡±


    They were approaching the riverbank. Spray from the falls hung in a shimmering mist, slick on their scaly, green-grey skin. Grogdish peered nervously at the opposite shore, eyes shifting like shiny beetles in his deep brow. The white castle sat pale and ghostly above them. There was no sign of the white-haired sorcerer.


    The Griks were not keen on an encounter with Arzath¡¯s brother after he had just killed their master.


    Crysk was still grumbling in the background, but Grogdish ignored him. They waded into the river, sinking deep footsteps in the pebbly bottom. The water level was low; it was the height of summer and the crossing presented no problem. Even if it had been deep, Griks could hold their breath for at least an hour. They may be slow (and some more stupid than others), Grogdish thought, glaring at his companion, who had just snagged a fish and was chewing on it, but it was near impossible to drown a Grik.


    Indeed, Griks were not easy to kill at all, unlike those scummy Humans, who were fragile and could be crushed so easily, like glass. Yet, Humans had populated Arvanor in their millions, and Griks had dwindled down to a handful of scattered clans, confined to the deepest mountain ranges. Humans loved killing Griks. Loved hunting them for the precious gemstones and metals that formed naturally on the Griks¡¯ shell-like bodies. Grogdish, like all Griks, had grown up with stories of Humans capturing their clansfolk and torturing them for decades, hacking away at them with pointy axes ¡®till they died.


    So it had been for thousands of years. But Arzath had been the first Human who had approached them not wanting to slaughter them all. They did not like his magic: they feared and distrusted magic intensely, but he had offered them protection from Humans and a chance at revenge.


    He assured them he hated Humans as well, even though he was one.


    He had promised them they would be a great race again one day, if they lent him their support. Fierce and loyal creatures ought to have a grander place in the world, he said.


    Their wise clan leader Kyosk had liked his offer, and so the clan had gone with him to his castle. The sorcerer had lived up to his promise, allowing them to go on raids to nearby villages and eat Human children, which was just fine by Grogdish.


    But now? Now Arzath was dead. Just from falling onto some rocks.


    ! Who knew what it would do? It was riddled with poisonous magic! It could... turn him into a  for all he knew!


    Grogdish scowled, staring up at the body on the boulder as though it might sit up suddenly and shoot lightning bolts at him. Finally, grumbling, he reached up and dragged it down into the river with a splash, and began trudging back across as quickly as possible. He hadn¡¯t even had his dinner yet.


    Crysk was completely distracted, catching fish. Grogdish snatched one out of his hand as he went past, stuffing it into his mouth and munching it with the tail still hanging out. He reached the riverbank and clambered out, dumping the body in the dirt as he did so.


    ¡°C¡¯mon slug!¡± he yelled at Crysk. ¡°Pick up dis fing and let¡¯s go!¡±


    Grumbling, the smaller Grik climbed out of the river and stood dripping over the corpse, staring down at it but making no move to touch it. He stuffed another fish into his mouth.


    ¡°C¡¯MON!¡± Grogdish yelled, more angrily. ¡°Pick it up!¡± Without bothering to wait any longer for Crysk to do as he was told, he turned and starting stomping up the path.


    More complaints wafted after him, an incomprehensible mumbling through the chewed-up fish, and then suddenly Crysk let out a cry.


    Grogdish stopped on the path, growling, and turned around.


    ¡°


    The younger Grik had backed up to the wall of the bluff and was standing there in the weeds, pointing a thick finger at the corpse lying on the ground.


    Grogdish glared at him and Crysk tried to reply, but he still hadn¡¯t swallowed the fish and his words were unintelligible.


    ¡°Grrr!¡± Grogdish stomped over to the body. ¡°What! It¡¯s dead! It¡¯s a piece ¡®o meat!¡± He picked the corpse up by the collar of its fancy waistcoat and shook it at Crysk. ¡°A minute ago you wanted ta eat it! Complainin¡¯ that you weren¡¯t gettin¡¯ yer fair sha¨C¡±


    at him.


    And not in a recently-dead way either.


    Grogdish opened his fist and let the body drop to the ground.


    ¡°Urrr...¡± he said. ¡°Urrrr...?


    ¡°

 Chapter Five

    Memories lost and memories woken


    Through friendship shall the truth be spoken.


    The man opened his eyes slowly, awakened by the shaft of bright sunlight that spread across his face from the casement on the other side of the room. Gradually, his eyes roamed around the unfamiliar surroundings.


    He was in a circular room, the walls all made of smooth black stone. The chamber was lavishly furnished, with colourful wall hangings and tapestries, and a plush red carpet covered the floor. A wide desk stood to the right of him, covered in many crystals of various sizes and colours, and among them a range of curious looking objects and artefacts.


    Intrigued, the man turned his gaze to the wide, four-poster bed where he lay. A canopy of gold silk draped above his head; the covers sprawled away from him in lush red velvet.


    But to his frustration, he was met only with a blank grey void where his memory had been. He couldn''t remember anything!


    His eyes snapped open sharply as he heard a knock on the door. He watched warily as the door on the far side of the room opened quietly, and a young, thin boy entered, dressed in black robes and carrying a silver tray.


    he thought.


    The boy, a servant by the look of him, approached the bed cautiously, gripping the tray in front of him as though fearful of dropping it. "L... Lord Arzath?" he said quietly.


    So his name was Arzath. And he was a Lord. He took a deep breath. It wasn''t much, but it was a start.


    He relaxed slightly and glanced over at the servant. The boy''s eyes widened when he saw that he was awake. "Y, you''re awake!" he exclaimed in surprise, and the man whose name was Arzath tried to speak, but found that the words would not come.


    The servant hurried to the bedside table and set the tray down. The boy was shaking so much that everything on it rattled. He would not meet his eyes.


    Arzath pondered this behaviour. The boy appeared to be afraid of him. Why?


    The servant spoke again, without looking up. He motioned to the food tray. "D- do you want something to eat, your Lordship?"


    Arzath realised for the first time that he was indeed incredibly hungry. He gave a meaningful glance at the food tray and managed a barely perceptible nod of his head. The servant quickly proceeded to feed him. His hand trembled as he carefully fed Arzath the food.


    Arzath felt frustrated and angry that he was so weak and helpless that he couldn''t even feed himself, but there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was lie there and let the servant do his job.


    * * *


    The winged man shifted uncomfortably on the high, snow covered bough of the ancient oak tree, wincing as one of his snowy coloured wings dislodged a chunk of snow that fell from a higher branch and ran icily down the neck of his tunic. Cursing, he almost lost his balance on the slender bough, steadying himself quickly with numb hands. "Blast this!" he muttered quietly, settling back again to peer with keen eyes through the network of heavy, snow covered branches into the grey, still gloom of a wintry twilight.


    , he thought bitterly.


    He removed one hand from the frozen branch he''d been holding, the fingers stiffened into claws, and tucked it inside his tunic, trying to get some warmth into the frozen limb. He rustled his white and copper feathers, wishing desperately that he could stretch his cramped wings. But the branches of his lookout were too closely interwoven, and besides, he didn''t want to attract attention.


    Aari''Zan was an Angel ¨C a race of winged people who lived in Arkana in the far north, beyond the Tentaryl Ranges. They were a solitary race, keeping apart from the rest of the world in their little forested haven behind the mountains. In fact, the entire race of Angels was forbidden to make contact with foreigners, or even to cross the Tentaryl. Breaking this law was considered treason, punishable by banishment.


    He had thought. Why should they stay locked up here behind the mountains like prisoners in their own home, when there was so much experience to be had, and a whole world to explore?


    His best friend Mekk¡¯Ayan, a black-winged Angel, shared his opinion, and they spent many exciting evenings lost in books and candles, conspiring in secret.


    But one day Mekka left without him.


    Angry and hurt, Aari followed, flying away from his forest home and over the mountains, and to hell with the consequences. The fact that he could never return hadn''t deterred him in the slightest; why would he want to return anyway? They were all a lot of arrogant imbeciles who thought they were the only people in the world who mattered.


    His only regret since leaving was abandoning his parents. They loved him and he could picture their devastation when they found out what he''d done, and he felt such remorse for putting them through that.


    he thought, and things had turned out better in the end. He had made a life for himself, the kind of life he could never have dreamed of in Arkana.


    And he had made friends. He had met Grisket Trice, who had become like a second father to him, and teamed up with his small but effective group of Freeroamers who patrolled the isolated country towns of the Outlands.


    And that was how he''d got to where he was now, perched atop a tree, freezing, in a forest that was covered in snow in the middle of summer, trying to discover the whereabouts of a Bladeshifter prison compound.


    He huffed. He had the distinct impression that Grisket was trying to keep him out of the way¡­


    Aari started, nearly overbalancing again as he heard footsteps approaching, the sound of boots crunching loudly in the crisp snow. He hunched down quickly, peering intently into the darkness, his hand sliding down towards the knife sheathed at his side. His numb fingers fumbled, then gripped the hilt tightly, and the blade slithered silently from its sheath.


    , he thought. The footsteps were very near now, approaching the tree where he was hidden.


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    He waited until the two figures were almost directly beneath him, then leapt from the tree with a yell and landed in a flurry of wings on the nearest figure, knocking him to the ground.


    Confusion broke out. The two of them struggled thrashing on the ground, in a tangle of bright wings and black cloak. Then suddenly the young winged man jumped back in astonishment as he caught a glimpse of the figure''s face.


    ¡°


    The man pulled himself up off the ground, covered in snow, and scowled into the face of his attacker. "Sergeant! Gods man, what the hell are you trying to do, kill me?"


    Aari simply stood, stunned, his mouth open. Then he broke into a wide grin. "It''d take a lot more than a cold, skinny Angel to kill you, old man!" he replied laughing, and flipped his knife back into its sheath.


    Grisket was grinning from ear to ear. "Old man??¡± He punched the younger man mockingly and the two friends embraced.


    It was then that Grisket remembered Ferrian.


    He turned to the boy, who was standing to one side, his silver eyes moving quizzically from one face to the other.


    Grisket retrieved his hat where it had fallen during the scuffle. Placing it firmly on his head, he gestured to Ferrian, then to Aari.


    "Ferrian, this is Sergeant Aari''Zan, one of my Freeroamer companions. Aari, this is Ferrian: that sorcerer I was telling you about."


    At the looks on both their faces at that comment, the Commander chuckled. "Ha! I¡¯m kidding! Turns out he wasn''t a sorcerer after all."


    Aari frowned, looking perplexed and somewhat suspiciously at Ferrian. "But... what about all this snow?"


    Commander Trice placed a hand on Aari''s shoulder. "All in good time, Aari. But first, I suggest we make camp for the night. It''s damned cold out here!"


    The three of them trudged along together through the night-shrouded forest, making for Aari''s camp a short distance away. No one spoke, and Ferrian was so fatigued and weary that it was all he could do to keep his legs moving. Grisket had lent him his cloak, and Ferrian was grateful, but it did little to ease the cold that penetrated deep into his skin.


    As he walked, he raised his head to look at the winged man walking just ahead of him. It was hard to make out the colouring in the gloom, but the large, snow white wings protruded from his shoulders to fall in a graceful swoop to the ground. The feathers appeared to be patterned with coppery bands, to match his short hair. In patches of moonlight, the tips blazed orange.


    Ferrian marvelled at those wings. He had heard tales of the Angels, but this was the first time he had actually seen one.


    They reached the camp sooner than Ferrian had expected. It was hidden well in a small clearing amidst snow-dusted bushes. Ferrian could make out the shape of a single tent set back on the far edge of the clearing.


    Aari wasted no time in making a fire. The winged man crouched at once to the small fire pit ringed by stones, which had been set beforehand with timbers and covered with a canvas to keep the wood dry. Very soon a welcoming blaze was crackling, brightening the clearing with a warm orange glow, and the three freezing travellers huddled gratefully around the leaping flames.


    Sergeant Aari rummaged around in his supplies for pots and food while Commander Trice began to explain to Ferrian how he had heard about the Winter.


    He and Aari were part of a group of law enforcers, their job being to protect the Outlander villages from crime. He explained how frightened villagers had come to him telling tales of a young sorcerer with peculiar silver eyes, that had arrived in their village and had left in a storm, leaving blankets of snow and destroyed crops in his wake.


    Bramble Barn


    He had then tailed Ferrian outside and attempted to talk with him, trying to gain an insight into the character of this boy, trying to determine if he was a sorcerer or not. Ferrian had made his job very difficult, Grisket remarked, by refusing to say anything about himself! But it had also made him suspicious that the boy had something to hide, and Grisket became convinced that this was indeed the sorcerer the townsfolk had spoken of.


    But he had had to let Ferrian go on his way, because he had no proof that he had been using magic to destroy crops or anything else. So he had let Ferrian leave the town, and then followed him again secretly to see what he would do next. Grisket had hoped to catch Ferrian in the act the next time he struck with the Winter.


    following me!"


    Grisket nodded.


    Ferrian swallowed. So his suspicions had been correct, after all.


    Then Grisket began speaking again, answering the question that had just formed in Ferrian''s mind.


    "I lost track of you some way into the Valewood Forest," he continued. "Your tracks had been very clear up until the point where they just seemed to disappear into thin air." He raised his hands in a shrug and let them fall back down again. "I scouted for hours along the roadway and in the surrounding forest, but I could find no trace of you. It was at that point that I was becoming more convinced you were a sorcerer, and that you had used your powers to escape detection."


    He paused, and there was a deep silence, filled only by the sharp crackle of the flames. No other sound disturbed the inky blackness around them. Ferrian said nothing.


    Grisket shook his head slowly, and shifted the blanket further up on his shoulders. "But I didn''t give up," he went on. "Not after I had come so far.


    "I continued to search for any trace of your whereabouts for the next three days. I found nothing. Nothing at all to suggest you had even come this way. Travellers came and went occasionally along the road, and I inquired if they had seen a boy with unusual eyes come this way, but no-one had, or else no-one was willing to say.


    "I was beginning to give up hope, when on the fourth day, the weather began to change. I didn''t pay it much mind at first ¨C a cooling of the air, a gathering of grey clouds in the sky. I thought that perhaps the summer rains had come at last. But the weather rapidly got worse and worse, until finally it began to snow, and it was then that I knew that this was no natural occurrence. It could only mean that you were still in the area.


    "That settled it for me. I found new determination, and continued to scour the forest, searching for you, going over the same ground once, twice, three times even. But still I found nothing. Until the Bladeshifter, that is."


    At this, Aari, who had been listening while he prepared their meal, looked up, eyebrows raised. Grisket continued with his story.


    "He came through the undergrowth, moving remarkably quietly for one so large. He moved slowly and deliberately, covering his tracks with meticulous care. My suspicions now aroused, and having so far found nothing at all to account for your disappearance, I followed him. The man led me to a hidden trapdoor in the ground, completely buried with snow and brush. Once he revealed to me the location of the Bladeshifter prison, I dispatched him and quickly made my way inside. It didn''t take me long to realise what had happened. The Bladeshifters had captured you."


    "And that''s when you rescued me," Ferrian finished, a little astonished. "You thought I was a sorcerer, and you still rescued me." He stared at the Freeroamer Commander questioningly.


    There was a long silence. "Does this mean you believe me, then?" Ferrian said eventually.


    Grisket sighed and looked off into the silent, snow-shrouded forest. "Do I believe you''re a sorcerer?" He shook his head. "No, boy. I don''t know what you are. I don''t know what to believe any more, but I don''t believe you''re a sorcerer, and I should know."


    Ferrian opened his mouth to ask what Grisket meant by that last comment, but was interrupted when Aari announced that supper was ready. Abruptly, all thoughts except that of food vanished from Ferrian''s mind as he caught the delicious aroma of hot vegetable stew, and the question went unanswered.


    Their discussion was halted for a few minutes as the Angel served them, and for a time they ate in silence.


    Aari shifted his position on the cold, hard ground. "So, if Ferrian isn''t a sorcerer, how do you explain all this?" he asked, gesturing at the snowy darkness surrounding them.


    There was a silence. Commander Trice cleared his throat and looked at Ferrian. "That, Sergeant, is a very good question."


    Ferrian looked at them both. Then he sighed deeply and told them his story: about growing up with the gypsies and being abandoned in the blizzard. About the years he had spent wandering around the countryside, trying to keep one step ahead of the Winter. The Freeroamers listened intently. When Ferrian had finished, both men sat in awed silence, the only sound being the crackling of the flames as they crunched hungrily on their sticks.


    Sergeant Aari cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "That''s.... incredible. I can''t begin to imagine what you''ve been through all these years."


    Ferrian hunched a little closer to the fire. The freshly woken memories were sharp and painful as icicles. "You have no idea," he said quietly.


    There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Grisket sighed. ¡°Still gotta bring you in,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°No choice. Can¡¯t leave you wanderin¡¯ around out here causin¡¯ damage, even if it is accidental. It¡¯s upsetting people.¡±


    Ferrian shook his head in frustration. ¡°You can¡¯t lock me up in the Guard House! You saw what happened in the Bladeshifter prison! We¡¯ll all freeze to death!¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± Grisket agreed. ¡°Locking you up is clearly not the answer.¡±


    ¡°Then what do we do?¡±


    The Commander fell silent again, frowning.


    ¡°We find a real sorcerer,¡± Aari said quietly, from across the fire.


    They both looked up at him in surprise.


    ¡°That was my original plan,¡± Ferrian said, ¡°before being captured by¨C¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    They looked at Commander Trice, whose bearded face had darkened even further, a match for the icy shadows around them. ¡°Out of the question.¡±


    ¡°But, Commander ¨C¡±


    ¡°No!¡± he said more forcefully. ¡°Sorcerers are not to be trusted!¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t hesitate to go after Ferrian when you thought he was one,¡± Aari pointed out, scowling now as well.


    my


    ¡°Well, we¡¯re sure involved now!¡±


    The Commander got abruptly to his feet. ¡°Aye!¡± he replied angrily. ¡°But regardless, we¡¯ll think of another way!¡±


    Then without further comment, he stalked off to the side of the clearing and began preparing his bedroll.


    The two younger men sat by the fire watching him, troubled. After awhile, Aari glanced up at Ferrian. ¡°He, uh, had a bad experience with sorcery in his past,¡± the Angel told him quietly, ¡°much like you. And he lost people he cared about. But,¡± the Angel shook his head, ¡°it¡¯s not my story to tell.¡±


    The winged man stood up. ¡°You should get some sleep while you can.¡± He gestured at the small tent. ¡°The tent¡¯s yours.¡± And before Ferrian could argue, he went and curled up on a blanket on the opposite side of the clearing to Commander Trice, folding his white wings over himself to keep out the softly falling snow.


    Ferrian remained sitting in the middle of the clearing, staring gloomily at the dying fire. Tired as he was, he was fairly sure he wouldn¡¯t be able to fall asleep.


    Around him, the Winter loomed.

 Chapter Six

    False belief and strange desire


    Conscience burns the heart like fire.


    The news that Lord Arzath was alive exploded through the black keep, causing even more confusion and commotion than when he had presumably died. For the Griks, however, this rapid turn of events was difficult to get to grips with. Many were still asking if Kyosk had eaten the body yet, and (from some of the more curious or hungry or stupid), if there was any left.


    , they were ingeniously clever.


    ¡°Rock magic!¡± he declared to a room full of Griks who had gathered to hear what had happened at the river. Their shells glittered in the light of the torches.


    He was answered by a chorus of guffaws.


    ¡°Rock magic?¡± One of the Griks replied sceptically.


    ¡°Yeah!¡± Crysk replied. ¡°From inna ground! From der Rockfaver!¡±


    At the mention of their ancient deity, the Rockfather, the Griks began muttering among themselves, but most were growing bored and shuffling away.


    However, the idea had become wedged in their brains and a few of them shuffled back to him later on, in ones and twos, wanting to know more.


    The Griks murmured their approval.


    Grogdish found Crysk in the southern wing of the keep, in the middle of the dark and dingy mess hall, surrounded by a throng of Griks. As usual, he was bragging about how he''d brought Lord Arzath back to life.


    Grogdish growled in disgust as he stepped through the arched doorway. The room was filled with smoke from the flickering torches on the black walls and reeked of mouldy food. He shoved his way through the crush of bodies until he stood in front of Crysk, folded his bulky arms and sneered at the smaller Grik, interrupting his tale.


    "Yer full o'' Muron dung, yer know dat, Crysk?¡±


    His comment was met with sniggers from the crowd. Crysk bared his fangs in defiance, his beady black eyes glaring amid the chips of emerald that studded his face. "Yer just jealous!"


    of!"


    Grogdish noticed that the other Griks were all looking at him, daring him to find another explanation.


    know it weren''t because o'' you!"


    There was an uncomfortable silence. No one spoke up. Frustrated, Grogdish turned to a small, silver-skinned Grik on his right, who stepped back hastily, a hint of fear in his glittery black eyes.


    "You dere! Who are you?" Grogdish demanded, pointing at the diminutive Grik.


    The Grik blinked uncomfortably. "Urr, Rirk..?" he replied.


    ¡°. Have yer got any injrees?"


    The Grik thought for a long moment. "Nah!" he replied eventually.


    Grogdish slammed his fist into the unfortunate Grik¡¯s face.


    "Yer ¡®ave now!" Grogdish said.


    He turned around to face a horrified Crysk, and chuckled in satisfaction at the look on his face. "Well, what are yer waitin'' for Crysk? If yer really do have dis spectacular ¡®Rock Magic¡¯ go an'' heal ''im!"


    Crysk''s face crumpled up as he stared at the small Grik lying unconscious on the floor, then back up at the watching crowd. Growling nervously, he stomped over to Rirk and stood looking down at the prone form.


    Crysk hesitated a moment, aware of dozens of small shining eyes watching his every move. Then he poked Rirk in the face.


    The Griks waited. The room had gone deathly silent, all eyes fixed on Rirk where he lay sprawled awkwardly on his back on the floor, rocking slightly on his shell.


    Nothing happened. Crysk''s eyes shifted around the room nervously. He didn''t dare catch Grogdish''s eyes.


    A series of growling and mutterings emanated from the assembled Griks, and they glared at Crysk angrily. Grogdish folded his arms, sniggering. "Well, dat''s de end o'' dat den ain''t it?"


    Crysk shied away in fear from the mob of furious Griks who surrounded him. Then a deep voice boomed out from the back of the room, making them all turn to stone.


    "What''s goin'' on in ''ere?"


    It was Clanmaster Kyosk.


    They shuffled back hastily as the huge, burly, red-spiked Grik made his way across the room. "Any ''o you Gutheads seen Cimmeran?" he barked.


    He was answered by a combination of head shakes and blank looks. His deep red eyes scanned the gathering of Griks. No one met his fearsome gaze.


    ."


    With that he turned and strode out of the room, his massive redstone spikes swirling the smoke into grey eddies in it''s wake. The Griks stared after him a moment, then reluctantly broke up, grumbling, as they slowly wandered off to carry out Kyosk''s orders. Several of the Griks glared menacingly back at Crysk as they left the room.


    Crysk trailed after Grogdish, muttering under his breath, stubbornly refusing to believe he didn''t have Rock Magic.


    "Jus'' coz it don''t work once, doesn''t mean..."


    Grogdish whirled on him, his eyes twin orbs of venom.


    "Crysk, yer better shut up now if yer don''t want dat wall next ter yer ter be painted brain colour."


    Crysk shut his jaw with a clunk, and walked the rest of the way in silence.


    * * *


    he wailed in silent despair.


    Arzath had decided that he would try to walk today. Weakness still made his body limp and useless, but every day he felt a tiny bit stronger, and he couldn''t bear another day of lying in bed doing nothing. During the first two days of total paralysis, he had had plenty of time to think, and he had realised with a growing uneasiness that something was terribly wrong.


    It wasn''t the fact that he''d lost his memory. No, it was something else. It nagged at him like an itch in his brain, all through the long days and nights until he thought he''d go mad.


    . It felt like... a part of him was missing, as if he''d lost an arm or a leg or a critical part of his body. But he had checked himself time and time again, only to find that he was perfectly intact. He could find no injuries at all, not even bruises. No pain, either: only this debilitating weakness.


    , he thought bitterly. How could he have ended up in this tragic state without sustaining any injuries? It didn''t make sense. But then again, a lot of things didn''t make sense.


    He sighed, watching the bright morning sun stretch out across the vivid red covers like a sleek, golden cat.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    , he vowed.


    he thought. He swept aside the red covering. Then carefully, he slid his legs around until they were dangling over the edge of the bed.


    Taking a deep breath, he slowly eased his weight onto them and stood up¡­


    Arzath''s legs crumpled instantly beneath him, and he fell heavily onto the carpeted floor.


    ¡°


    Clenching his jaw tightly, he tried again. He heaved himself up, using the bedside table for support, and clung to it until his legs held. He rested for a moment, shaking, enjoying the feeling of the soft, plush red carpet beneath his bare feet. Then he took one tentative step forward.


    His legs were trembling, but slowly, using any piece of furniture within reach for support, he made his way over to the window. After what seemed like an age, he finally reached it and paused, breathing heavily, leaning on the black stone windowsill for support.


    He turned his green eyes to look out the window, squinting against the glare of the sun rising directly opposite him. He seemed to be fairly high up, in a tower of some sort. Below him spread a valley, dry in the summer heat, threaded with a river that sparkled in the morning sunlight.


    And on the opposite shore, a gleaming white castle¡­


    Arzath jerked back as if he''d been stung, grabbing the wall to keep from falling over. A memory had flashed briefly across his mind, like a scorch of fire. He gasped and groped frantically in the empty depths of his mind to find it again. But it was gone.


    Finally, he gave up trying to fish impossibilities out of an empty ocean, and turned away frustrated from the sunlit casement. He mustn¡¯t rush things. His memory would come back in due time.


    Nothing happened.


    He frowned in confusion and tried again. The door didn''t move an inch.


    he thought, unable to comprehend why he couldn''t open the door.  If he hadn''t been in such a confused state he would have laughed at the notion. Taking a couple of shaky steps forward, he leaned against the bedpost and tried again, willing with all his might for the door to open, his outstretched arm trembling with the effort.


    But still nothing happened.


    with me?!" he wailed aloud. "Why can''t I even open the bloody door? Am I


    A memory had just surfaced in his mind, not a vague picture or half recollection, but sharp and clear and shocking in its certainty.


    He had had magic.


    He hadn''t been able to open the door because he''d been trying to use magic!


    ¡°"No!"


    His mind reeled. That was what had been missing! It hadn''t been a physical part of his body, it had been his magic!


    It was then that the memories started swarming back into his mind like bees returning to their hive.


    He''d had magic. He was a sorcerer. Requar, his brother, was a sorcerer also¡­


    Suddenly all the fragments of the jigsaw puzzle were coming together. He had... hated Requar... He remembered all the years that they had been fighting each other. Then he had followed Requar to this valley... had built this castle¡­


    He had built a weapon... but he couldn''t finish it because... Requar had the part he needed¡­


    Then Arzath gasped at the final and most shocking memory of all.


    They had fought. On the rocks above the waterfall.


    Arzath couldn''t defeat Requar.


    Requar had pushed him.


    He had fallen.


    Over the edge.


    Into blackness.


    ¡°


    He staggered to his feet, still weak, and stumbled over to the other side of the room where the table stood, its colourful crystals sparkling with tiny stars of sunlight. Enraged, Arzath swept the contents of the table onto the floor with a swipe of his hand. Some of the crystals hit the wall and smashed into glittering fragments on the crimson carpet.


    * * *


    The lid of the chest opened with a squeal of protest from the rusty hinges, the movement sending up a sudden whirlwind of dust motes that filled the shadowy, enclosed space. Coughing, Lord Requar brushed the dust away from his face, then reached down with both hands.


    A moment later, he stepped back into the bright light of his study, and looked down at the long, elegant sheathed sword lying in his upturned palms.


    The Sword of Healing.


    Slowly, he withdrew the blade from its scabbard and held it up before him.


    The blade was perfect, bright and silvery. He ran a long-fingered hand over the twin snakes ¨C one ebony, one alabaster ¨C that twined up the base of the blade, just above the hilt.


    Arzath had lost his Sword. It had been the Sword of Lightning, a formidable weapon, and had disappeared, likely destroyed along with everything else in the explosion at the School of Magical Studies, all those years ago. If Arzath had gained possession of the Sword, he would have been a formidable sorcerer. He would have killed Requar with it a long time ago.


    Requar wondered sadly what the world would have been like if Arzath had had his way. If Requar had been the one to fall from the waterfall and die. Would his brother¡¯s rage have been sated at last with his vengeance fulfilled? Or would he have let loose his magic onto the world in a terrible rampage, with no one to stop him? He hadn¡¯t built up a small army of Griks and Murons just to intimidate Requar, surely.


    In a way, Requar was relieved that Arzath was finally dead; his brother would not be a burden on his life any longer.


    But Requar¡¯s guilt would be.


    Sighing, Requar slid the Sword back into its sheath, listening to the soft hiss of metal on leather. His Sword of Healing was imbued with restorative magic, and could not be used to cause harm or inflict damage. It could be swung around like an ordinary sword and used to parry and defend with, if absolutely necessary, but its main purpose was to heal. The Sword of Healing could heal the damaged life force of any living thing.


    It could not, however, bring someone back from the dead.


    Requar banged the lid of the chest shut again and slung the Sword over his shoulder so that it hung down his back. Then he took the lantern down from the wall where it hung and stepped out of the small, dark, hidden room adjoining his study.


    Once out in the light again, he extinguished the flame and set the lantern down on a nearby table. Turning around, he faced the dark, narrow opening in the polished white wall and extended his arms, palms vertical.


    he thought glumly. No one but a sorcerer could enter this castle. A sorcerer greater than himself


    , he chided himself. It was time to leave.


    He reached the door and paused, taking one last look around his beloved study. Then he turned the ornate golden handle and stepped into the hallway beyond.


    Requar wondered, as he made his way along the empty corridor and up several deserted stairwells, if he was doing the right thing. He had decided to leave this beautiful castle, his home for the better part of a century, and return to civilisation to use his magic to help people, to bring peace and healing where he could, something he had never been able to do while he''d had Arzath to deal with.


    Of course everyone, ever since the incident with the School of Magical Studies, despised sorcerers. Making a new life for himself would be exceedingly difficult. He would be hated and shunned at first, but perhaps, over time, he might slowly gain their trust and prove to the world that not all sorcerers were evil, and not all magic was destructive.


    A part of him was aware that he was trying to make amends for every terrible thing he had done and that such efforts would prove to be futile and pointless. But he could not live in this valley any longer. It was suffocating him with its ghosts.


    , he thought,


    He preferred the latter.


    Requar reached the door to his bedchamber and entered soundlessly. Gathering his blue travelling cloak up from where it lay on the bed, he folded it neatly and placed it into the small bag he had packed with provisions the previous night. He carried no weapons with him, considering his magic defence enough. He was hoping not to have to use it in that way, but if the need should arise, he was well prepared to defend himself.


    Checking once more that everything was in place, he picked up the pack and slung it over the opposite shoulder to his Sword, then crossed the chamber quickly and left without a backward glance.


    * * *


    Kyosk lumbered up the tower stairwell, watching the black stone steps parade in endless succession beneath his thick, rocky feet. The Grik Clanmaster growled with annoyance at every step, unused to running around acting as a messenger.


    He knew he should have just ordered one of the other Griks to inform Lord Arzath, but at the moment they were scattered all over the castle, looking for the wretched servant. So as he was closest to Arzath''s chambers, and couldn''t be bothered hunting one of his Griks down anyway, he had decided to tell Arzath himself.


    Now he was regretting it, as he laboured on up the endless spiral staircase that led to the sorcerer''s chambers.


    Arzath seems to like tower chambers with long spiral staircases,


    Stomping over to the black-painted, intricately carved wooden door, Kyosk banged on it with a huge fist. He tensed, waiting for the door to fling open, but instead Arzath simply called: "Come in."


    Still puzzled, Kyosk gripped the handle and opened the door slowly, stepping through into the sorcerer¡¯s room.


    The place looked as though it had been ravaged by a hurricane. The carpet was littered with shards of crystal and other debris, sparkling in the shaft of sunlight from the casement like tiny stars in a crimson sky, and the torn remnants of the expensive wall hangings lay crumpled on the floor. The furniture was overturned; one chair had been smashed against the wall, and the red velvet bed covers were strewn everywhere.


    Arzath sat amidst it all on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.


    , he thought to himself drily. Lord Arzath was known for flying into outrageous tempers at the slightest provocation.


    Arzath looked up as the Clanmaster entered. Kyosk grunted again. "Sorry to disturb you, me Lord, but Lord Requar has bin sighted leavin'' ''is castle."


    Arzath stared at him for a long moment, his green eyes boring into Kyosk''s red ones. Then, without a word, he rose unsteadily to his feet and limped over to the window, staring out at Requar''s castle.


    He waited for Arzath to say something; when he didn''t, Kyosk continued. "Dere''s er, somefing else, me Lord,"


    He braced himself for the news he was about to deliver, news that Arzath was not going to like at all.


    "Cimmeran''s missing," he finished. He tensed, waiting for the yelling, the curses, but Arzath didn¡¯t reply. He appeared lost in thought as he stared out the window.


    Kyosk was taken aback. Cimmeran was missing and Lord Arzath didn''t care?


    ¡°Er,¡± Kyosk continued uncertainly, "we¡¯re looking for ¡®im, me Lord, but...¡±


    "Well, look harder!" Arzath interrupted, turning to face him. His voice held an edge of impatience. "Now get out and leave me alone."


    He dismissed Kyosk with a wave of his hand and turned back to the casement. Kyosk did as he was told and left the room hurriedly, closing the door quietly behind him.


    But something still bothered Kyosk about Arzath, and for the life of him, he couldn''t work out what it was.

 Chapter Seven

    A tale to tell, a tale to heed


    No good can come from one man¡¯s greed.


    The township of Forthwhite was visible from miles around in every direction, rising up from the Arlen Plains as though to touch the pink and purple clouds strewn across the twilight sky. Every building was made of white stone, the squat structures huddling together on the hilltop like birds jostling for a better position. Broad-leaved trees struggled in competition for space on the crowded hill, as if trying to avoid the dry, sunburnt plains below, which stretched flat and unbroken to the ethereal haze of the horizon. Bright lights twinkled from windows and street lanterns, a glittering welcome on the empty plains.


    The night was perfectly still as the three friends and travellers paused and watched the dusk settle like a blanket over the town, the heat rising up through their feet as though Arvanor herself were a vast, slumbering creature, and they trod upon her back.


    "So this is your hometown, Commander," Ferrian said in wonderment.


    Commander Trice came up beside him and smiled, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yep, Forthwhite. Beautiful, isn''t she?"


    Ferrian nodded, then shifted his gaze from the town to Aari as the young winged man alighted a few yards ahead of them, his white, copper patterned wings stirring up clouds of dust as he landed. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees, then turned his head to look back at them. "Come on! What are you two doing?" he called back. "It''s too hot to be standing around admiring the view!"


    He waited until they started moving again, then with a beat of his wings took to the air once more, heading off in the direction of Forthwhite. Grisket and Ferrian watched him go, trudging along on hot, blistered feet. "Alright for him," Grisket complained. "He''s got wings.¡± Looking up, he raised his voice to the distant figure of Aari ahead of them. "Some people have to trudge around on foot in this damned heat!"


    The three companions had left the wintry Valewood Forest five days earlier, proceeding to travel on foot to the town of Forthwhite, where Grisket''s small band of law enforcement officers had their base. On their way to Forthwhite, they had avoided towns as much as possible, keeping to the back roads and only stopping for supplies when necessary. Ferrian had remained hidden on the outskirts on these occasions. By now, every village in the area knew about the Winter and rumours of sorcery.


    Their imminent arrival in Forthwhite was a problem. The news that Commander Trice was hunting a sorcerer with silver eyes had spread quickly through the community, and Ferrian was afraid they would recognise him as soon as they caught a glimpse of his eyes. He shook his head. He could only hope that they knew and trusted Commander Trice enough to believe him when he told them the real story.


    They approached the town, the dust of the plains swirling up into pale clouds around their feet. The road turned abruptly to cobbles beneath their boots, and they passed gratefully into the cool dark pockets of air beneath the sprawling trees at the foot of the hill. Thankfully, someone had had the good sense to build an inn at the base of the hill, so relieving weary travellers of the climb up the steep incline. The inn was built of solid white stone like the rest of the town, and was very plain looking: a simple, two-storied, no nonsense building set amongst the trees. Golden light burned from the square windows and the open doors, and the sound of talking and laughter could be heard coming from within. A sign above the door was stencilled in neat white letters on a background of dark stained wood, and read: The Hungry Deer Inn.


    Aari was waiting for them on the road outside the inn. "What''s your plan?" he whispered to Grisket as they approached.


    The Commander motioned them over to the side of the road, in the cover of some bushes. He rubbed his bristly chin thoughtfully. "I think it would be best if we pretend Ferrian is our prisoner." he said quietly.


    ¡°What?!" Ferrian whispered back.


    "It''s only until we get up to the Guard House," Grisket reassured him, pulling a length of rope out of his belt. "Now put your hands behind your back."


    Ferrian did so, reluctantly. Aari grinned in the gloom and patted Ferrian''s shoulder comfortingly. "Don''t look so worried, Ferrian! Everything will be all right. Once we reach the Guard House, we''ll explain the situation to Lieutenant Cairan and the others; they''ll understand."


    Grisket had finished tying the rope around Ferrian''s wrists. Ferrian still looked doubtful. "I don''t know..." he said. "What if they don''t believe you? What if they still think I''m a sorcerer and lock me up or torture me or worse...!"


    He heard Grisket chuckle softly behind him, and he turned around quickly. "No one''s going to lock you up or torture you. If they try, they''ll have me to deal with!"


    Ferrian sighed as Aari began to lead him back out onto the cobbled roadway. "Are you absolutely sure this is necessary?" he asked. The winged man nodded, his copper hair damp with sweat and plastered against his forehead. "It''s just procedure," he explained. "Just to reassure the townsfolk that we''ve got everything under control."


    Ferrian simply nodded and let Grisket and Aari steer him towards the tavern. He could use a bit of reassurance himself.


    The Hungry Deer Inn fell quiet the instant the travellers entered, as if a silent ghost had cut everyone''s throats. The bright, white-walled taproom, normally cheerful, was so quiet the only sound was that of Commander Trice''s black leather boots as he strolled casually up to the counter. The eyes of every single person were on Ferrian as he trailed along behind Grisket.


    Oh, Gods! he thought fearfully. They''ve recognised me! He kept his head lowered, staring at the stained grey stone of the floor, and tried to keep the inn patrons from seeing his eyes. He reached the bar and sat down awkwardly beside Grisket, keeping his face down, not daring to turn around and meet the angry, fearful gazes of the people behind him. He could still feel their eyes burning into the back of his head like brands.


    Sweat trailed down his neck. He hoped nothing else would soon be trailing down it as well...


    Thankfully, Commander Trice broke the tension.


    "Well! What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?"


    The barman, a short, plump, moustached fellow who had been standing at the other end of the bar, staring at Ferrian in disbelief, seemed to notice Grisket for the first time. Sidling over, he paused in front of Grisket nervously, his eyes never leaving Ferrian. "Commander! I see you''ve caught the, er, sorcerer..." he said.


    Grisket snorted, and waved his hand as if to brush the matter off the counter like a pesky fly. "Stop looking so nervous, Valeran! It turns out the boy wasn''t a sorcerer after all."


    The barman turned to him, open-mouthed. "He''s not a sorcerer?"


    Grisket shook his head. "Nope. The whole thing was a big misunderstanding."


    Valeran let out a deep breath. "Well thank the blazes for that!" he said, relieved. A low murmur of conversation had resumed in the taproom, but many still cast suspicious glances in the direction of Ferrian every now and then.


    Commander Trice leaned forward on the counter. "So are you going to get us poor, weary travellers a drink, or do we find another inn with better service?"


    Valeran grinned, all traces of fear gone from his chubby face. "Well, if you want to try Middry''s up the hill, be my guest. Only don''t come cryin'' to me if you get all the way up there to find your beer''s more watery than a drunken fish!"


    Grisket laughed and took off his black hat, setting it on the counter. "No thanks! Old Middry couldn''t make good ale to save himself! Guess that''s why I put up with stodgy people like you. Lousy service, but the best damn ale in town!"


    Valeran beamed. "Good to see you back, Commander. And you too, Sergeant," he added, nodding to the Angel. And with that he bustled off to get the drinks. When Valeran had gone, Grisket leaned over to Ferrian. "Don''t look so miserable, lad, we''ll be out of here soon."


    Ferrian simply nodded, his pale hair falling in his eyes, grimy with sweat and dirt. Grisket and Aari didn''t look much better. The Commander, despite his jollity looked tired and dishevelled and Aari''s hair and feathers were ruffled. All three of them were covered in a layer of brown dust.


    Ferrian sighed inwardly. The sooner we get out of here, the better, he thought ruefully.


    Their stay in the Hungry Deer was brief. They remained only long enough for a drink and then left. Valeran served Ferrian reluctantly. Despite Grisket''s assurances, he was still visibly suspicious of the boy and didn''t bother to hide it.


    Ferrian could hardly blame him. After all, this mess was his fault, even if it was an accident. Not for the first time, he hated himself for not being more careful.


    Ferrian was wholeheartedly glad when the time finally came to leave the inn and escape the unbearable stares from the inn patrons. He was equally glad of the presence of the two Freeroamers, who seemed to be the only thing stopping the townsfolk from tearing him limb from limb on the spot.


    Someone must have sent word to the Guard House of their arrival; walking out into the cool midsummer night, they found a wagon waiting for them.


    Ferrian was relieved once more that they would not have to travel on foot all the way up to the top of the hill. Grisket and Aari helped him into the back of the wagon, the driver looking on; again, the suspicion was written all over his face. Grisket relayed assurances to the wagon-driver all the way up the hill that no sorcerous misdeeds would befall him or his wagon.


    When they reached the top, Ferrian was pulled out and led towards the door. As he crossed the moonlit yard, his silver eyes raised in surprise.


    The Guard House was an old, but beautiful building. Constructed from the same white stone as the other buildings of the town, it was not squat and featureless as they were, but a huge and decorative mansion. Six stone columns supported a spacious verandah, with two short, oblong watchtowers perching atop the left and right wings of the building, and a third belltower rose in the middle of the main roof. The Guard House looked ancient, the upper half badly in need of repair, judging by the crumbling tiles and broken casements. The windows of the upper storey were black and empty, but golden light beamed from the first floor windows onto the dry grass without.


    Then Ferrian had no more time to admire the building as he was led up to the double-doored entryway, Commander Trice in the lead. One of the heavy wooden doors was already open, to let in what little breeze the night offered in an effort to dissipate some of the heat.


    Grisket paused in the yellow beam of light and glanced back to see that the others were following. Then he stepped through.


    With a deep breath, Ferrian followed.


    The inside of the Guard House was slightly disappointing considering the ornateness of the exterior. The walls and ceiling were bare white stone, the small entrance room unfurnished apart from a sturdy wooden desk at the far end and two chairs up against the right-hand wall. Three arched doors led out of the room; two of which were propped ajar to circulate the air. Beneath Ferrian''s feet, the stone floor was inlaid with a once beautiful coloured mosaic, now mostly worn away, the colours all but faded into obscurity.


    Ferrian''s musings were interrupted when the door in the far left-hand corner behind the desk opened abruptly and someone stepped out.


    Ferrian caught his breath at the sight of the newcomer. A horse! No, a Centaur!


    He stared in astonishment. The Centaur was a sleek black male, muscular and lean, his Human skin dark and his hair long and black and elaborately braided with coloured beads. A thin stripe of black beard ran from his bottom lip vertically down his chin and neck. His Human torso was clad in the Freeroamer uniform: black with a blue left sleeve pinned with a silver badge, identical to those worn by Commander Trice and Sergeant Aari.


    But what was so remarkable about this Centaur was why he was here at all. This race was uncommon in this part of the world. The Centaurs mainly inhabited the islands of Enopina in the northwest and Remast in the southwest, and like the Angels, generally preferred to stay away from Humans. But unlike the Angels, the Centaurs were not a solitary race. They liked company, and they liked to travel. But they disagreed with Human involvement with magic. Angels believed that magic was Divine, a sacred power given to them by the Gods. Centaurs believed that it was a force of nature, an element like wind, fire and light, and that no race on Arvanor should have mastery of it.


    This dispute had caused many rifts between the races over the centuries, but Centaurs were great believers in equality. To them, everything was a part of nature, everything was equal and connected. Only the elements were superior and untouchable; all creatures lived on Arvanor together and no race was more worthy than another.


    Despite their misgivings about Humans, however, they were not averse to trade or even marriage on occasion, and could sometimes be seen in the larger cities of Daroria or travelling the central highway to Siriaza. They were much more keen on interaction now that Human sorcerers were almost extinct. But to see one in such a remote town in the middle of the Outlands was an exception.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Ferrian wondered what had brought this one here, to join the Freeroamers.


    The Centaur trotted around the desk and up to Grisket, his face alight with joy. "Alon!" he greeted in the Centaurion tongue, and bowed. Commander Trice bowed also. "Alon!" he repeated.


    The Centaur clasped the Commander''s hand. "I am most pleased to see you again Commander!" he said.


    Grisket smiled. "Good to see you again too, Cairan."


    Then the Centaur noticed Ferrian and Aari by the door.


    Cairan walked over to Ferrian with a questioning look on his face. Ferrian carefully avoided the Centaur''s penetrating dark gaze.


    "What have we?" Cairan said.


    Grisket came over, doing his best to look unconcerned. "Remember that sorcerer I said I was going after?"


    Out of the corner of his eye, Ferrian detected a glint of something that could have been fear in Cairan''s eyes, and the Centaur seemed to shrink away very slightly, even though he didn''t physically move. He turned his head slowly to face Grisket.


    "You have apprehended the sorcerer?" he said softly, unable to disguise the hint of awe and disbelief that crept into his voice. Grisket shook his head and placed a reassuring hand on Cairan''s flank.


    "Don''t worry, Cairan my friend. The boy isn''t a sorcerer."


    Cairan did not look entirely convinced. He cast a wary eye on Ferrian. "If he is not a sorcerer, then how is the Winter to be explained?" he asked.


    Grisket watched as Aari untied Ferrian''s bonds. Then he looked back at Cairan. "That''s why we need a meeting: right away." he replied. Cairan looked at him with a puzzled expression, so Grisket added, "I''ll explain everything then. Go and inform the others immediately and I''ll meet you back in the Council Room."


    Several members of the Freeroamers were gathered a short time later in the rather uninspiring Council Room of the Guard House at Forthwhite. The Council Room was a bland, white-walled room like all the other rooms of the building. A few faded old flags hung limply around the walls, no breeze to ruffle them despite the fact that all the windows were open. Lamps flickered brightly on hooks on two opposite walls, making the already stuffy room even more unbearable.


    The only piece of furniture in the room was the long wooden table in the centre, scuffed and marked with hundreds of scratches, chips and dents that had accumulated over the years, not a few of which had been the result of a heated argument. In fact, Grisket mused, he could still make out the deep gouge mark his knife had left some two years ago now, when someone had told him some particularly unpleasant news, and he had restrained himself from taking his anger out on the messenger to attack the table instead.


    The memory drew his lips into a wistful smirk and he leaned back in his chair, took his hat off and put his hands behind his head. Ah, it''s good to be home again! He looked around the table at the diverse assortment of characters who had gathered there.


    Lieutenant-Commander Cairan, his second-in-command, stood on his right. The Centaur looked unusually nervous and uncomfortable tonight, continually casting surreptitious glances at Ferrian. On Cairan''s right stood Constable Raemint; another Centaur. Like her partner, Raemint was sleekly muscular and striking to look upon. Her shoulder length hair, (currently gathered in a mass of braids behind her head) was half black, half gold, and her hide was jet black like Cairan''s, except for a streak of white down one leg. Her dark face was beautiful, yet strong-boned; her eyes with a hardness about them that marked her undeniably as a warrior. Unlike the others, she had chosen a black sleeveless vest that exposed her strong arms, her badge pinned above her left breast.


    Beside Raemint sat Captain Sirannor, one of Grisket''s oldest friends. Sirannor''s age was difficult to determine but he looked older than the hills, with a chiselled, serious-looking face and long white hair entwined with thin silver streaks. Sirannor had once been a Lieutenant in the Darorian Army: the same army that was currently engaged in a war over the Middle Isle. He had resigned shortly after he was despatched to the Middle Isle after an altercation with his Commander. Later on he had found out about the Freeroamers and decided to join them, though his reasons for doing so were as mysterious as the man himself.


    At the far end of the table sat Constable Dogwyn, a young lad only two or three years older than Ferrian. He was brown-haired and cocky, and didn''t like it when he didn''t get his own way. He was also an extremely talented cavalry master; he possessed a natural affinity with horses that was a match for the Centaurs. It was for this reason that Commander Trice was willing to put up with his attitude. Currently Dogwyn sat leaning one elbow on the table, sleeves rolled up, looking bored.


    And finally, to Grisket''s left sat Sergeant Aari and Ferrian. Grisket looked at them each in turn, thinking what a motley bunch they all made, and then stood and rapped on the table for silence. When at last he had everyone''s attention, he cleared his throat and spoke.


    "As you all know, I set out a few weeks ago after receiving numerous complaints about a sorcerer or ''Evil Spirit'' roaming the countryside and destroying the crops of hard-working countryfolk. Now, I know you all thought I was crazy then, going out on my own to chase after something that could very well have been nothing more than a rumour. Well, now I have returned, after having found the cause of the disturbance: this young boy here named Ferrian."


    At this, a murmur arose from the Freeroamers, but Grisket hastily silenced them with an upraised hand. "Please. All I ask is that you hear him out. He has told me he is not a sorcerer, and I believe him." He looked at Ferrian seated beside him and motioned for him to rise.


    Ferrian did so hesitantly, his chair scraping loudly on the stone floor in the now silent room. He looked pale and anxious and unhappy as he looked from one stern, sceptical face to another. Grisket could tell he thought the Freeroamers weren''t going to believe him. The boy looked at him and he made an encouraging gesture.


    With a deep breath, Ferrian once again began relating his tale.


    * * *


    Freedom hadn''t turned out quite as Cimmeran had expected.


    When he had finally escaped the hated Sorcerer''s Valley and all of its memories, a little less than a week ago, he had thought his luck had changed for the better at long last. Lord Arzath, his cruel, merciless, evil master, was (thank the Gods a thousand times over) dead and gone, and he was free to go where he pleased and do what he chose. He would never forget that joyous day when he had emerged into the sunlit mountains at dawn¡­ the peaks bathed in orange and purple, the sky so vividly blue and clear it could have been made of polished glass, and the air warm and fragrant with the smells of a new summer day. The hidden tunnel from which he had made his escape from Arzath''s Keep had burrowed in darkness through the very bones of the mountains for miles, and Cimmeran had spent three terrible, lonely nights in pitch blackness save for his torch. The silence down in the depths of the rock was like a solid mass, surrounding and crushing him the further he went into the bowels of the mountains. Every step sounded like an explosion. Every heartbeat, like the pounding of drums. And every ragged breath like the rasping of thousands of swords against thousands of stones. He would jump in terror at the slightest noise, and his dreams were filled with unseen demons chasing him through the dark.


    Cimmeran thought he would go mad with fear. He had never travelled this particular route before, but he knew where it led, and was eternally grateful and relieved when he finally emerged into the daylight again. The tunnel ended in a concealed opening in some bushes close to Merinriver Break, the only pass through the Barlakks.


    From there it had been another day''s journey to Tulstan, a thriving community at the foot of the Barlakk mountains. Only when he reached the town did the thought cross his mind that he had no money.


    He had thrown his sack (now all but empty) to the ground and sworn out loud, much to the disgust of a couple of ladies who happened to be walking by. How could he have been so utterly stupid? He had thought of everything else, but had forgotten to bring money with him!


    Cimmeran had slumped dejectedly onto the pavement, his back against the wall of a nearby building, and spent a long time wallowing in self-pity before he realised he would have to work for it.


    He had wandered around the town for a long time, from taverns to shops, looking for any kind of work. Finally he had come to a run down little tavern on the far side of town which was owned by a short, thin, ageing woman with dark hair streaked with grey and a brisk manner. She had told him quite clearly that she could always use more servants.


    Cimmeran, weary, desperate, his sanity stretched to breaking point from the harrowing journey through the tunnel from Arzath''s Keep, laughed out loud at the irony of it. He had laughed until tears rolled down his face, not caring that the woman was looking at him as if he was crazy. He had laughed to stop himself from crying ¨C the idea of being a servant again, when he was so newly free, was just too much to handle. Eventually though, when the woman demanded he give her an answer, he reluctantly agreed, knowing with a sinking heart that he would find no better work here.


    And so here he was: working as a servant in a tavern in Tulstan.


    Cimmeran sat back on his haunches and stretched his aching back, and threw the soggy cleaning cloth down onto the freshly scrubbed floor. He fought down the irresistible urge to kick the bucket of dirty water over and let that slave-driver of a woman clean her own blasted floors! Then he sighed belatedly and reminded himself that he needed the money. And besides, he tried to tell himself, it''ll only be for a few more days, until I have enough money for a horse...


    The thought made him smile, despite the anger and frustration he felt at having to work as a servant once more, and having broken the vow that he would never again be a servant to anyone.


    While he had been working, to take his mind off his humiliating task, he had thought about what he would do when he was free. After much deliberation, he had decided to travel to one of the major coastal cities: Sunsee, or Crystaltina perhaps. From there he would buy passage on a ship to cross the great ocean to one of the western isles; as far away from this wretched place with its magic and sorcerers as he could get.


    Cimmeran stood up slowly, hearing his joints crack in protest as he stretched stiff, sore limbs, and brushed his gold-blond hair out of his face with a hand that was red and chafed. He was just bending over to pick up the bucket of dirty water when a familiar grating voice called out from downstairs, making him wince as it reverberated irritatingly inside his skull.


    "Cimmeran! Haven''t you finished cleaning those damned floors yet? Hurry up and get down here and serve these customers!"


    Cimmeran''s bony, chafed hand clenched around the handle of the bucket, and he gritted his teeth. The sooner he was out of this wretched place, the better. With care not to slip on the slick, wet floorboards, Cimmeran made his way to the small window at the far end of the main corridor on the upper storey of the tavern.


    Dusk had fallen already, the servant noticed with surprise, although no glimmer of moon or stars could been seen in the night sky, as it was heavily overcast with dark grey clouds. A cool, caressing breeze entered through the open casement to soothe Cimmeran''s hot, sweat covered skin, and the man bent to the window to embrace it.


    Without bothering to check if anyone was passing by, he dumped the contents of his bucket unceremoniously out the window, hearing the grimy water slosh onto the pavement below. He stood for a moment at the open window, letting the welcome breeze ease his cramped and weary muscles. Then, with a great effort of will, he wrenched himself away, remembering with a sigh that he was needed downstairs yet again.


    That night was one of the busiest that Cimmeran had ever experienced. The tavern was packed to capacity, the townsfolk all in a good mood due to the coming of the summer rains, a fact that Cimmeran had overlooked when he had stood at the window in that brief moment of blessed solitude earlier. The tavern was horrendously under-staffed, with only himself and one other ragged serving-girl to attend to the hoards of revellers.


    Neither of the servants got a moments rest. Cimmeran was constantly on his feet, serving drinks and food (much of which he ended up wearing, due to the constant jostling).


    Much to Cimmeran''s anger and disgust, the owner of the tavern, Chellin, spent most of her time chatting to the bar patrons and ordering Cimmeran and the servant girl around. Already weary and overworked from the hard chores that day, Cimmeran was positively exhausted by the time the last drunken reveller had finally left the tavern.


    His shoulders slumping, Cimmeran collapsed in the nearest chair, too tired to remain on his feet any longer. The servant girl and Chellin had both retired to their rooms upstairs already.


    Cimmeran was left alone in the deserted taproom, watching the smoke swirl in lazy grey eddies around the upturned chairs and stained tables; the weak, spluttering glow of the few lanterns that were still alight casting jagged black shadows on the rough wooden walls.


    Crossing his arms on the table before him, Cimmeran dropped his head into them with a sigh. He didn''t think he even had the strength to climb the stairs to his room.


    Never before in his life had he been worked this hard, not even by Arzath. Though, he thought, grimacing, I would gladly take this hard labour for a thousand days than another second as that evil bastard''s servant.


    Chellin was a harsh and hard mistress, but his previous master had made him live in fear every day of his life.


    Thinking of Arzath again made his already nauseous stomach lurch a little.


    Gods, he was glad the man was dead.


    He rubbed his tired eyes with a grimy hand; his thoughts were growing fuzzy from fatigue. Tentatively, he stretched his aching legs beneath the table, and was just thinking about whether to bother trying to make it up the stairs, when something on the counter caught his eye.


    Cimmeran stared at it blankly for a few seconds, then frowned as recognition dawned. Wasn''t that the little wooden box that Chellin kept the day''s takings in?


    Stupid woman! Cimmeran thought, annoyed at the woman''s thoughtlessness. Fancy leaving it there on the bench where anyone could just walk in and...


    Cimmeran''s irritation oozed slowly into dark, clear calmness.


    He went very still.


    Slowly, he glanced around. The tap room was empty. There was not a sound from upstairs. The street outside was quiet.


    He looked back at the box.


    There it was. Just sitting there.


    All alone on the counter.


    Very slowly, he rose to his feet, his weariness melting away. He felt curiously energised, his heart beating strongly in his chest. He slipped around the edge of the table like a cat and quietly walked across the floor to the counter.


    It was a smooth, ordinary-looking wooden box, worn dark on the edges from from frequent handling. Its blank face almost seemed to be watching him back, to see what he would do.


    Cimmeran gripped the edge of the counter tightly, his hands trembling. He could not tear his eyes away from the little box. It was as if it was beckoning to him, daring him to open it¡­


    Cimmeran wrenched his gaze away with a jolt, his heart thumping so hard he was sure Chellin would hear it, even from upstairs. Horrified, he tried to quench the insidious urge that was spreading through his mind.


    No! he told himself firmly. The money belongs to Chellin. I have no right to take it. I didn''t earn it.


    But the thought fizzled out like a wet coal in a dark onslaught of rain as he remembered how hard he''d worked over the last few days. All the long, long hours he''d spent scrubbing, serving, sweeping, cleaning¡­


    Being yelled at.


    Didn''t I earn it? Didn''t I? I deserve twice the pay I''ve been getting for all the effort I''ve put in!


    Once more, Cimmeran turned back to the box. On impulse he spun around, terrified of getting caught.


    But there was no one on the stairs. The kitchen door remained closed. The tavern and the street beyond were as silent as the grave. Just himself and the flickering lanterns.


    His eyes locked once more on the box.


    I deserve it¡­


    With a trembling hand he reached out to touch the lid, excitement welling up inside him as he felt the varnished wood beneath his fingers. He paused for a moment. Would the box be locked? Or did Chellin forget to lock it as well?


    Not knowing which one he hoped for more, Cimmeran gripped the lid and slowly raised it.


    The box opened easily.


    Cimmeran let out the breath that had been burning his lungs. It wasn''t locked! Then his eyes opened wide at the sight of the pile of triangular shaped coins that lay within.


    Silver trevens glittered like sultry eyes in the fiery lantern light, and jade javens winked darkly, their deep green colour contrasting with the bright hue of their more expensive cousins.


    Cimmeran picked up one of the trevens, running his fingers along the smooth sides, feeling the carved grooves in its surface.


    A warning voice crept out from the back of his mind, like a wary spider.


    Don''t, it warned. This is wrong...


    Cimmeran hesitated. He dropped the treven carefully with a soft chink. "This is wrong, I know it is," he whispered to himself. "It''s just that¡­"


    The thought was interrupted by another, darker voice.


    It''s just that with all that money, you wouldn''t have to work for that witch any more. You could leave this place once and for all. Hell, there''s enough in there to buy a horse, some food, enough for passage on a ship across the sea.


    You could go anywhere. Anywhere in Arvanor! No more Chellin. No more Arzath. No more servitude!


    No more servitude.


    The temptation was too great. With a flick of his wrist, Cimmeran slammed the lid of the box shut, not even caring that the sound was an explosion in the silence.


    In moments, the only movement in the silent tavern was the spluttering of the torches and the door as it swayed on its hinges.

 Chapter Eight

    Fear abounds in a new domain


    And hope arises once again.


    The silence seemed to stretch on to infinity after Ferrian had finally finished his story. He stood looking around the Council Room nervously, trying to decipher the looks on the faces of those assembled. The silence was broken at last by a disgusted snort from the far end of the table.


    "And you believed all that?" Dogwyn said incredulously. The young Constable had his feet crossed on the table and his hands clasped behind his head. "A fine tale! Cursed? Ha!¡±


    A murmur rippled around the room. Grisket leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table.


    "I consider myself a pretty good judge of character," he said quietly. "And if this kid is a liar, then he¡¯s the best I¡¯ve ever seen."


    The room had fallen silent once more. The Commander turned to the others. "What do the rest of you think?"


    There was a moment¡¯s hesitation, then Raemint spoke up. "I believe Ferrian is speaking the truth...¡± She hesitated again, looking troubled. ¡°However, I feel the presence of strong magic in this room. From where it was acquired, I cannot say.¡±


    Cairan, beside her, gave a nod of agreement.


    Grisket looked over at Sirannor. "What do you think, Captain?" he asked.


    The white-haired man had been sitting in silence with an unreadable expression on his hard face. For a moment he didn¡¯t answer. He simply returned the Commander''s gaze with eyes as impenetrable and grey as an iron fortress. "I think," he said slowly, "that if this boy were a sorcerer, we¡¯d all be dead."


    A heavy silence filled the room. No one spoke again for a long moment.


    "Damn straight," Commander Trice said, breaking the uncomfortable pause. He glanced at Constable Dogwyn. "You honestly think a sorcerer would bother with excuses, Constable?"


    "Or let himself get captured by Nightwalker," Aari pointed out.


    Dogwyn did not reply. He merely folded his arms across his chest and refused to meet their gaze.


    Cairan nodded at the younger man. "Your doubt is valid, Dogwyn. This boy is clearly in possession of magic ¨C Raemint and I have sensed it ¨C but whether it is innate or learned we cannot identify. However, magic is a powerful and unpredictable force of nature, and that is reason enough to be wary."


    The Commander paused for a moment, rubbing his beard, thinking. "Ferrian apparently has no control over his magic. I''ve seen nothing to give me reason to disbelieve what he''s told us: that it is indeed some kind of curse."


    "This is all very interesting, Commander," Sirannor interjected from the other side of the table. "But I think the more important issue here is: what do you intend to do about it?"


    The Commander leaned back in his chair. "Obviously something has to be done about this. And done soon. At the moment, this Winter thing appears to occur only when Ferrian remains in one place for a certain amount of time. But there¡¯s no telling if or when these cold snaps could become permanent. And if that happens, it¡¯s gonna start costing more than crops or livestock: it¡¯s gonna cost lives."


    He looked around the table, but no one had anything to say.


    Except Sergeant Aari.


    "This is bigger than anything the Freeroamers have dealt with before," the Angel spoke up. "This isn¡¯t about someone¡¯s cow going missing; this isn¡¯t about catching the vandal who smashed up Middry¡¯s tavern; this isn¡¯t finding out who beat up Dorin Smithy¡¯s son. This is Magic. And the only person who has a hope of knowing how to deal with this is a sorcerer.¡±


    He took a deep breath, glancing at Commander Trice, and continued: ¡°Which is why we are going to find one."


    The Freeroamers stared at him incredulously. Grisket, a fierce glare on his face, rose to his feet, taking a breath to speak but was beaten to it by Dogwyn.


    "No offence, Aari," he said, "But you are out of your mind!"


    ¡°Aye!¡± Commander Trice replied angrily. ¡°We discussed this¨C¡±


    ¡°No, Commander!¡± Aari cut him off, rising to his feet as well, ¡°you refused to discuss it! You just said ''no'' and that was the end of it! But I''ve been considering this the whole journey back here to Forthwhite, and,¡± he took a deep breath, ¡°I know you''d rather trust a barrel full of vipers. But in this case, I honestly think we don''t have any other choice!"


    The two of them glared at each other across the table.


    Wow, Ferrian thought. Aari''s got some balls to outspeak his commander like that¡­


    ¡°You have something in mind, Aari?¡± Captain Sirannor said quietly from the other side of the table.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Aari replied, glancing at Sirannor, then back to Grisket.


    The Commander''s face retained its darkness, but he sat back in his chair reluctantly. ¡°Let''s hear it then,¡± he growled.


    The winged man remained standing. He nodded and took another deep breath. ¡°When the School of Magical Studies was destroyed all those years ago, many artefacts, objects, papers, books and other stuff was thrown across the city of Sunsee in the blast. Lots of gruesomely charred bodies, too, were recovered from the rubble, and, er, bits of bodies as well. And a bunch of pristine, silver swords. They were known as ''The Swords of the Gods'' back then ¨C every sorcerer had one - and were made of some kind of indestructible metal, so all of them were found undamaged, though the magic was completely extinguished.


    ¡°All of these artefacts were collected in a museum in the royal city of Crystaltina. The surviving books and bits of papers were sent to the Royal Archive.¡±


    He paused for a moment, looking down at the table in thought. ¡°A few years ago, I went to Crystaltina, wanting to get a look at the Archive. Scholars had been studying and translating the documents for the last century, trying to determine exactly what had caused the disaster. I had heard that they were making some progress and I was curious.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he shrugged, ¡°the King refused to grant me permission¨C¡±


    Dogwyn snorted. ¡°No kidding, wing boy,¡± he interrupted.


    Aari gave him an annoyed look, and continued. ¡°Naturally, being an Angel, the guards took one look at me and threw me out of the doors. But,¡± he smiled. ¡°I expected that.


    ¡°So I tracked down one of the scholars from the university and got him drunk, hoping to convince him to let me into the Archive.


    ¡°After awhile he started babbling all kinds of weird stuff, about ''claimed'' and ''unclaimed'' Swords, some graduation ceremony, sinister plots to destroy the School¡­ eventually, he told me that he thought two sorcerers had survived the explosion. They had accounted for all the bodies and the Swords, except for those two. They seemed to have vanished.


    ¡°One was a guy by the name of¡­ Lord Requar. He was the son of a very wealthy and distinguished family. His father was a General in the Darorian army and then Commander of the Middle Isle campaign. He had a younger brother, Arzath, but the scholars reckon it was the older brother who had orchestrated the plot to destroy the School.


    ¡°This matched up with a popular rumour going around Arkana before I left: that two brothers had obliterated the School during an intense feud. The scholar was convinced that at least one of them was still living. There had been eyewitness reports¨C¡± he glanced briefly at Grisket, ¡°right here in the Outlands.


    ¡°The scholar then told me that one of his colleagues was fairly sure he knew where one or both of them might be hiding.¡±


    The Freeroamers and Ferrian stared at him in anticipation.


    ¡°Ah...¡± Aari went on, ¡°but then he¡­ sort of¡­ passed out on the floor¡­ and,¡± he scratched his copper hair sheepishly, ¡°I couldn''t wake him up again...¡±


    A collection of groans and sighs passed around the room as everyone seated slumped back in their chairs.


    Dogwyn rolled his eyes. ¡°Right,¡± he said sarcastically. Then he leaned forward and slapped his hand down on the table. ¡°I''ve got a better idea!¡±


    They all looked at him in surprise.


    ¡°How about we cart this kid off to the Perpetual Peaks and ditch him there? No people around. No towns. Endless miles of mountains. He can play with snowflakes all he likes, for the rest of his life. No one gets hurt. Problem solved!¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?!¡± Ferrian said angrily. ¡°Play with snowfl¨C¡±


    Aari cut him off, glaring. ¡°You''re a real scumbag, Dogwyn!¡±


    The other man simply shrugged, leaning back and putting his legs up on the table. ¡°It''s the most sensible solution, as far as I can see.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Commander Trice said quietly. He looked up. ¡°No, Dogwyn.¡± He sighed, suddenly looking defeated, and shook his head. ¡°I founded the Freeroamers for the very purpose of helping people who couldn''t be helped. It is the founding principle of this place. We are not going to abandon Ferrian in the wilderness. We will help him if we can. We are obliged to.¡±


    He looked slowly around the table, at each face in turn. ¡°Is anyone willing to help?¡±


    ¡°I''m in all the way!¡± Aari said at once.


    Dogwyn threw up his hands. ¡°No way! Count me out of this madness!¡±


    Cairan shook his dark head ruefully. ¡°I am second in command. I must stay and keep things in order here.¡± He turned and looked at Raemint, but the female Centaur shook her head as well, also looking regretful.


    ¡°I am training new recruits,¡± she replied. ¡°I cannot leave them at this time.¡±


    That left Captain Sirannor, sitting at the far corner of the table. They all looked at him.


    The old man was quiet for a long moment, scrutinising Ferrian. Ferrian felt intensely uncomfortable beneath his iron grey, penetrating gaze, and looked down at the scars on the table to escape it. Finally, the Captain spoke.


    ¡°I''ll come,¡± he said simply.


    Grisket nodded. ¡°Settled then,¡± he declared. Then he stood, picked up his feathered hat and placed it firmly on his head. ¡°We leave for Crystaltina tomorrow.¡±


    * * *


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    The corridors and passageways of Arzath¡¯s Keep were dark. Dark and cold and forbidding. Dust covered the floor in choking layers, and silky cobwebs stirred like pale, dancing wraiths in the whispering draughts. Silent stone statues of gargoyles stared here and there with cold, black eyes out of hidden recesses in the walls; and the occasional skinny rat or cockroach skittered across the floor, the faint rustle of their movement the only sound in the heavy gloom and silence.


    Fire flared like an orange star in the blackness, sending the shadows skittering away in pursuit of the rats and the cockroaches. A figure approached from down the narrow hallway, holding the flaming torch high like a beacon. Uneven footsteps echoed loudly off the jet black walls as the figure staggered from one side of the hall to the other, using the wall to prop itself up.


    Arzath sighed, the sound like windblown leaves scraping the floor of a tomb. He paused at an alcove and rested a minute, getting his breath back. These bloody hallways! he thought in disgust. The damned thing could be anywhere! He looked around at the alcove. It was nothing more than a shallow recess in the wall, but nevertheless, it was cloaked from top to bottom in dark shadows. He moved the torch closer in irritation and the shadows fled from the fire.


    There was nothing there except a blank wall. Arzath moved forward a few steps and ran his free hand along the smooth surface of the stone - searching, prodding, testing - but there was nothing there to suggest any secret passages or doorways. Finally he gave up, and thumped the wall hard with his clenched fist. Where the hell is it?! he wailed in silent despair. He was so angry he almost threw the torch away; then realised the folly of such an action and thought better of it. The last thing he wanted to do was get lost in the dark in his own castle.


    So he contented himself with gritting his teeth instead, and set off once more along the gloomy passageway.


    As he travelled along with slow, shaky steps, his mind wandered back to what had led him down into this murk in the first place. His memories were gradually returning; another piece here, another piece there, a little more each day. He felt confident that he was almost back to his old self again - almost. He still had trouble with names and faces, however. A quagmire of images and names floated around in his mind, but he couldn¡¯t seem to put them together. The only people he really knew the identity of at the moment were himself and his brother Requar.


    His hand tightened around the base of the torch so hard he thought it would snap. Requar. The merest thought of his brother made Arzath feel like screaming out in rage. He would have his revenge on that wretch one day; and when he did, he would make a picnic of it.


    With an effort, he wrenched his thoughts away from his brother. He mustn¡¯t let his hatred for Requar cloud his thinking. He must concentrate all his memory on locating that which he came here to find.


    He had decided yesterday that he would go and check on his weapon. Unfortunately, he hadn¡¯t realised that he¡¯d hidden it so well. He knew there was a secret door somewhere in the castle that led to the room where his precious weapon was hidden, but the actual whereabouts of this door eluded him. It was one of the few memories that hadn¡¯t returned to him yet. Arzath cursed softly under this breath. He needed to make the most of the opportunity that Requar had offered by leaving his castle, to advance his own plans, but at the moment, he wasn¡¯t getting anywhere.


    Another dark alcove appeared in the wall to his left, and he stumbled over to it. He was tiring quickly; he still hadn¡¯t completely recovered from that fateful fall from the waterfall some two weeks ago now. His breathing was ragged and his legs felt like they would collapse from under him at any second. But his determination to find the only thing that could possibly destroy his brother kept Arzath going. He quickly searched the wall of the alcove as he had done on the previous one, and dozens more before it. His pale hand was shaking, and the torch cast leaping orange shadows over the deep black stone. Again, there was nothing to be found.


    Arzath slumped his shoulders wearily. "Damn it to Hell!" he said aloud, and the echoes of his words seemed to absorb into the very walls, to leave only thick silence. He turned and rested his back against the wall of the alcove, and stared down dejectedly at the flickering torch in his hand. If only he had his memories back! If only he had his magic back!


    Arzath sighed again, and brushed a stray strand of black hair out of his eyes with his trembling hand. Where the hell¡¯s that Cimmeran when I need him? he thought angrily. He knows all the passageways in...


    The thought froze in his mind. His body became so still that if not for his pale skin, he would have faded into the shadows completely. What had he just said? Cimmeran?


    All the memories of his former servant came thundering back, then, all at once, leaving Arzath standing there in the dark alcove with his mouth open in shock.


    "Dark Gods!" he exclaimed. "Cimmeran! That¡¯s what that lumbering Grik was rambling on about! What did he say? Something about... Cimmeran being missing...?"


    A wave of rage and disgust rose up in Arzath¡¯s stomach. Why that blasted little...! How DARE he try to escape me again!


    He didn¡¯t know which emotion was more prominent at that point: shock or anger. Then suddenly both melted away as a dark well of horror oozed up to engulf them.


    Cimmeran knew every passageway and corridor in this castle. Every room, every secret door, everything. Arzath stood stunned. And now he has escaped. Who knew who the little wretch might tell. Even... and he shuddered at the thought: even Requar.


    Arzath shrank back against the wall of the alcove, all thoughts of his weapon now forgotten. Without his magic, he was completely unprotected. Oh, he had his Griks and Murons... but they would be worse than useless against Requar¡¯s magic. If Cimmeran should go to Requar and lead him in here through some hidden tunnel... He would have no defence. Requar would destroy him once and for all.


    Arzath¡¯s throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He felt, at that moment, something that he genuinely hadn¡¯t felt in a long, long time, something he believed he¡¯d never have to experience again.


    He felt fear.


    Slowly Arzath straightened himself, trying to calm his roiling thoughts. Think! Think this through logically¡­ He took a deep breath of musty, stale air, and almost choked on it. Requar definitely thinks I¡¯m dead, of that much I am certain. Cimmeran must obviously think I¡¯m dead, he assured himself, otherwise he would never have attempted to escape. And if he believes I am dead, he wouldn¡¯t bother to go to Requar... would he?


    Arzath pushed himself away from the wall and looked off warily into the blackness, as if expecting his brother to come striding down the corridor at any moment. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of such ridiculous notions, trying to convince himself that he had nothing to worry about. After all, no one as yet knew about the loss of his magic, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. But no argument he could come up with could disperse the fear that as long as Cimmeran was out there somewhere, he was a threat.


    "In that case," Arzath said softly, his voice a ghost''s whisper in the black, silent corridor. "That wretched servant must be found." And with that he turned and hurried away down the corridor in the direction he had come from, like a black ghost disappearing into the night.


    * * *


    Requar stood motionless in the bushes, just another shadow in the still, summer night. He peered through the web of leafy branches in front of his face at two figures camped by a fire in a forest clearing. The bright, flickering dance of the flames was the only movement in the darkness. The silvery pinprick of stars could be glimpsed through gaps in the forest canopy, set like jewels in the velvety, deep blue cloak of the night sky. A cool breeze wafted through the trees, soft and gentle against the sorcerer¡¯s face. Crickets chirruped loudly with monotonous rhythm in the undergrowth, and an owl called mournfully somewhere in the distance.


    The two figures at the campfire were as still and silent as he. They were hunters: Requar had gathered that much from their camouflaged clothing and the fact that both of them carried stout wooden bows and quivers of arrows. One was a woman, sitting still as stone on the far side of the fire, staring down blankly upon her partner who lay on the ground beside her, even more still, if that were possible. The man was wounded, and badly by the looks of it. His right pant leg was torn to shreds and soaked in blood. The woman had done her best to bandage it, but it was clear the man needed help, and fast. Requar could not tell what other injuries, if any, he might have sustained.


    They could not see him, even though he stood no more than a few yards away. He had used his magic to blend in with the leafy foliage. They had no idea that he was watching them.


    Requar tried to fight the urge to pace as he observed the two hunters. He knew he should help the wounded man, but how would the hunters react? He was torn with indecision. If he didn¡¯t intervene, the man might well die tonight, but he knew that ordinary people distrusted and hated sorcerers... and how would the woman react upon seeing one suddenly appear from the bushes, even if he did have good intentions?


    A piece of wood from the fire snapped sharply, and the flames flared suddenly, sending up a shower of bright sparks, but the woman didn¡¯t even stir. Requar frowned. He could feel the weight of the Sword of Healing pressing against his back, the sword that could save the life of that hunter.


    He glanced at the unconscious hunter once more. Could he live with himself if he didn¡¯t help the man? If he walked away now, could he live with the fact that he had left a man to die, when he had a power that could so easily have saved him?


    Requar made up his mind.


    Slowly, he let the spell of camouflage slip, gradually fading out of the concealing green and black shadows until he stood revealed. The woman did not look up. Quietly and carefully, Requar stepped out of the undergrowth into the small clearing, and the woman raised her head at last.


    For a second she just stared at him, her brown eyes sad and her face lined with hopelessness and despair. Then the sadness was replaced with suspicion, and she rose jerkily to her feet, her hand reaching for a knife at her belt. "Who are you?" she demanded, stepping closer to her wounded partner and standing over him protectively.


    Requar raised his hands, palms outward, to show he meant no harm. "I¡¯m here to help," he said softly.


    "We don¡¯t need no help!" the woman snapped back. She gestured with her knife in the direction of the trees. "Now get out of here and leave us alone!"


    Requar made no move to leave. He looked down at the wounded hunter. "I''m afraid I disagree," he replied calmly. "That man will die if you don¡¯t get him to a healer."


    The woman didn¡¯t take her eyes off him. "Oh yeah?" she spat angrily, her voice rising slightly. "How would you know?"


    Requar locked his blue eyes with her brown ones. "Because I am one."


    The woman continued to stare at him. She looked uncertain. There was a long moment of tense silence, then the woman said cautiously: "You¡¯re a healer?"


    Requar nodded, the firelight highlighting the strands of snowy hair that fell alongside his face with streaks of orange and red. He took a step closer towards the man. "Indeed, and I¡­"


    "Stay back!" the woman cried.


    Requar made no move to advance further.


    "You don''t look like no healer to me!" the woman said accusingly, the knife held two-handed before her. "What would a healer be doing out here in the forest at this time of night?"


    Requar hesitated, which only made the hunter more suspicious.


    "I don''t believe you," she snapped. She brought the knife up a little higher, and flicked her dark hair out of her eyes. "We don''t need no healer. Leave us the hell alone!"


    Requar held her gaze for a moment. "My lady, please.¡­"


    "I said leave us!" The woman swiped at him with her knife. Requar backed away a couple of paces.


    They stood glaring at each other for a moment across the firelit clearing. The woman began to advance on him threateningly. "Now go!" she demanded.


    Requar sighed. Looks as though I¡¯m going to have to do this the hard way...


    He stood his ground and watched as the woman approached. "My lady, if you would just let me.¡­"


    The woman attacked. She lunged at him with deadly speed, bringing the knife up to slice his throat. Requar threw up his magical shield immediately, and the knife clattered off harmlessly in a shower of blue sparks. The woman sprang back as if she¡¯d been bitten, and almost stumbled into the fire. Her face had gone pale with shock.


    ¡°Sorcerer!" she shrieked, the high pitched cry tearing through the night¡¯s stillness like the screech of metal on metal. She backed away hastily in fear, and stood hunched over near her companion, still brandishing the now useless knife.


    Requar advanced across the clearing, his shield still shimmering around him with translucent blue light. When he reached the fallen hunter, he stopped, reached back, and withdrew the Sword of Healing with a steely hiss. Its long blade swam with the reflections of both the blue light of his shield, and the warm, red light of the now diminishing campfire.


    "No!" the woman screamed in anguish and terror, misinterpreting Requar¡¯s action, and swung her knife at him again. Once more, it deflected harmlessly off the shield. But now she seemed to have gained courage out of desperation, and attacked him again, and again, hurling her useless weapon at him viciously and shrieking curses like a banshee.


    He ignored her, kneeling down beside the injured man. The hunter was unconscious, but alive, though his breathing was shallow and ragged. He didn¡¯t appear to have sustained any other major injuries apart from the one on his leg.


    Requar inspected the leg grimly. It was indeed a serious wound. A long, deep gash was torn down the inside of his lower leg, all the way from the kneecap to his ankle. There was blood everywhere. The bandages that the woman had strapped in place were sadly inadequate, and didn¡¯t seem to have done a great deal to stop the flow of blood.


    Requar removed the bloodsoaked rags quickly to expose the open wound. The gash was a ragged cut and appeared to be made by some sort of animal. He gripped the Sword of Healing with both hands and brought it around, positioning it so that its tip rested against the wound at the top of the cut. He was vaguely aware that the hunter woman had stopped trying to attack him, and could hear her sobbing somewhere in the background.


    Closing his eyes, he summoned his power and directed it into his arms, into his hands, and finally into the Sword. A silvery shiver ran through his hands as the magic of the Sword flared up in response to his own, then both magics mingled and coursed down the blade into the wound.


    He opened his eyes to see a blue-white flare slide down the length of the Sword, then the light steadied into a continuous blue glow. Slowly, he moved the Sword down the length of the man¡¯s leg, following the cut. He heard an astonished gasp from behind him as the woman saw the wound close itself with the passage of the Sword.


    When he reached the end of the cut, Requar removed the Sword of Healing and sat back on his haunches. The wound was now completely healed. Not a scar or mark remained to show where it had been.


    He turned his blue eyes upward to look at the woman standing next to him. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying. Instead, she was staring dumbfounded at the leg Requar had just healed.


    The man stirred then, and his eyes blinked open. The woman cried out in relief and dropped to her knees beside him, embracing her partner fiercely.


    Requar permitted himself a small smile and resheathed the Sword of Healing. He stood up and stepped over to the woman, who was clinging to the man as though afraid he was an apparition who might disappear if she let go. Leaning down to her ear, he whispered: "Not all sorcerers are evil, you know."


    With a gasp, she turned around quickly, but by then he was already gone.

 Chapter Nine

    Darkest hour born of greed


    Friendships made in time of need.


    The Clanmaster of the Grik army sat slumped over at his desk, snoring loudly. The sound reverberated with each hoarse breath around the black walled chamber, like an iron blade being drawn slowly across rough stone. A sheaf of paper, which was perched precariously on the edge of the desk, rose slightly as the huge Grik exhaled; then flopped back again with a sigh. The next breath pushed it an inch closer to the drop, where it swayed a moment, then carefully settled back into position. The Grik had just reached the apex of his next breath when the chamber door crashed open so hard it hit the wall and bounced back with a shudder, almost tearing right off its hinges.


    Kyosk jerked out of his sleep instantly, one massive hand accidentally catching the side of a stack of papers and sending them flying; scattering through the air like a flock of startled white birds. His crimson eyes opened wide in surprise as Lord Arzath strode through the doorway with a thunderous look on his face.


    Kyosk, still dazed from his abrupt awakening, stared at Arzath as the sorcerer clutched his fist, wincing in pain. His mind struggled to catch up with reality. "Er... find who, yer Lordship?"


    "Cimmeran, damn it!"


    Comprehension dawned finally, and was almost immediately replaced with puzzlement. He had told Arzath that Cimmeran was missing more than a week ago, and the sorcerer had dismissed it as if it were of little importance! Kyosk''s thick brow formed into a kind of crumpled V. Why now all of a sudden was he demanding the servant be found?


    Arzath wasn''t listening. He had begun pacing the room, limping, his boots scrunching with each step on the papers lying on the stone floor. Kyosk looked at the ruined papers in dismay, and rumbled a sigh. That was a whole day''s work he''d now have to redo.


    "How could you let this happen?" Arzath was saying, his voice still raised. His fists were clenching and unclenching before him as he spoke. He reached the wall, turned, and began striding back the other way. "How could you let Cimmeran escape?"


    The Grik Clanmaster opened his mouth to reply, but the sorcerer cut him off. "I want him found immediately! I want a patrol of..." he stopped pacing for a moment, and gestured with his arms, his lean face scrunched up in concentration. "... of¡­"


    "Murons?" Kyosk offered.


    "Yes! Exactly! Murons!"


    He resumed pacing. Kyosk''s heavy brow lowered further in a deep frown.


    "They are to search the mountains and the passes south and west of here," Arzath continued. "And failing that, the countryside beyond and every damned town until they find him!" He turned and glared at the Clanmaster. Kyosk stared back for a few moments, then looked away darkly. For a Human, those emerald eyes were disturbing.


    MOVING!"


    Kyosk scrambled to his feet, knocking over both the chair and the entire desk as his huge bulk filled the small room. He bowed hastily. "Yes me Lord," he replied, and trudged over to the door, which was still open.


    He was just about to duck through the arched doorway into the dark-walled corridor beyond, when Arzath called out from behind him:


    Kyosk jogged heavily through the upper levels of the keep, heading for the Murons'' quarters. His thick booted feet struck out hard, thumping echoes as he ran; orange torches stirred into fiery dances as he stomped past.


    The Clanmaster shook his big head in bewilderment as he hurried to carry out Arzath''s order. What, in the name of the Rockfather, was going on? Lord Arzath had been acting strange ever since the accident, when he had fallen from the top of the waterfall. There was something different about him.


    the sheer, potent, force of his magic, even when there were no visible signs that he possessed it.


    diminished,


    The thought cut off as Kyosk realised with a jolt that he had reached the corridor which led to the Murons'' eyrie.


    He slowed immediately. No torches flickered in this section of the castle to light the way; the Murons had excellent eyesight, and preferred the dark in any case.


    Kyosk stopped in the junction of the two corridors, directly in front of a large stone gargoyle set into an alcove before him. He squinted into the deep gloom down the corridor to the left and right of him, trying to remember which way the Murons'' eyrie was situated.


    His skin crawled as he peered into the dark. He disliked this section of the castle: it stunk of Murons. He disliked Murons.


    Something in front of him moved, and Kyosk almost jumped out of his rocky skin. Peering up, he saw that the stone gargoyle wasn''t a gargoyle at all; it was Varshax, the Muron Wingmaster.


    Kyosk stepped backwards as Varshax moved out of the alcove, a black shadow detaching itself from the gloom.


    The Muron was impressively tall: about seven feet from head to toe. His gigantic black wings, folded now as they were behind his back, rose at least another two feet above his head.


    Murons were essentially Human-shaped, but with a narrow, reptilian head full of piercingly sharp, black teeth. They stood upright on two legs, but their large wings caused them to slouch when they walked, and their bodies were covered in tiny, iron-hard jet scales, harder even than the Griks'' rocky skin. They wore little clothing save various accoutrements they had stolen from their victims, such as trousers slashed off at the knees, or sometimes a ragged vest or coat. They had no need of these items, but it amused Murons to walk around as parodies of Humans. They carried no weapons save their own fearsome knife-like claws and teeth.


    Claws and teeth that were sharp enough to shred rock as well as squishy Human flesh.


    "Kyosssk," Varshax greeted, his voice like the steely hiss of a sword being unsheathed.


    "Varshax." Kyosk grunted back.


    "Sssso, what bringssss you to my domain?"


    "Lord Arzath wants yer to send a patrol out immediately ter search fer Cimmeran. And ''e wants ''im back alive," Kyosk added, knowing the notoriety of the Murons to take no prisoners.


    Wingmaster Varshax stared unblinking, triangular yellow eyes down at him and then made a rough hissing noise which Kyosk assumed was supposed to be laughter.


    "Sssh, sssh, sssh, ssssh!"


    Kyosk cringed inwardly. He hated it when Varshax did that. It was as if he was laughing at some private, inner joke that he had no intention of sharing with anyone.


    "Very well," Varshax whispered, and without another word, slunk off into the darkness.


    * * *


    Cimmeran ran. He bolted through the streets of Tulstan as though a flock of hungry Murons were on his tail. Fatigue and fear were forgotten, swamped by the flood of exhilaration that coursed through his body. He had done it! He was free! Finally and truly free, he could go anywhere, do anything he pleased! But first he had to get as far away from Tulstan as possible¡­


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    He fled through the midnight streets, darting around corners and through stinking alleyways, his heart pounding fit to burst. Every limb of his body ached as though he''d taken a beating, but he hardly noticed. His breathing was loud in his ears, and he could hear the jingle of the coins he had just stolen as they rattled against the side of the box.


    No one looked up as he passed save the odd drunk or beggar.


    He was running down a particularly dark and narrow alley when his legs collapsed from under him. He went sprawling to the ground and landed heavily, cracking his chin. The money box tumbled from his grasp and rattled away into a pile of wooden crates stacked by the wall.


    For a moment he just lay there, dazed and panting. He tried to rise, and every muscle in his body screamed with pain. After a minute or two, he managed to haul himself up onto his elbows, and felt a warm, coppery taste in his mouth. He spat, and blood dribbled out onto the pavement. He had bitten his lip when his chin hit the ground.


    Carefully, he reached up with one hand and touched his chin, then looked down at his hand. Blood came away on his fingers, but thankfully it was only a graze, nothing serious.


    Then he remembered the money box.


    For a split second, he panicked, looked around wildly about the darkened alley. Then he caught a glimpse of it underneath an old, rotting wooden crate off to his right.


    Cimmeran scrambled up onto his hands and knees, ignoring the protests of his beleaguered limbs, and crawled over to the crates, where he scrabbled around frantically for his precious money box.


    Unable to reach it, he pushed at one of the crates, which toppled off the pile and clattered loudly onto the filthy pavement below. But Cimmeran didn''t care. His searching hands found the money box and he snatched it up quickly, clutching it protectively to his chest.


    He rested a moment, down on his knees in the filth that lined the alley floor, his breath coming in deep, ragged gasps, and waited for his heart to slow to a more healthy pace.


    It was then that he heard the noise.


    It was only a very small sound, like the faint rustle of cloth, but Cimmeran whirled immediately.


    Behind him stood an old man, a beggar dressed in ancient, filthy robes. He had a long, mangled grey beard that reached down almost to the ground. He was hunched over as though his spine was permanently bent, both arms extended before him, pleading.


    "A treven for an old man?" his quavery voice wailed. He shuffled hopefully towards Cimmeran. "A javen for an old beggar?"


    "Stay away!" Cimmeran yelled, backing up against the crates, clutching his money box even tighter.


    The man continued to amble forward, his hands still held open imploringly before him. "A treven for an old, poor, beggar?"


    "I said stay away, damn you!"


    Cimmeran backed up even further, and felt the hard corner of a crate press into his back. He looked desperately around the alleyway: there was no other soul in sight. The alleyway was empty, apart from himself and the old man.


    It was then, while Cimmeran was off balance, that the man suddenly lunged. He moved astonishingly quickly for an old man, and made a grab for the box tucked under Cimmeran''s left hand.


    But Cimmeran reacted even more quickly.


    . The man''s head snapped back and he dropped like a stone.


    Cimmeran heard a sickening crack as the old beggar''s head hit the ground. For a moment he just stood there in the darkness, staring down at the man, clutching his money box, the knuckles of his right hand burning.


    Then he turned, and without another glance back, staggered off down the alleyway and disappeared into the darkness.


    * * *


    Light.


    Blinding, piercing, all-invading white light, streaming through the blackness and washing away the ghostly grey nothingness of sleep like mist in the dawn.


    Slowly, Ferrian opened his eyes, and immediately clamped them shut again as a spear of bright sunlight stabbed into them. Groaning, he fumbled for the covers, seeking to cloak his head in the welcome blackness again.


    But to his annoyance, a strong hand yanked the covers out of his grasp, and he tentatively opened his eyes once more to see the grizzly face of Grisket Trice grinning down at him.


    "Arrrrgh. Is it morning already?"


    "No, actually it''s not," the Commander replied, walking over to a nearby chair, where Ferrian''s clothes were laid out neatly.


    Ferrian''s mind was still foggy from sleep, and he thought he mustn''t have heard correctly. He peered over at the window of his room: it was filled with bright golden sunshine.


    "What? What are you talking about?"


    Commander Trice did not look up from what he was doing. "It''s noon," he said simply.


    he exclaimed incredulously. "You let me sleep in


    This time Grisket did look up, and he smiled. "You needed the rest. Especially before setting out on a long journey."


    Ferrian was scrambling out of the bed, throwing the covers aside quickly. "I don''t believe it! That''s half a day wasted!"


    Grisket straightened as Ferrian hurried over. He was dressed, as usual, in his black and blue uniform, including his familiar hat with it''s long striped feather.


    He shrugged. "As I said, you needed the rest. And it''s only half a day. The Winter''ll take longer than that to catch us up."


    Ferrian didn''t reply. He was staring down at his clothes on the chair. "What are these?"


    Grisket glanced down at the neatly folded pile of clothes and put his hands on his hips. "Kid, your clothes were a heap of stitched-together dirt and air. I thought it was about time you had some new ones."


    "Thanks," Ferrian replied. Before him on the chair sat a clean pair of pants, shirt, tunic, boots and a lightweight travelling cloak. He picked up the neatly folded tunic that was sitting on top.


    It was black, with¡­ a cobalt blue left sleeve.


    He looked up at Grisket in astonishment.


    The Commander smiled and nodded. ¡°You''re an honorary Freeroamer now, Ferrian,¡± he said, clapping a hand on Ferrian''s shoulder.


    ¡°


    ¡°Folks''ll be less likely to bother you if you''re one of us.¡±


    ¡°But...¡± Ferrian struggled to find the words. ¡°I''m supposed to be your prisoner¡­?¡±


    ¡°Bah!¡± Grisket waved a hand. ¡°Folks''ll forget about that. We''ll be gone from the Outlands long enough.¡±


    He walked over to the door. ¡°The next scandal will come around the corner any moment now. Always somethin''. Don''t worry about it.¡±


    He left Ferrian staring down at the pristine uniform, not knowing what to say.


    Ferrian stood on the shaded front porch of the Guard House, watching the afternoon sunlight cast long ribbons of gold through the leafy treetops. Below him, the town of Forthwhite spread out, shimmering and peaceful, warm and lazy. No gathering storm. No hint of frost.


    For the moment, the Winter slept.


    Ferrian looked down at his blue left sleeve. He couldn''t get used to the uniform. The clothes fit him quite well, but it wasn''t the cut of fabric that made him uncomfortable. The uniform represented honour and justice; pride and respect. He felt as though he were pretending to be a different person, that this outfit was made for someone else, someone he could never be.


    After all the misery and inconvenience he had caused, was it really right to present himself as a Freeroamer, someone other people looked up to and trusted?


    He certainly couldn''t guarantee anyone''s safety, that was for sure.


    He frowned anxiously. The Freeroamers were helping him out, but he had no idea how dangerous this journey was going to be. They were going first to Crystaltina for information but after that¡­ He shook his head. They would be meeting up with a sorcerer at some point.


    Ferrian knew nothing of sorcery. He had seen no evidence of any other magic during the long and lonely years of his life, other than his own Winter. And his Winter was incredibly destructive. What kind of power then, could a true sorcerer wield?


    He didn''t want to be responsible for getting the Freeroamers into something they couldn''t handle, but nor could he go on living as he had been. It was wearing him down, the Winter chipping away bits of his soul like an ice pick.


    Ferrian wondered darkly if the guy had a point¡­


    The door behind him opened suddenly and he almost jumped out of his new Freeroamer uniform. He spun around quickly to see that it was Constable Raemint.


    "Alon!" she greeted pleasantly.


    "Er... Alon...?" Ferrian replied, hoping he''d returned the Centaurion greeting correctly.


    She clopped up to stand next to him, black hide gleaming in the warm golden sunlight, horse''s tail swishing at the flies buzzing lazily around the porch.


    "Worrying only makes the path ahead seem darker, did you not know?" she said softly.


    Ferrian glanced at her. The Centaur''s voice was calm, but she seemed tense, almost as if she was about to flee, and her hooves kept shifting around as if she was standing on something uncomfortable.


    "Um, are you okay?" he asked anxiously, wondering at the same time if it had anything to do with him.


    Raemint turned her head and smiled at him. Then she shook her head. "It is your magic. We Centaurs are very sensitive to it; it makes us uncomfortable."


    "Oh, I... I''m terribly sorry..." he said, and quickly began to move away, but Raemint put a firm hand on his shoulder.


    "No, no, do not go on my account. I can handle it."


    Ferrian looked up into her face, and beyond her smile was a grim determination that was almost frightening in its intensity. He knew in that instant that behind that kind, beautiful demeanour was one very impressive warrior.


    There was silence for a few moments. Ferrian stared down at the sun-baked earth beyond the faded, grey wooden boards of the porch.


    "You should not doubt a decision that has already been made."


    Ferrian nodded, and stared back down at the ground. A beetle clawed its way up between a crack in the weathered floorboards, and began to amble towards his boot. "I know," he said "but when people''s lives are at stake, it kind of comes naturally."


    Raemint smiled. "Well, for the record, I do not doubt that this is indeed the right decision, and neither does the Commander, Captain Sirannor, or anyone else."


    "Except Constable Dogwyn," Ferrian pointed out.


    Raemint said nothing.


    "He doesn''t like me very much, does he?" Ferrian continued.


    Raemint laughed again and touched his arm softly with her hand. "Do not take it personally. Constable Dogwyn does not get along very well with anyone possessing fewer than four legs."


    Ferrian was silent, prodding absently at the beetle, which had just reached the side of his boot.


    ¡°


    ¡°


    Ferrian looked away, feeling his face redden. The Centaur continued to stare at him, her gaze intense. ¡°You would be wrong.¡±


    She looked off into the sunlit afternoon. ¡°We all carry a personal Winter within us, Ferrian,¡± she went on. ¡°All of the Freeroamers left broken pasts behind to come here and become something new.¡±


    He looked up at her. ¡°I didn''t know that.¡±


    She gestured with a lean, dark arm at the horizon. ¡°Your Winter is visible. It bombards you with snow and ice and storms. Ours is here, inside us,¡± she put a hand to her breast.


    ¡°So you see, we are not so different from you, Ferrian. We all run from our own Winter.¡±


    She fell silent and they both stared out at the shadows lengthening over the front yard of the Guard House.


    ¡°Can it be cured?¡± Ferrian asked finally, his voice quiet.


    ¡°


    She removed her hand from her breast and turned to leave. ¡°And that is enough.¡± She nodded to Ferrian. ¡°I wish you the best for your journey.¡±


    Then she retreated through the Guard House doors and was gone.


    Ferrian stood watching the sun set over the white town until the last rays of red had faded into a deep, deep blue, and the stars awoke, high and clear and cold.

 Chapter Ten

    Too many have suspicious hearts


    Where there is light, they see the dark.


    The night was clear and warm, the sky a deep sapphire blue, with only a few wispy clouds floating across the tops of the distant mountains to the north-west like blown silk. The night was still, and the grass by the side of the dusty track barely rippled in the breeze as Requar emerged from the forest and entered the town by the north road.


    Requar marvelled at his surroundings. Too long, he had been cooped up in his valley in the Barlakk Mountains! Beautiful it was, but he had forgotten how extraordinary the rest of the world could be. Different birdsong; different vegetation. Even the wind had a unique feel; gentler, without the sharp edge it acquired as it passed over the razor-edged mountain peaks.


    He closed his eyes, trying not to let those cold wisps of horror taint his new-found freedom.


    He had just saved a life, after all.


    He opened his eyes to the sight of a bright, torch-lit little town before him. Quietly, he directed his steps off the side of the road and stopped in the shadow of a house. He had trailed the hunters at a distance, camouflaged of course. He was certain they would head for the nearest town, and ¨C he glanced at the sign hanging on its post beside the road; it read ''Meadrun'' ¨C he had been correct. They would be likely to tell someone about the incident in the forest, and Requar wanted to see the reaction. Word of sorcery would spread quickly. He needed to be prepared.


    He also needed to be tactful. More than a hundred years of superstition and distrust was not an easy thing to overcome. He did not want to stir up trouble.


    With quiet steps, Requar continued through the torchlit town. Subtly, he bent the light around himself so that he blended into the background, his outline reduced to a vague disturbance in the air. Laughter and chatter could be heard from inside the roadside houses and taverns that had just opened for business. He kept to the shadows and people passed him by without a second glance.


    Requar followed, slipping through the door that hadn''t closed properly. To anyone watching, it would appear that the wind had stirred it.


    The common room was filled with a variety of rough-looking locals, tired farmers mostly, unwinding after a long day''s work. A large group of even rougher looking black-clad men and woman occupied one whole end of the room, lounging on the chairs and tables and against the walls. They were attired rather oddly, with all manner of random bits of metal adorning their clothing. All of them were bristling with weapons.


    The black-clad group laughed and joked amongst themselves raucously, while the remaining townsfolk sat quiet and sombre, and appeared to be giving the group plenty of space.


    "We''ve seen a sorcerer!" the woman hunter gasped at the barman, who, Requar noticed for the first time, was rather flamboyantly dressed. Both hunters had just downed a couple of stiff drinks.


    "What?" the barman replied in surprise.


    "It''s true!" The male hunter exclaimed. "Out in the forest, we were hunting, and I was attacked.¡­"


    They proceeded to tell the story of how blood moles in the forest had attacked the man and ripped open his leg. He''d lain unconscious, bleeding to death until some time in the night, a strange man had suddenly materialised out of the trees and miraculously healed him.


    ¡°


    ¡°Aye!¡± the male hunter replied. ¡°Never seen anything like it!¡±


    ¡°


    ¡°He''s cursed for sure!¡± the old farmer went on. ¡°No good can come of magic! It ain''t natural! It taints; it destroys!¡± he pointed at the hunter. ¡°One day, a week, a month, or years from now, somethin'' bad''ll happen to yer! You mark my words!¡±


    A murmur passed around the room.


    The hunters were frowning. ¡°No,¡± the woman said, shaking her head, ¡°It wasn''t like that...¡±


    But the murmurs were quickly increasing to noisy agreement.


    Requar frowned as well. The black-clad group of ruffians were subtly shifting position, bringing their weapons within reach and eyeing each other. The young man, who appeared to be their leader, was still standing, but said nothing. At his side, a wicked-looking knife twirled in his fingers, the blade catching the torchlight, dancing and twisting like a silver fish. He cast his dark eyes around the room, assessing the atmosphere.


    Requar had noticed the change as well, and it wasn''t a good sign.


    ¡°You stay away from us, Tael!¡± another man near the window said. ¡°You don''t come near any of us!''


    He was met with loud, angry agreement.


    Then a huge figure stepped forward from the shadowy corner at the end of the bar. His striking crimson beard was plaited and fell down to his waist. An enormous, double-headed battle axe rested on one shoulder.


    He grinned.


    ¡°Wanna do somethin'' about that curse, eh, Tael?¡± he asked jovially.


    The other bar patrons leapt to their feet, actually cheering. Some at the back climbed up on tables and yelled taunts at the hunters.


    The hunters quickly assumed defensive postures, pressing their backs against the counter and withdrawing their bows, fitting arrows to the strings.


    The blood had drained out of their faces. One side of the room was filled with jeering townsfolk, bloodlust in their eyes, the other, the heavily-armed black-clad group. Requar noticed that two of the latter had moved beside his hiding place to block the door. To his right, the man who had warned the hunters to stay away was shaking his fist at them and howling like the rest.


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    Behind the counter, the colourful barman slouched with a smirk on his face, eating nuts from a bowl in his hand as though this were great entertainment.


    Oh, Gods, Requar thought, sickened.


    The huge man with the axe came forward. Long chains hung from his belt, jangling as he walked. The floorboards vibrated a little with each step. He withdrew the giant axe from his shoulder and held it across his chest with both hands, still grinning.


    The hunters backed away. The woman brought her bow up to point at the man, drawing the string back¡­


    The barman hit her on the head with the nut bowl, scattering nuts everywhere and sending the woman stumbling to the floor.


    The entire crowd roared with laughter.


    The red-bearded man swung his axe up and brought it down, hard¡­


    Screaming, the male hunter tried to bring his bow around but was grabbed from behind¡­


    A piercing shriek of metal filled the entire tavern, accompanied by a flash of blinding blue light. As one, everyone in the bar room ducked, covering their eyes.


    A moment later, the light cleared to reveal the man with the axe bending over, still with his massive weapon in his hands: but it had been halted, impossibly, almost at the end of its swing by a very long, beautifully elegant silver blade.


    Two snakes curled up from the hilt: one black, one white.


    The room had fallen into shocked silence. All of the townsfolk crouched on the floor or behind tables. The black group had retreated defensively against the walls. The treacherous barman peered cautiously over the counter-top.


    The red-bearded giant looked up.


    Requar stared back.


    They remained that way for a long while, frozen like statues in the middle of the room. The female hunter inched her way out from under the locked blades and scrambled to her feet, hurrying back to her partner, who embraced her tightly.


    Requar held the gaze of the bearded man until finally, he lifted his weapon. Then slowly, a grin crept back on his face and he swung his axe at Requar''s head.


    Requar ducked easily and threw a white ball of light at his attacker with his left hand. The force of the magic hurled the huge man across the room, scattering his gang and smashed him into the stone wall of the tavern with an impact that cracked the stone and made the entire building shudder.


    ¡°Damn it!¡± Requar cursed, catching sight of the charred and smoking wound he''d left in the other man''s chest. He''d used a little too much power. He was used to fending off magical attacks, not ordinary people.


    Sighing in frustration, he strode over to the unconscious man and plunged his Sword into the man''s chest. Closing his eyes, he summoned his magic and directed it down the blade until the wound had completely healed.


    The bearded giant awoke, shaking his head, dazed.


    Requar walked back to the hunters. The bar patrons had all fled while he''d been busy. The black gang were still there, looking wary and angry and confused, but no others attempted to approach him. The barkeeper cowered on the floor behind the counter. Requar glared down at him, and he cowered even further, putting his arms over his head.


    ¡°Thank you!¡± the male hunter named Tael approached him. He looked shaken, but relieved. ¡°You have saved both of our lives!¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± his female companion fished a money pouch from her belt and shook several silver triangular coins on to her palm, and offered them to Requar. ¡°Please, take this!¡±


    Requar shook his head. ¡°There is no need¨C¡±


    ¡°Please!¡± She pushed the fist of coins at him, her hand trembling. ¡°Please!¡±


    But again, Requar shook his head. Gently, he took the woman''s hand in both of his and gave it back to her. ¡°No, my lady. Just keep yourselves safe. That is all I ask of you. And take great care whom you speak to in future. ¡°


    The woman''s eyes brimmed with tears, but finally she nodded her head.


    Tael blinked away glimmers in his own grey eyes. ¡°We are indebted to you¡­ ah¡­?¡±


    ¡°Requar.¡±


    ¡°My lord.¡± Tael bowed slightly.


    ¡°If you ever need our help...¡± the woman trailed off.


    Requar nodded politely, then the two hunters turned and hurried out of the tavern.


    He watched them go and then sighed, staring down at the Sword of Healing. He had been forced to expend quite a lot of power to stop the axe''s killing blow. It was not much compared to Arzath''s assaults, but his arms ached a little, and he felt mentally weary.


    So much violence, so soon...


    It wasn''t any less than he expected, but still. Was every encounter going to be like this?


    Shaking his head, he resheathed his Sword and headed for the door.


    Half way there, he was intercepted by the young man with the spiked hair. The knife again twirled at his side; the metal ornaments on his coat glittering in the torchlight.


    ¡°Interesting!¡± the man said. He sounded obnoxiously cheerful and there was a spring in his step, as though witnessing one of his companions being thrown across the room and smashing into the wall was one of the happiest things he''d ever seen. ¡°You got the better of Bloodmoon Grim! Impressive!¡±


    Requar frowned darkly. ¡°Hardly.¡±


    ¡°You attacked him,¡± the man went on, ¡°and then saved his life.¡± He titled his head, curious. ¡°Why?¡±


    Requar glanced around at the group. ¡°I came here to offer my services as a healer, only to discover¨C¡± he gestured, ¡°a pack of howling animals!¡±


    The young man and the rest of his gang laughed. They sat about on the tables, cackling like a murder of metal-garbed crows. Requar scowled at them, then turned back to the man in front of him and started forward again. ¡°Excuse me...¡±


    The other man held his place until the very last possible moment, then stepped aside, but Requar didn''t hesitate. He had just reached the door when the young man spoke again.


    ¡°Oh, by the way¡­ you wouldn''t happen to know anything about a silver-eyed boy, by any chance?¡±


    Requar froze, his hand on the wooden door. Slowly, he turned around. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°A silver-eyed boy,¡± the man went on, moving back towards his gang. ¡°Drags an unnatural Winter around with him wherever he goes, like a great vicious dog on a lead.¡± He reached the wall and leaned against it. ¡°Friend of yours? Or a relation, maybe?¡±


    ''''What do you know of this?¡± Requar asked, staring at him intensely.


    ¡°Me?¡± The cocky young man spread his arms in mock-ignorance. ¡°What would I know? I''m just another howling animal!¡±


    On cue, several of his gang imitated howling beasts.


    Disgusted, Requar pushed through the door and stalked out into the summer night.


    As soon as the sorcerer was gone, Eltorian Nightwalker called to one of his Bladeshifters, a small woman with short dark hair and a fringe that fell across her face. ¡°Darkstar!¡± he snapped his fingers and pointed. ¡°Tail him!''


    With a quick nod, the young woman slipped around the tables and out through the tavern door, like a cat into the night.


    Nightwalker let out a long breath and finally allowed himself to relax. Fishing inside his jacket, he withdraw some black leaves and rolled them up, then lit them with a piece of flint and the edge of his knife. ¡°Grim,¡± he said, letting out a puff of smoke, ¡°you alright?¡±


    The big red-bearded man was standing near the cracked wall, gripping his axe and glaring at the door as though longing for another go at the sorcerer''s head. ¡°Aye,¡± he growled through clenched teeth.


    Nightwalker rested his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. Where the hell did that guy COME from?! he thought, shocked, in the privacy of his own mind. The clothing he wore looked like it might have been fashionable about two hundred years ago. And why had he been trailing those pitiful hunters, trying to protect them? Why did he care?


    He had said he was a healer, but something about him didn''t measure up. He seemed too alert, his reflexes far too quick, as though he was used to fighting. Sure, his magic might give him superhuman senses, but¡­


    He''s killed people, Nightwalker thought. There was a dark shade to his blue eyes that no amount of magic could hide.


    And he knows about the boy with silver eyes.


    Eltorian''s baiting had worked. This guy knew about the Winter. Perhaps that was the real reason he was in the area? Searching for Ferrian? Well, Nightwalker thought with a smirk, you just missed him.


    For a moment, Nightwalker amused himself with the idea of letting the sorcerer go after Ferrian and the Freeroamers, just to see what would happen, but then dismissed the thought.


    Nightwalker didn''t feel comfortable with this guy roaming around on Bladeshifter turf, especially if he was inclined to interfere in Bladeshifter affairs. He''d very nearly ruined the evening''s entertainment, only redeeming himself by throwing Grim across the tavern, which was possibly the most hilarious thing that Nightwalker had ever seen.


    He puffed on his weed, and coughed. No, something had to be done about that sorcerer. Magic or no, he''d harmed a Bladeshifter, and that meant he''d signed a contract for his own extermination.


    Eltorian wasn''t stupid, and he wasn''t crazy, but what fun was life if you couldn''t poke at the fire?


    Of course, he wasn''t going to be the one to do it¡­


    Turning his head, he looked at one of his men, a short, stocky man standing by the window, staring out into the darkness as though trying to see where the sorcerer had gone. He wore a large, wide-brimmed hat on his head and an enormous crossbow on his back, which he had nicknamed the Justifier.


    ¡°Flint,¡± he said, smiling, as smoke curled up from his fingers, ¡°how would you like to assassinate a sorcerer?¡±

 Chapter Eleven

    Danger looms in different guises


    Beware of unforeseen surprises.


    Dawn stretched out, rosy and warm, across the Arlen plains. Forthwhite was long lost to view, but several huge lumps could be seen scattered in the golden haze on the distant horizon. Hillbeasts, moving surely but imperceptibly about on the plain.


    Ferrian watched them from the fringe of trees where they had made camp for the night. Commander Trice had not wanted to ride too close to the giant beasts; they were not aggressive but each of their six legs was as thick as a horse was long, and their eyesight was so poor that they were oblivious to their surroundings. But Aari had flown up and sat on the grassy back of one of them as it plodded along with enormous, interminably slow steps. The others had easily outpaced him on their horses.


    The Angel had enthusiastically told Ferrian all about hillbeasts for the remainder of the afternoon, about how they spent most of their time with their great, flat heads buried in the ground, chewing up dirt and anything that lived in the dirt. Huge patches of crunched-up ground were left behind whenever they moved on.


    Ferrian looked around. Birds twittered brightly in the trees, but otherwise, he was the first one awake. Even the sun had not yet risen above the far distant horizon, but its light was just beginning to ignite the tips of the grey Barlakk Mountains behind him.


    Stretching, he got up and wandered over to a small stream that trickled through the grove of trees from out of the foothills. For a change, he felt in good spirits. He felt as though a massive weight of snow had been lifted from him, as though the Winter had incredibly retreated into a distant memory rather than an ever-present threat.


    He knew the Winter was still there, of course. It was always there, chasing him if he lingered too long in one spot or too darkly in the same thoughts. But he was keeping ahead of it and now there was a chance ¨C a slim one, but still a chance ¨C that he might be able to do something about it.


    At last, he had found a sense of purpose: no longer wandering aimlessly about the countryside, this time he was travelling for a reason.


    And he was travelling with people who believed they could help him.


    Ferrian shook his head. That was what astonished him most of all.


    He reached the stream and listened to the gurgle of the water as it flowed over the rocks. From behind him, he could hear the sounds of the others coming awake; Aari yawned loudly. Off to his right in the trees, the horses snuffed.


    Ferrian bent and dipped his hands into the pleasantly cool waters, splashing some on his face. He was just dipping his hands back in when he noticed something odd.


    He pulled his left hand back out of the water, and stared at it. It looked very pale, for some reason. He frowned. Then he shrugged, and splashed some more water on his face.


    When he opened his eyes again, his hand was glowing.


    He looked around himself, but he was not crouching in any patches of sunlight. He looked back, and the first faint stirrings of fear began to emerge.


    He swallowed heavily and quickly dunked his hands back in the water. He kept them that way for a moment, then brought them slowly back out.


    Ferrian¡¯s eyes went wide. His heart began to beat faster.


    His hands looked as though they were shining with some kind of inner light. In fact, he could make out the silhouette of his bones through the skin...


    "What the...?" he whispered.


    "Hey there, Ferrian!" someone said from behind him. Ferrian almost jumped out of his skin. He splashed his hands back down into the water.


    He looked over his shoulder. Aari came up behind him, carrying a tin pot.


    "Uh.... hey, Aari," Ferrian replied, carefully keeping his hands hidden in the stream.


    Aari knelt down at the stream and scooped up some water in the pot. He glanced over at Ferrian, and his brow creased.


    "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look kind of... pale."


    Ferrian kept his gaze on his submerged hands. "Uh, yes, fine," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Just, er... washing my hands..." He sloshed some water around for effect.


    Aari hesitated a moment longer before slowly standing up with the container of water. "Oh. Well, okay then," he said, and walked off back to the camp.


    Ferrian watched him go, and let his breath out in a rush. Cautiously, he looked back at his hands.


    The eerie glow had gone.


    Ferrian stared at his dripping hands for a moment longer, as if to make sure the glow was truly gone. After several long seconds with no sign of a repeat occurrence, Ferrian felt his heart begin to slow a little.


    He looked up at the sky instinctively. It was perfectly clear. Sunlight was spilling across the ground now, and streaming through the trees. There was no noticeable change in the temperature of the air, although his insides had turned to icicles.


    He glanced back at the camp. Aari had lit a small fire and was boiling water, and Grisket and Sirannor were talking quietly. The others didn¡¯t seem to have noticed anything unusual.


    he thought.


    he told himself firmly.


    They continued to ride on for the rest of the day, now shaded from the glaring sun by gently rustling, sweet-smelling forest. Ferrian, like the Hillbeasts, barely noticed his surroundings. He tried to focus on the glinting leaves or the puffs of dust that rose from the horses'' hooves, but was unable to keep from stealing glances at his hands every now and then when no one was looking.


    The mysterious glow, however, did not return.


    Ferrian tried not to think about it; tried to tell himself it was nothing. But hands didn¡¯t just start glowing for no reason, and he found that his mind kept wandering back to what had happened that morning at the stream.


    been fully awake. He had not imagined it. The glow had been real. But if he hadn''t imagined it, then surely it must


    . He¡¯d lived with the Winter for his whole life, or as much of it as he could remember, and he had never experienced any kind of weird glow or other magical side-effects before, not even when the Winter was at it''s darkest and coldest.


    The possibility worried Ferrian, and his insides remained cold and twisted, but he kept his thoughts carefully to himself, and his companions were none the wiser.


    On their fourth day out from Forthwhite they were well into the foothills, following the main road to Merinriver Break. The road was wide and dusty, curving and undulating over the forested slopes. The traffic was much heavier here; it was the most well-used route connecting the Outlands to the Coastlands and they frequently passed other travellers and merchant wagons. Ferrian kept his hood up despite the heat, but Commander Trice had not been wrong about the uniform: no one caught his gaze.


    Ferrian rode behind Commander Trice, with Captain Sirannor a little way behind. Sergeant Aari drifted lazily through the air above the treetops ahead of them. The day was peaceful and warm, a gentle breeze rustling the long grasses on either side of the road.


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    Then, without the slightest hint of warning, a blinding bolt of white light shot directly out of the middle of Ferrian¡¯s chest.


    Sirannor''s head jerked up at the flash of light, and he yelled in surprise. Grisket turned at the Captain''s shout and spun his horse in a whirl of dust.


    The first bolt was followed almost immediately by dozens of others, streaming out of Ferrian in every direction and from every part of his body.


    Ferrian did not utter a sound, he simply toppled slowly off his horse to the ground.


    Grisket and Sirannor reined in their horses and leapt to the ground. Aari hit the ground at a run, racing to the scene. The light was so brilliant that the men had to shield their eyes with their hands as they made their way towards Ferrian.


    And then, as suddenly as it had appeared ¨C the light vanished.


    Grisket reached Ferrian first and dropped to his side in the dust. "Ferrian!" he yelled. "Are you all right?"


    Ferrian lay on his back on the ground, feeling bewildered. For a moment he was so astonished he forgot to answer. Then slowly he looked down at his body. He didn¡¯t seem to be hurt at all, and he couldn¡¯t feel any pain.


    "I... think... so..." he said slowly.


    Captain Sirannor and Aari came racing up. "What happened?" Sirannor said as he dropped down at Ferrian¡¯s other side. Grisket and Sirannor helped him to sit up.


    Ferrian¡¯s mouth moved, but he couldn¡¯t seem to find any words. "I... I... don¡¯t know!" he finally stuttered. His breath came out in a white puff.


    It was then they all noticed that the air around them had gone icy cold.


    Aari crouched beside Commander Trice and touched the ground with his fingers. It was covered in a thin, shimmering layer of frost.


    "Oh no," Ferrian moaned. "The Winter!"


    All four of them looked to the sky.


    It remained a perfect blue bowl, with nothing more threatening than a couple of eagles circling lazily in the summer air.


    "Still clear," Aari said with undisguised relief. He turned to Ferrian. "Are you hurt?"


    Ferrian shook his head. He was still in shock. He couldn¡¯t quite believe what had just happened.


    "There was no pain. It just felt kind of.... weird," he replied. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat and looked down at his hands, and shuddered at the memory. "Like all of my bones and muscles were quivering."


    "Has anything like this ever happened to you before?" Grisket asked suddenly.


    Ferrian shook his head again. Then he bit his lip, and looked down at the ground. "Actually, there¡¯s something I should tell you..." he said quietly.


    "What¡¯s that?"


    "Yesterday morning, back at the stream..." He took a deep breath. "My hands were glowing."


    Everyone stared at him in surprise. "Yesterday morning?" Grisket repeated incredulously. "And you never thought to tell us?"


    "I didn¡¯t want to worry you!" Ferrian said.


    "You could¡¯ve killed us!" Grisket said angrily, almost yelling.


    Grisket glowered for a moment. "No. No, I suppose you¡¯re right," he grumbled reluctantly.


    "I think we should find this sorcerer as soon as possible," Sirannor said suddenly.


    Commander Trice growled, then pushed himself to his feet. He glanced up and down the road, but they had been lucky: there was no one else in sight.


    The frost on the ground had rapidly melted away in the heat.


    The Commander leaned down and helped Ferrian to his feet, then stalked over to his horse. ¡°Lets keep moving.¡±


    They had just remounted and Aari had pushed off into the air when a rider appeared on the slope ahead. Catching sight of them, the rider spurred his horse into a gallop and came to a halt in a cloud of dust before Commander Trice. He carried a satchel and looked like a courier. ¡°Freeroamers?¡± he asked.


    ¡°


    ¡°The road ahead is blocked, Sir,¡± the man continued, pointing up the road.


    ¡°What?¡± Grisket said. ¡°What''s happened?¡±


    ¡°


    ¡°¡± Grisket exclaimed. ¡°The Break is part of Outland territory. The Coastland border ends in the Barlakk foothills on the western side. They''ve no right to charge a toll!¡±


    ¡°


    ¡°One gruble.¡±


    ¡° ¡± Grisket was furious. ¡°Bah!¡± He made a fist and swiped it in the air. ¡°Thanks for letting us know,¡± he growled at the courier.


    The man nodded and continued down the road at a gallop.


    The four of them watched him go in dismay.


    ¡°


    Grisket growled. ¡°We don''t have time for this! We don''t have time to mess around with the damned Watch! We can''t afford the delay!¡±


    Ferrian was lost in memories. The last time he had passed this way, he was a young boy, travelling with the gypsies. They had been delayed too, trapped at the head of Merinriver Break. That was when old Meriya had been forced to lead him outside into the raging snow, to abandon him¡­


    ¡°


    He looked up at them. ¡°Perhaps we could¡­ just pay the toll?¡±


    ¡°


    ¡±


    They all fell into a frustrated silence. The horses snorted, restless.


    ¡°There is another way,¡± Sirannor said quietly.


    They looked up at the Captain in surprise.


    "Well,¡± Grisket said after a moment, ¡°let¡¯s hear it, man!"


    Sirannor looked solemnly at their expectant faces. "Contrary to popular belief,¡± he said, ¡°Merinriver Break is not the only pass through the Barlakks."


    "What?" Ferrian said in surprise.


    "There is another," Sirannor continued. "It''s called Demon Heights."


    "How do you know this?" Aari asked.


    Sirannor''s look was stern. "I was in the army once, remember? The army knows a great many things that are kept hidden from the general population."


    Grisket raised an eyebrow, and folded his arms across his chest. "Really? Such as...?"


    "Such as this hidden pass through the mountains," Sirannor replied.


    "Why didn¡¯t you mention this before?" Ferrian asked.


    Sirannor was silent for a long moment. "I have... good reasons for not telling you," he replied. "I hoped never to have to use it except in the direst of circumstances. It is up to Ferrian to decide whether the current situation calls for such risk-taking."


    "And what risks would those be?" the Commander asked.


    Sirannor sighed. He turned and stared off into the sunlit trees. "Why do you think they call it Demon Heights?"


    There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the wind rustling through the long grass and the tumbling of a few dry leaves across the road. No one said anything. Finally, Ferrian stated the obvious: "Er¡­ There¡¯s demons there?"


    "Precisely."


    Grisket and Aari exchanged glances. "What, you¡¯re serious?" Grisket said. "Captain, there¡¯s no such..."


    "Commander, there are. I¡¯ve seen them myself."


    Grisket stared at him. Sirannor matched his gaze unblinkingly.


    "When I was in the army," Sirannor explained, "Before I was assigned to the Middle Isle, I was part of a small reconnaissance team. We had only just discovered the existence of Demon Heights back then, and at first we thought it was a Godsend. Travelling through this new pass could cut the journey from Sunsee to the Outlands by half.


    "My team was the second team of soldiers to use the pass. The first had disappeared mysteriously a few weeks earlier, and we were sent in to discover what had become of them. The army Commander put it down to bad weather, or Outlander rebel groups or any number of unfortunate accidents.


    "No-one attributed the disappearance to the pass itself."


    He stared intently into the trees, his hard grey eyes becoming unfocused, clouded over with the memories he was relating. "The pass was reached via a steep path cut into the side of a cliff," he went on. "At first, everything went according to plan. We ascended the cliff path, and started along a narrow cleft that ran forwards from the cliff top. It was then that we saw them.


    "At first we thought they were just a trick of the light, a play of shadows against the rocks. But when they swarmed down the rock walls and attacked us, we knew they were very real indeed.


    "The demons were all over us in a matter of seconds. Twisted, grey, wraith-like creatures, one minute they were solid; the next as insubstantial as smoke. We drew our swords and struck out at the demons, and sometimes we seemed to hit them, and other times our blades appeared to go right through them.


    "We couldn¡¯t fight them. How could we fight against creatures like that? In the end, we had no choice but to run.


    "We fled along the cleft, with the demons pursuing us. They covered the distance between us not like ordinary creatures, but through the air - like drifting smoke - and had caught up with us in a matter of moments.


    "I fled along the pathway as fast as my legs could carry me. I did not know how many of my comrades were left behind, or how close the demons were; I heard no screams or cries as I ran, just fewer and fewer footsteps pounding the earth behind me.


    "The cleft eventually ended in a tunnel that ran beneath a lake. I bolted into the tunnel, and it was only when I had run its entire length and out the other end that I turned and discovered I was alone. There was no sign of the demons, and no one else emerged from the tunnel after me.


    "It was then I realised I was the only survivor.


    "When I finally got back to the army, I related all that had happened in the pass, and I was sworn to secrecy not to tell another soul. The army never sent another team through that pass, and it has remained a secret all these years."


    Sirannor lapsed into a long silence then; his tale finished. The four men stood in the middle of the road, patches of midday sun beating down on their heads, but none of them felt its warmth. There was a chill in the air, and it stemmed from more than Ferrian¡¯s magic.


    Aari shook his head finally. "But how can we use this pass? If your team were all killed by these demons, what makes you think the four of us would fare any better?"


    Captain Sirannor sighed: the sound of dried leaves being crunched in a fist. "I have contemplated the events of that day many, many times since, and I still have no explanation of what the demon-wraiths were or why they attacked us. I am not suggesting that this is the most suitable course of action, I am merely offering you my knowledge of an alternative route.


    "Sounds like a suicide mission to me," Grisket said gruffly. He shook his head.


    They all fell into a dark, brooding silence. Finally, Grisket looked up at Ferrian. "Ferrian, I may be Commander here, but this is your mission. What do you think?"


    Ferrian had been silently thinking about all that Captain Sirannor had said while the others had been talking. Something strange was happening to him. He could sense something changing inside him, and he didn¡¯t understand it, and he was terrified of what it might mean for him and for his companions.


    He looked up into all their faces. "Four days ago we were back in Forthwhite and I thought I had some control over the Winter. I thought I could at least predict when it was going to happen. But now... now I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening to me." He could feel a knot of despair and desperation forming in his throat, and he forced it away with an effort. He took a breath to steady himself. "I think," he went on, "that if I don¡¯t find a sorcerer soon, a lot more people¡¯s lives are going to be at risk than just ours."


    He fell silent for a moment, letting his words sink into their minds. "If Captain Sirannor believes there is a chance - some chance, any chance - that we could make it past these demons, I think we should trust him. After all, he¡¯s been there and seen them first hand."


    Commander Trice turned and stared scowling off into the distance for a long time, considering Ferrian''s words.


    Finally, he turned back, and looked at them all in turn. "In that case," he said, "it''s decided. We will take the path through Demon Heights."

 Chapter Twelve

    A terror none of them could see


    On Demon Heights shall demons be.


    Ferrian stared in trepidation at the steep path that wound up between the rocks. The morning sun laid a warm hand upon his back, but whether to comfort or give him a push towards doom, he wasn''t sure.


    , he thought.


    Footsteps crunched on the loose scree littering the base of the trail, and Captain Sirannor appeared quietly at Ferrian''s side. Behind him, Grisket and Aari emerged from the scrubby trees.


    Sirannor had been forced to hack a path for them through the dense undergrowth; there was no path from the main road and they had followed animal trails where they could, but it was tough going. It had taken them two days on foot: before leaving the road, Grisket had waved down a passing traveller and paid him to take their horses back to Forthwhite and relay a message to the Guard House about the situation at Merinriver Break. Now here they all stood, tired and scratched, the Commander grumbling and brushing twigs and leaves off his hat. Ferrian stared up at the formidable grey wall of the Barlakks, at a faint, crude path that had been hacked into the rocks who knew how many years ago. Above him, clouds drifted in a deep blue sky over the lofty peaks, like flying sheep.


    "Worrying only makes the path ahead seem darker," Sirannor said softly.


    Surprised, Ferrian glanced at the Captain. "Is that some kind of Freeroamer motto?" he asked.


    The old man didn''t reply, just stepped forward and started climbing into the boulders.


    Wordlessly, Ferrian and the others followed.


    They climbed steadily for the next four hours. The path was tortuously steep and overgrown, barely more civilised than the animal trails, in fact. It was clear that no one had been this way in a very long time. It was slow going, especially with the hot morning sun blazing down upon their black-coloured uniforms. At first the occasional gnarled tree provided scattered patches of shade, but the higher up they went, the thinner the vegetation became. Soon all they could see were ancient lichen-speckled boulders hugging the path on either side, with clumps of prickly alpine bushes hunkering in the crevices and the occasional patch of paper daisies bobbing in the cool breeze.


    Sergeant Aari, being fortunate enough to possess wings, reached the summit well ahead of the others. Alighting on a rocky plateau at the top of the path, he looked out first at the breathtaking vista that dropped away behind them into the haze of the Arlen Plains, and then at the sparkling sight that lay before him.


    A massive blue lake spread out just below him, filling a bowl between the arms of two gigantic rocky peaks. The sheer grey sides of the cliffs rose around the edges of the lake, and beyond them, still higher peaks soared to dizzying, snow-crusted heights into the crystal blue of the midday sky. Sunlight played on the surface of the water in dazzling sparkles, as though he were witnessing a secret dance between light and water, up here on this lonely mountain.


    The breeze was cool and thin, ruffling his copper hair. It was a stunning scene, but despite the beauty, Aari could not help but feel that something was amiss.


    Around him, the landscape was alive with light and wind and the soft rustling of plants, but otherwise, nothing stirred. No birds of prey wheeled above these peaks. No insects droned in the grasses or buzzed through the air. Gone were the tiny blue lizards which had scuttled over the rocks in their dozens down below.


    There didn''t seem to be any kind of animal life up here at all.


    And the air felt... dry and ¡­ odd.


    A strange chill passed through Aari; the breeze that brushed his hair and feathers had a dark taint to it, like an odious smell that bypassed his nostrils and went straight to his gut.


    It was as though the mountains themselves were watching him, lying in wait. The huge peaks around him suddenly took on the shape of enormous claws.


    The demon-wraiths, They''re here. Somewhere.


    A little while later, the others struggled up the path behind him; Captain Sirannor in the lead, Ferrian following, and Commander Trice bringing up the rear. One by one they stopped and stared in wonderment as they waited for their breathing to return to normal, beholding the magnificent but eerie scene before them.


    "Demon Heights," Sirannor announced softly as he stared out over the lake. There was a sad, distant look in his eyes.


    ¡°


    Aari nodded, and said nothing. Sirannor walked forward to the edge of the rise and looked down.


    Aari followed his gaze. A couple of small cairns led the way down the rocky slope, leading to a rough-hewn, pitch-black tunnel entrance, gouged into the soil below the surface of the lake like the burrow of some massive animal.


    Staring at the tunnel, Aari shivered again.


    Sirannor started forward without a word. Reluctantly, the others followed.


    At the entrance to the tunnel, the Captain picked up a piece of deadwood and bound the end with a rag as the others crowded around, peering uncomfortably into the deep blackness. Moss clung thickly about the entrance, dripping.


    "The tunnel runs for about a mile, as far as I can guess," the Captain told them in a lowered voice. "After that, a narrow cleft for about five hundred yards, with several twists and turns.


    do


    Sirannor lit the torch with his knife and a matchstick from a little flat tin he kept in his pocket. When it had caught alight, he lifted it in his left hand and stepped into the tunnel. One by one, the others followed.


    Aari, who was last, hesitated on the threshold. In the darkness before him, Ferrian turned. "What''s wrong?"


    "Ah¡­ nothing,¡± Aari could feel his heart hammering at the sight of the cold, inky pool that had swallowed the others. He glanced at the sky, at the fluffy clouds drifting high and bright in the sun.


    ¡°


    The moss-strewn entrance was replaced in his mind by another tunnel, square-edged, far distant. And another friend, venturing ahead of him into the darkness, torch to light the way, just as Sirannor was now doing.


    Not again.


    Determined, he stepped forward into the shadows.


    Aari tried to concentrate on the glimmer of Sirannor''s torch, but his eyes kept wandering to the shadows flickering on the walls of the tunnel. The bright white circle of the entrance had gradually dwindled to a tiny hole, then finally disappeared altogether around a slight curve in the tunnel. Now the orange flame of the torch was the only source of light. Before them and behind them lay nothing but utter blackness.


    that


    The walls of the tunnel were made of hard-packed soil and stones, and appeared to have indeed been made by some kind of massive burrowing animal rather than Human hands. The tunnel did not run perfectly straight, but wove from side to side in a regular, undulating way.


    For a short while, Aari managed to distract himself by wondering what kind of gigantic beast had passed through here, but the thought was not exactly reassuring.


    A thin trickle of silt drifted down; shimmering dully in the torchlight, dislodged by the vibrations of their passing.


    Aari stared up at the disturbingly low ceiling, trying unsuccessfully not to think about what lay above it.


    a voice whispered to him morbidly.


    He looked quickly away, feeling a sharp spike of panic stab into his chest. He tried closing his eyes, but that only made things worse; darkness engulfed him and he felt the hard, heavy walls slowly closing in around him, intent on crushing the air out of his lungs¡­


    He opened his eyes with a jerk; his breath coming fast and ragged, but the walls had not moved.


    he scolded himself angrily. It''s juste


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    anything ¨C


    He had an overwhelming urge to be outside again, to stretch his wings wide, to feel the wind rippling through his feathers, to soar through the clear air with nothing above him but eternity, and nothing around him but sunlight...


    He prayed that they did not have much further to go.


    They had been walking for about ten minutes when Ferrian gradually became aware of a soft, strained noise behind him. It sounded like someone quietly struggling for breath.


    Ferrian turned to look over his shoulder. Aari was lagging several paces back, almost out of reach of the torchlight.


    Ferrian stopped, sensing something was wrong.


    "Are you all right, Aari?" he asked, turning around fully. When the Angel did not reply, Ferrian frowned anxiously and walked back to him.


    As he approached, he could see that Aari''s face was pale and glittering with sweat, and he was visibly shaking. He also appeared to be having trouble breathing. "I''m... all right..." Aari panted. "Keep... walking¡­"


    Further down the tunnel, Grisket and Sirannor paused and turned at the sound of their voices. Grisket walked back to them. "Sergeant," he said, a concerned look on his face. "Are you all right?"


    "I''m fine!" Aari insisted, but there was an unmistakable quaver in his voice. "I just need... some fresh air."


    "You should have told us you were claustrophobic," Ferrian said.


    Grisket put his hands on his hips. "Right. And I''m not Commander of the Freeroamers." He turned to Sirannor. "Captain, how far have we got to go?"


    The Captain''s eyes were cool stones amidst the shifting orange and black shadows. He glanced back into the darkness that shrouded their destination. "I cannot be certain of the exact distance," he replied in his usual calm, quiet voice. "Though I would estimate no more than three hundred yards."


    Grisket nodded. Then he patted Aari reassuringly on the shoulder. "Hang in there, lad. If this is the worst you have to face today, consider yourself blessed."


    They resumed walking. Ferrian continued at a slower pace, glancing over his shoulder often to make sure Aari was not falling behind. The winged man looked completely miserable.


    Ferrian felt sorry for him. He was an Angel, after all. He was used to complete freedom. It must be terrifying for someone who had lived their entire life in the open air to be suddenly enclosed beneath the ground like this.


    He could understand Aari''s fear, but he did not share it, however. He had never had a problem with confined spaces. Or spiders, or heights, or any of those strange little things that people were normally afraid of. They all seemed so trivial compared to the Winter.


    Ferrian stared gloomily at the shadows of his companions on the wall beside him: long and angular; constantly dancing to the silent tune of the torches'' flame. Every tunnel eventually comes to an end, he thought. Spiders can be squashed. You can climb down from high places.


    But the Winter was always there. Running from it was like trying to run from your own shadow: impossible. Wherever he went, whatever he did, the Winter was always there, following. Cold and silent and huge...


    Ferrian was immersed in dark thoughts of snow and ice and white light, when he heard someone call out his name. He blinked and looked around.


    Aari was standing a couple of paces back with a look of pale terror on his face. "Your... hand..." he said breathlessly, raising a trembling arm and pointing.


    Ferrian lifted his hand and felt a wave of sickeningly familiar dread wash through him. There, once again, was the strange white light: the internal glow so fierce he could clearly see the skeleton of his hand. "Oh no..." he sighed. "Not a¨C¡±


    This time it happened so suddenly he didn''t even have time to finish the sentence. Brilliant white light exploded into the tunnel, almost blinding Aari. The light rapidly intensified, becoming so bright it was as though a shard of the sun had dropped upon them out of nowhere.


    And then, just as before, it vanished.


    Ferrian staggered against the wall. For several moments he could see nothing but a swarm of brightly coloured shapes swimming before his eyes.


    Aari slowly removed his arm from his eyes and straightened, blinking. For a long moment there was silence as everyone waited for their night vision to return.


    "Ferrian..." he heard Commander Trice say through the floating shapes. "I''m... all right..." Ferrian replied, though his voice came out smaller and weaker than he had intended. He was now shaking as hard as Sergeant Aari.


    It was then they all noticed a slight tremor ripple through the floor and walls around them. Dust floated down from the ceiling and the pebbles on the floor rattled. Then that, too faded away.


    "What was that?" Ferrian whispered after a moment. He noticed that the air on his face had become icy, and the tunnel around him was strewn with glittering white frost like a giant crystal cobweb. But there hadn''t been a tremor last time, had there?


    "Another effect of your magic, perhaps?" Sirannor said quietly.


    "Well whatever it was, it didn''t sound good," Commander Trice said, looking around darkly. "In my opinion, the sooner we get out of here the better: demons or no." He hitched his pack further up his shoulders and turned back to face Captain Sirannor. "Let''s keep moving," he said.


    Ferrian pushed himself away from the wall and was about to start after Commander Trice when he noticed Aari standing still as ice in the middle of the path. The Angel''s shoulders were hunched and his eyes were wide, like an animal poised to flee. He was hardly daring to breathe.


    "It''s okay, Aari," Ferrian said, as much to reassure himself as the Angel. "It''s over now. We don''t have far to go."


    Aari did not move or speak. He was frozen with terror. The tremor had pushed his already slipping resolve over the edge.


    Ferrian looked back anxiously at the silhouettes of Grisket and Sirannor moving away down the tunnel. "You don''t want to be left behind in the dark, do you?" he tried.


    This statement had the desired effect: Aari''s breath quickened and he took a shaky step forward.


    Another tremor quivered along the tunnel: this one stronger than before. A clump of soil fell from the ceiling and bounced off one of Aari''s wings. Further clumps detached themselves from the walls. Aari gave a small cry and grabbed Ferrian''s shoulder, his fingers digging in like claws. Grisket and Sirannor halted in alarm. The four of them stood tensely and waited until the tremor had died away.


    "We should keep moving," Sirannor said in the breathless pause that followed, and this time there was urgency in his voice.


    They were more than willing to comply. Their muted footsteps were soft thumps on the packed dirt of the floor, all echoes were eaten hungrily by the thick, hard soil.


    The second tremor had finally jerked Aari into action. He now hurried along behind Ferrian so closely that he kept stepping on Ferrian''s heels. Ferrian could hear the Angel''s rapid, shaky breathing in his ear, which was doing nothing to calm his own jolted nerves.


    Ferrian could feel the beginnings of a huge, dark panic rising inside him. The tremors had only started after that explosion of magic. The magic must have dislodged something, or disturbed some kind of fragile balance...


    A wrenching horror gripped his chest.


    what it felt like to be claustrophobic.


    Yet another tremor shook the tunnel, this time hard enough to make them stumble. Dirt rained down on their heads. Aari cried out again and Ferrian''s breath froze in his lungs as he cringed in fear: but nothing more than dirt and stones fell down. His heart racing, Ferrian stumbled forwards once more.


    "Is everyone all right?" he heard Commander Trice call from somewhere ahead.


    "Y-yes," Ferrian called back hoarsely.


    They hurried on. Aari''s fingers were now curled into the sleeve of his tunic in a death grip. The Angel''s breath was coming in jerky gasps. He was almost sobbing in terror.


    They proceeded down the tunnel at a fast walk, though Ferrian broke into a jog every few steps in order to keep up with Grisket and Sirannor. For the next few minutes there were no more tremors. Ferrian kept his eyes on the darkness ahead, straining to see past the glare of Sirannor''s torch.


    We must be near the end by now,


    And then, at last, he caught a glimpse of something ahead. In fact, he had been staring at it for quite a while without realising what it was.


    A tiny, faint grey patch floated amidst the inky blackness, slowly growing bigger and brighter as they drew near. A surge of adrenaline burned through his veins as he recognised it for what it was. The exit was in sight.


    A sudden sharp hissing noise broke the silence of the tunnel and caused them all to jump.


    Captain Sirannor whirled, whipping a sinister-looking sabre from beneath his long coat in a single, fluid movement before locating the source of the sound.


    They all froze in horror.


    A thin, clear stream of water was hanging from the ceiling like a silver thread. The sound had been caused when it hit Sirannor''s torch.


    They stood staring at the glittering water for long heartbeats as if spellbound. Ferrian managed to wrench his eyes away from the leak long enough to glance at the wall beside him. Dark patches were seeping down its side like blood.


    "Run," Sirannor said simply, and he turned and sprinted down the tunnel.


    Clumps of dirt and stones scattered across the company''s path as their footsteps pounded on the floor of the tunnel. Sirannor''s sword flashed in the darkness and his torch flickered crazily as he ran, sending orange and black shadows skittering over the arching walls.


    Aari raced behind Ferrian, his breath coming in strained gasps. There had been more heavy thumps following the first one, and now the tunnel shook steadily, the vibrations echoing up through the soles of his boots and quivering his bones.


    The tremors and the crumbling walls were bad enough, but worse was the muffled rumbling noise: like the distant growl of a massive animal, which was becoming frighteningly louder with each thump of his overworked heart.


    Aari struggled to keep up with Ferrian, but the distance between them was perceptibly lengthening.


    In the air, he could outfly the wind, but Angels were not built for speed over solid ground, and he was tiring quickly. Already he could feel a stitch jabbing his side, but he ignored the pain.


    He could feel tears of pure terror sliding coldly down his cheeks and neck, and a tiny, faint voice in the back of his mind was telling him he ought to be ashamed of himself, he was a Freeroamer... but the rest of his mind was so full of wild panic that he didn''t care. He didn''t even care if the demons killed him the minute he set foot in the pass: he just wanted so badly to be out of this hideous tunnel.


    , Aari thought.


    The rumbling behind him had increased to a dull roar. The skin on Aari''s back prickled as he sensed something looming up behind him, but he dared not turn around. The pain in his side was now tearing through all the limbs in his body, but he gritted his teeth hard and forced himself to go on.


    Through tear-streaked eyes, he could see the light of the outside world shining on the walls of the tunnel. Beyond the circle great walls of rock towered into the sky, grey and bright in the afternoon sun.


    The roar had now become chillingly recognisable. It was the sound of water thundering through the tunnel.


    Sirannor flew out of the tunnel and threw himself onto a ledge of rock by the side of the path. Seconds later, Grisket leapt into a cluster of boulders on the opposite side. Ferrian and Aari were still several paces back. Grisket leaned out into the path and urged them on.


    Water splashed beneath Aari''s boots. He clenched his fists and poured every ounce of strength he had left into his wailing legs. He could feel the water now, rushing up behind him, racing him, determined to snatch him up in its foamy fingers...


    Ferrian raced out of the tunnel and scrambled into the boulders beside the path. Grisket caught his arm and hauled him up. On the other side of the path, Sirannor crouched forward on the edge of the rocky shelf, ready to catch Aari as soon as he emerged.


    Breathing heavily, Ferrian leaned forward with Grisket and waited for Aari anxiously. "Come on, lad!" Grisket yelled. "You''re nearly there!"


    , he repeated in his mind.


    Sergeant Aari staggered out of the tunnel, feeling the hot sun on his face at last, and made a grab for Sirannor''s outstretched hand¡­


    He was too slow.


    The massive wave of water that had been gaining momentum as it roared down the tunnel smashed into the Angel like a predator finally bringing down its prey, and in the next second there was nothing but churning brown foam as water spewed from the tunnel and rushed down the narrow cleft, sweeping away everything in its path.


    Sirannor screamed, his voice ringing off the mountain rock, its echoes engulfed by the booming crash of the water.


    Aari was gone.

 Chapter Thirteen

    Broken stone brings broken tears


    In silence shall the truth ring clear.


    Ferrian slumped down onto a boulder, staring at the mass of water churning past. His thoughts felt paralysed. He couldn''t believe what had happened. His mind refused to accept it.


    Aari was gone. Just like that. Yet the Angel had been running right there behind him. Right there. Just seconds ago¡­


    Ferrian''s head spun and a fiery wave of nausea rose in his stomach. He kept staring dazedly at the water as if expecting Aari to resurface at any minute.


    Yet in his heart, he knew that Aari was dead. Sirannor had told them the path ended in a cliff. Even if by some miracle the Angel had not drowned, he would have been thrown over the edge. An overwhelming grief rushed through him, flooding his eyes with burning tears. Aari had been so afraid, so afraid¡­


    Across from him, Captain Sirannor still crouched on the rock ledge. His head was bowed, his face hidden in his long silver-white hair. He was as still and silent as the stone around him.


    Sirannor''s scream still echoed hauntingly in Ferrian''s mind. He had never heard such emotion in the Captain''s voice.


    Commander Trice was also motionless as he stood beside Ferrian, staring away down the shadowy cleft.


    For a long time, no one could bring themselves to speak or move. They were all too consumed by grief and horror.


    At last, Grisket stirred. He rubbed his bearded chin with his hand for a moment, still gazing off down the cleft. Then he said: "We can''t stay here," very slowly and carefully, as though making a great effort to keep his voice under control. Without waiting for anyone''s reply, he turned and started pulling himself up through the boulders, heading towards the lake.


    Sirannor rose silently and began climbing the rocks on the other side of the tunnel.


    Ferrian swallowed back his sadness and brushed his tears away with the palm of his hand. A sick, gnawing fear cut through the cloud of grief. Commander Trice was right. They had made it out of the tunnel, but they had not yet traversed the pass.


    The demon-wraiths were still waiting for them.


    He got to his feet shakily and quietly followed Commander Trice.


    Sunlight shimmered off the surface of the lake, dazzling their eyes as the three men clambered up onto the rocky shoreline. A thin, sandy beach lined the edge of the water. Far out on the surface, through the glare, they could make out a subtle movement as a large patch of water slowly swirled. Beneath that whirlpool, the lake was gradually emptying itself into the ruined tunnel.


    Around them, the mountains rose in sharp peaks, huge and oppressive. Here and there among the rocks, pine trees were scattered around in small clusters, as if huddled together for protection. But behind the trees, cliffs rose like fortress walls, sheer and impenetrable, all the way around the bowl of the valley. There was nothing to suggest another pass, and in the hazy distance to the left and right of them the cliffs dropped sharply into the water. They could not go back the way they had come without crossing the lake, and the only way forward was the now flooded cleft.


    They stood for a few moments in silence, letting the cool breeze soothe their weary faces. "We will need to make a raft," Captain Sirannor said quietly.


    Grisket unstrapped his pack from his shoulders and let it slip to the ground. Without a word, he withdrew a small hand-axe from his pack and headed for the nearest clump of pines.


    Ferrian removed his own pack and began rummaging in it for some rope. Sirannor did likewise.


    A tear dropped from Ferrian''s eye unbidden and splashed on his hand as he found what he was looking for, and he brushed at his face hastily with his sleeve. Sirannor glanced up.


    "Don''t blame yourself," he said in an uncharacteristically warm voice. "You are not responsible for what happened."


    Ferrian felt tears rise again, but this time, with an effort, he managed to hold them back. "How... how did you know what I was thinking?" he said quietly, staring at the coil of rope in his hands. He couldn''t bring himself to meet Sirannor''s eyes.


    Captain Sirannor did not reply. He merely withdrew an axe from his own pack and stood up. For a moment he just stood there, staring out at the lake. Then he sighed and shook his head. "Fate is a cruel, cruel Lady," he whispered, and walked off to help Commander Trice with the trees.


    For the next two or three hours they worked on the raft, sitting in the wickerwork shadows cast by the pine trees. Grisket had not said another word to them since leaving the cleft. He continued to make his way slowly along the shoreline, hacking at the trees, even when they had more than enough wood already.


    Ferrian and Sirannor sat on the ground in the pine needles and bound the logs together with rope. Ferrian glanced up from time to time at Commander Trice, ever more anxiously.


    "The Commander was very fond of Sergeant Aari," Sirannor said, as if by way of explanation for Grisket''s strange behaviour. "The Angel was like a son to him." He hesitated for a moment, and then added softly: "Like the two sons he lost."


    Ferrian paused and looked up, and a flash of sadness shot though him. He hadn''t known Commander Trice had had children. "He... had two sons?" Ferrian said, feeling suddenly guilty that he had never even asked if Grisket had any family. For some reason he had always assumed that he didn''t.


    "How did they die?" Ferrian whispered. He did not mean to sound insensitive, but he had a strange feeling that it was important, somehow.


    Captain Sirannor was silent for a long moment, working the binding around the logs, his face hard and weather-beaten as the pine wood. Finally, he looked up. He glanced over to where Commander Trice was viciously slaughtering a hapless pine, then back to Ferrian. He seemed to be debating whether or not to answer Ferrian''s question. Then at last he said, in a very low voice: "Sorcery."


    Ferrian stared at Sirannor wide-eyed, feeling his heart tighten into a cold knot at the word. Sirannor glanced up again to make sure that Grisket was well out of listening distance. "It happened sixteen years ago," he murmured. "He was travelling with his wife and two sons on the old road to Ness. They had recently spent a fortnight in Skywater on a fishing trip, and had decided on a whim to continue south to Ness to visit his wife''s mother, who lived there.


    "Night had fallen, and they were only two hours out from the town, when one of their wagon''s wheels came loose. They were forced to stop in the road for repairs.


    "Grisket was halfway through fixing the wheel; his wife and sons were still in the wagon, laughing and chatting about their fishing expedition. It was then that Grisket noticed a sound like faint thunder over a distant horizon. He paused in his work and looked up.


    "A black horse came thundering down the road, kicking up dust like a silver sandstorm and running as if its hooves were on fire. It was apparent immediately that the rider did not intend to stop, even though the wagon stood directly in its path, in the middle of the road.


    "Grisket leaped up and yelled at his family to get out of the wagon, but it was too late. The rider was bearing down on them impossibly fast. Yards from them, the black-clad rider lifted his arm and a bolt of amethyst lightning licked forth.


    "The bolt smashed into the wagon and shattered it to pieces, scattering everything with it across the road. Grisket was hurled several yards from the force of the impact. He managed to lift his head to see the rider hurtle through the debris without slowing and disappear into the night. Several more horses came galloping after him, followed later by a company of Griks, charging on foot down the road. Many dark shadows swept through the sky above them, obscuring the stars.


    "When the company had passed, Grisket struggled to his feet and ran to where the wagon had stood.


    "He found his family lying dead among the ruin. Those that hadn''t been killed by the initial blast had been trampled by the Griks."


    Sirannor was silent for a moment. "He fell to his knees beside the bodies of his wife and sons and wept for the remainder of the night. He was still kneeling there the next day, when the sun had risen high in the sky, and would perhaps have knelt there forever if it had not been for two young children, walking along the road alone from the direction of Ness. They stopped by him, and Grisket noticed that one of them, a girl in an oversized cloak, carried a tiny baby wrapped in rags.


    "She was not crying, but her face was marked where many tears had been shed. ''Did the sorcerer kill your family, too?'' she said to him.


    " ''What do you mean?'' " Grisket managed to reply, his voice choked by grief.


    ¡° ''All the people in Ness are dead,'' she said simply.


    "Grisket looked up at the children, and found the pain he felt mirrored in their young eyes. It was there that he also found the courage to go on. If children could find the strength to overcome despair, then so must he."


    Sirannor paused again, staring out at the lake, but finding no beauty in its glimmering surface. "Grisket formed the Freeroamers a year later, on the anniversary of his family''s death. There were no Watchmen in the Outlands at that time. Grisket believed there should be someone to stand up for honest, ordinary countryfolk: someone to protect them. Perhaps he could not protect them against sorcery, but at least they could be forewarned." Sirannor sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment. "That is why Commander Trice takes even the smallest rumour of sorcery very seriously. It is why he went chasing after you, despite the fact that everyone else thought he was wasting his time."


    Ferrian''s throat ached with the effort of holding back his tears. He looked down at the raft so that Sirannor would not notice the shimmer in his eyes. "That was why he was so angry with me," he said softly, remembering the day Grisket had rescued him from the Bladeshifter prison.


    They fell silent, each haunted by their own dark memories. "Do not tell him I told you all this," Sirannor said, his face hard. "I am the only person he has trusted with his story, apart from... Aari."


    Ferrian looked at Sirannor in surprise. "Why did you tell me, then?"


    "I believed you should know," he replied enigmatically, and as always, would say nothing further to elaborate.


    Sirannor, Ferrian and Grisket paused for a moment to catch their breath. They had just finished manoeuvring the completed raft carefully down into the cleft. This task had been more difficult than they had anticipated, as the raft was large and heavy and the boulders lining the path steep and awkward.


    To their relief, they had not as yet caught any glimpse of the demons. The eerie, suffocating silence was broken only by the echoes of the newly created river gurgling away down the narrow pass. Nothing moved save themselves and the swirl of the muddy water. The blue sky was vast and empty above them.


    Sirannor had moored the raft to a boulder with a spare length of rope. It sat rocking gently before them in the stream, which had lost some of its ferocity but none of its speed. The cleft was so narrow that there was only around two feet to spare on either side.


    "If one positive thing has resulted from all of this," Sirannor said softly, "it is that the stream will carry us much swifter than our feet. The demons should not be able to catch us."


    Grisket looked up at the Captain, and for a second Ferrian caught a flicker of fire in his eyes, but the Commander restrained himself from commenting and looked away again, his face dark and bitter.


    Ferrian stared apprehensively at the water speeding away between the cliffs. "But¡­ what will we do when we get to the end?" he asked. "I thought you said the pass ended in a cliff?"


    "It does," Sirannor replied, letting the coil of rope in his hand unravel. Ferrian watched as he wound the rope about his legs and waist and secured it tightly. When he had finished, he fastened the rope likewise around Ferrian, leaving a yard or so hanging loose between them, then tossed the rest to Commander Trice. He picked up the free end and fashioned it into a large loop.


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    "When we get to the end," Sirannor said, pulling the knot tight, "we pray that Lady Fate has used up all her daggers."


    This did not instill Ferrian with much confidence.


    Captain Sirannor picked up the long branch he had cut for a steering pole and stepped onto the raft, dropping into a crouch to balance himself. Ferrian and Grisket followed carefully.


    The raft held their weight, and seemed strong and secure. Ferrian tried to brace himself as best he could, but the logs were slippery and their rounded tops awkward to crouch on. He was grateful they had thought to leave loops of rope as handholds.


    Sirannor positioned himself at the head of the raft, taking a firm grip on his steering pole with both hands. As he looked back at them, his jaw was set and his grey eyes could have been chips of mountain rock. He nodded slightly to Grisket. "Commander," he said. Commander Trice slid out his sword and slashed their mooring line with a single swipe.


    The current carried them swiftly down the cleft. Sirannor did the best he could to keep them off the walls with his steering pole. The taps of wood against stone sounded as loud as water dripping in the middle of the night.


    Ferrian glanced up at the dark, grey walls towering on either side. He had an unnerving feeling they were watching him, staring down at the tiny scrap of wood floating at their feet, wondering who would be foolish enough to venture into their silent domain. Ferrian felt a chill run through him. But nothing moved on the featureless rock. There was no sign of the demon-wraiths.


    He caught Commander Trice''s eye, and knew they were both thinking the same thing. It had been thirty years since Captain Sirannor had ventured into this cleft. It was possible the demons were no longer here.


    There was a loud bang as the raft defied Sirannor''s efforts to control it and careened into the wall. Grisket and Ferrian were jerked sideways. Ferrian winced as the impact sent a jarring shudder up his arms. He forced his heart back down into his chest and readjusted his grip on the loops of rope. Sirannor cursed softly under his breath, and shoved the raft back into the middle of the stream.


    While Sirannor was struggling with the current, Ferrian happened to glance back the way they had come, and noticed something odd.


    Something was moving, far up on the face of the cliff where the sun was glowing on the rock. It appeared to be nothing more than a shifting shadow, as if a wisp of cloud were passing over. But the thin strip of sky over their heads was perfectly blue. Ferrian stared up at the sky for a minute, waiting for a cloud to drift across it.


    The sky remained smooth and empty.


    Ferrian looked back at the rock wall. The shadow was still there, and it was moving steadily along the wall towards them. He felt his heart begin to pound.


    Commander Trice caught the sudden look of fear on Ferrian''s face. "What''s wrong?" he asked.


    For a moment Ferrian didn''t know what to say. He couldn''t seem to take his eyes off the slowly advancing shadow.


    Grisket turned and looked back at the retreating pass, trying to locate the source of Ferrian''s terror. But at that moment the raft passed around a slight bend in the cleft, and the disturbing shadow disappeared from view.


    "There¡­ there was a shadow," Ferrian stammered, finding his voice at last.


    Sirannor looked back at him, and then glanced up at the cliffs enclosing them, his face grim.


    "The demons," he said in a low voice. "They''re still here."


    * * *


    The quiet solitude of the black library was broken as the door creaked suddenly and Lord Arzath swept into the room. Three paces across the carpeted floor the sorcerer halted sharply and lifted a hand to his temple, wincing.


    Over the past few days his strength had steadily been returning, and his memory was now almost complete, save for a few odd details which irritatingly still eluded him - including the location of the secret room which housed his weapon.


    Suffice to say, that servant was currently becoming intimately acquainted with the dungeon rats.


    And as if that wasn''t irritating enough: just this morning, the hollow ache that had been ominously growing in his chest ever since the ''accident'' appeared to have progressed to his head.


    Arzath blinked the pain away and lowered his hand. He didn''t understand what had happened to him. Now that he had regained most of his memory and had had time to think, he couldn''t conceive of how he had possibly survived that fall from the waterfall. Not even his magical shield could have protected him from that kind of impact. He should have broken every bone in his body. And yet here he was, with no major injuries sustained apart from memory loss and a severe headache. Even more bizarre: he had not had any marks on him from his encounter with Requar.


    Something strange had happened to him, and he intended to find out what it was.


    Arzath moved to one wall of the narrow, vaulted room and began running his fingers quickly along the spines, his eyes focused and intense as he scanned the titles. There were very few books that actually related to magic in his library. Most of the volumes were concerned with weaponry, warfare, history, crystals and gemstones, and various other things he had found interesting over the years. All of the important spell books - and indeed, anything even remotely useful concerning sorcery - had been kept in the School of Magical Studies library, which had unfortunately been destroyed along with the rest of the School over a hundred and forty years ago. Arzath had managed to track down only two or three of the surviving books. He knew Requar had others in his possession, along with a collection of salvaged magical artefacts. All of which were, of course, locked up safely in that cursed white castle.


    He pulled out a book, gave it a cursory fan, and tossed it onto the floor. He repeated the process for several more books, then spun away and began searching the shelves on the other wall. Half a dozen discarded volumes later, his hand hesitated on an enormous, weathered-looking tome bound in musty green leather.


    He took the book in both hands and slid it off the shelf, staggering slightly under its weight, and heaved it onto a lectern.


    He rifled through the pages for half an hour before he finally found what he was looking for.


    Arzath smoothed the page out with his hand and bent close, shading the book from the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the imposing window at the end of the room.


    He began to read.


    It is a well known fact that when a sorcerer passes away, the power contained within his body is released and dissipates back into the natural flow, and any dependant spells which had been linked to that sorcerer''s mind are broken.


    For millennia, many students of the Divine Arts have dedicated their lives to the attainment of a spell that could prevent death, but as yet, this goal has remained elusive.


    However, over the centuries a curious phenomenon has been observed in which a handful of powerful sorcerers appear to have ''cheated'' death. This phenomenon has been appropriately named ''The Phoenix Effect.''


    It is theorised that a Phoenix Effect occurs when a sorcerer''s magical power is equal to his life force. At the point of death, instead of the subject''s life force being released as is the norm, their magic force is released in its place.


    This effect is extremely rare, due to the fact that a sorcerer''s magic force must equal their life force exactly for the phenomenon to occur.


    In the few cases that have been studied thus far, the subject has experienced further interesting side effects in addition to their seemingly miraculous revival from death: they appear to have been completely cured of all injuries, including scars and existing damage which was not directly related to the cause of death.


    While the exact reason for this unusual side effect has not as yet been established, it is believed that it is the result of the intense rush of magical energy leaving the subject''s body upon the point of ''death'' and producing a regenerative effect.


    exactly.


    Either that, or Fate had a very strange sense of humour.


    His brow lowered slightly. But that still did not explain the headaches or the weakness that had debilitated him when he had first awoken¡­


    He leaned back over the page and read earnestly on.


    Though the benefits to be gained for one experiencing such an effect are obvious, this phenomenon is not without its drawbacks.


    The article continued on with details of all the individual cases of sorcerers who had experienced the Phoenix Effect. Arzath scanned the rest of the page briefly, then his eyes shifted back up to the phrase ''Magic Withdrawal'' which was referenced on page 1046.


    Placing a hand in the book to keep his place, he heaved over a large chunk of pages and began flicking through them quickly, looking for page 1046.


    He found the correct page and squinted through the sunlight at the faded writing.


    Symptoms of Magic Withdrawal


    Magic withdrawal symptoms may include some or all of the following:


    * Temporary paralysis / weakness in limbs (common immediately or shortly after magic loss; the result of the body going into shock as it attempts to adjust to the change)


    * Memory loss (may be recurring)


    * Tiredness / fatigue


    * Irritability / mood swings


    * Pain (very common; may occur in various body parts, but most often in chest and head)


    * Vomiting


    * Blackouts


    In most cases, symptoms increase in severity until magic power has been restored to the body. The length and severity of symptoms is directly dependent on the intensity of the original power and the length of time it inhabited the body before magic loss occurred.


    But things were much different now.


    All of a sudden, the sunlight streaming over him seemed unbearably hot.


    Until magic power has been restored¡­


    "How?" Arzath said aloud. "How can it be restored?" He continued reading down the page, but there was no more to the article. He flipped the page over; checked the pages before and after the article, but there was nothing relating to how magic could be recovered after being lost.


    ?" Arzath yelled at the book. He heaved the pages back to his original location and hurriedly scanned the remainder of the Phoenix Effect article, but found no further useful information.


    It is believed that magic loss sustained through a Phoenix Effect is permanent.


    Arzath felt as though his bones were melting in the glare of the sun. He stared at the sentence for several seconds in horror before forcing himself to finish the paragraph.


    However, in all cases, it was found that the subject''s original powers could be restored quite successfully with a moderately powerful surge of magic to the body.


    Arzath straightened, still staring down at the book. The last sentence had ignited a spark of hope, but he could feel despair and hopelessness looming up behind him like a great, dark void, ready to swallow him if he stepped backwards. He seared the feeling away with anger.


    Where the hell was he supposed to find a surge of magic? There  no magic any more: except natural, wild magic which was too dangerous, unpredictable, and difficult to locate, and of course the wellspring at Caer Sync, which happened to be deep in Angel territory and impossible to access unless the Phoenix Effect also granted him a pair of wings.


    The thought paused. There was only Requar, of course.


    Arzath''s fingers slowly curled inwards where they lay on the page, crumpling the paper into his fist.


    And then, suddenly, he began to laugh.


    The thought was ludicrous! What was he supposed to do, walk up to Requar and make him throw a fireball at him? Well, that wouldn''t be difficult. He''d get a surge of magic all right, and be reduced to a pile of charcoal in the process.


    closed, then turned away and began to pace, as he had a habit of doing when he was anxious.


    The only other alternative was Requar''s Sword. If he could somehow get his brother to use the Sword of Healing on him¡­ it would be the perfect solution...


    His face curled into an expression of bitter contempt. Besides, he didn''t trust Requar as far as he could spit. He wasn''t going to let his brother come anywhere near him while he was vulnerable like this.


    No. He would think of another way, or die trying!


    Arzath glared at the bookcase in front of his face. He grabbed the nearest book to hand and flung it across the room in frustration. Its binding broke apart and time-stained pages scattered across the floor.


    At the sight of the broken book, he suddenly remembered what he had been thinking earlier, about magical artefacts.


    He paused for a moment, staring at the papers on the floor but not seeing them. He walked slowly over to the tall window and gazed past his reflection at the white castle, dazzling in the early sun: silent and empty without its master.


    , he thought.


    Was there one among them strong enough to rekindle his dead magic?


    He rested his chin in his hand and drummed his fingers slowly on the windowsill. An impenetrable magic shield protected Requar''s castle. He had been trying for ten years to get into the wretched thing. But now, with Requar gone, perhaps he had a chance to explore it for weaknesses¡­


    .

 Chapter Fourteen

    Flee the foes of flesh and shape


    Within mind¡¯s pathways, no escape.


    Cimmeran woke to find himself surrounded by cold, grey light. Shadows, dark and insubstantial, loomed around him and above him. In the gloom they could have been anything from people to monsters to harmless, stationary objects, or even just a figment of his imagination. Cimmeran blinked blurry eyes at the unfamiliar surroundings, his memory not yet caught up with his wakefulness. Then an uncomfortable pain in his chest washed away the last confusing dregs of sleep and brought him back to reality.


    He looked down. A wooden box was pressed so closely against his chest, it was as if it were trying to become a part of him, his hands and fingers clenched around it like iron claws. He unprised them carefully and stretched the stiffness out of them. Then something in the box rattled and clinked, and his memory of the night before rushed at him like a bad nightmare.


    He had stolen the box from his landlady, Chellin. He had stolen her money.


    He was a thief.


    Cimmeran sat up slowly, staring down at the box in horror. How could he have done such a thing? Then he remembered the wild flight through the town, the encounter in the alley with the old beggar...


    Cimmeran tried to gasp, but he had stopped breathing. The money box fell from his hands and clattered noisily to the floor, its lid flipping open and triangular coins spilling out onto the ground, glinting dully in the faint light of dawn. Cimmeran was so shocked at what he had done that he didn¡¯t even notice. He just stared in terror into the gloom.


    ¡°


    Suddenly there was a loud shout from outside, frighteningly close, and Cimmeran jumped and scrambled up into a crouch.


    Cimmeran wondered if Chellin had discovered the missing money box yet. It was possible she hadn¡¯t. If she had come back downstairs last night for some reason, she may have noticed it was missing. But then, if she had, the Watch would be all over the town by now. They¡¯d have caught him last night, for sure.


    he thought,


    Shaking his head as if to clear away the fog in his brain, he stepped around the crates, wincing as he used muscles that had stiffened up from running so hard and spending the night on a hard floor. He picked his way over the mess to the open doorway, and peered cautiously around the rotting frame.


    A slice of cold slid down his spine like an icicle. He couldn¡¯t finish the thought. It was too terrible to contemplate.


    Nothing moved in the shadows. Everything was silent, except for a few muted sounds and distant voices coming from the street beyond. There was no sign of the person who had shouted earlier. There was no sign of the Watch.


    And with that, he stepped out into the alleyway and turned his back to the possible horrors that lay the other way, and sidled quickly along the wall in the opposite direction, ears and eyes open for any possible threat.


    He had only gone a few steps when his legs, seemingly of their own accord, broke into a run.


    Cimmeran reached the end of the alleyway and pounded to a stop. He leaned against the wall and took deep breaths of fresh air to calm his nerves. He looked down at his hands, and was horrified to see that they were shaking. He gritted his teeth and gripped the money box angrily. Then he looked up and peered around the corner, into the street.


    A bright golden glow over the mountains to the east indicated that the sun was only minutes from showing it¡¯s fiery face to the world. The streets of Tulstan were beginning to fill with people going about their daily business: shoppers and travellers and merchants setting up their stalls. A cart rattled past from the direction of the outlying districts, loaded with vegetables for the market. Some of the shops across the way had already opened for business. The morning was cool, but far from cold, though half the sky was crowded with dark grey clouds. The air hung heavy with the promise of rain.


    Cimmeran glanced about cautiously for any signs of the town Watch, keeping a sharp eye out for the familiar swirl of a red cape. When the Watchmen failed to materialise, he stepped out onto the street.


    He hurried down the footpath, eyes darting to and fro like dragonflies. No one paid him any attention as he scurried past: strangers were a common sight in Tulstan.


    At first he kept his eyes on the people, the alleyways and side-streets and shop fronts, expecting any minute for Watchmen to come rushing out and find him. But he didn¡¯t catch a glimpse of a single red cape among the throng, even when the sun came up fully and sunlight spilled down between the high buildings, casting warm golden shafts on the dusty cobblestones.


    Eventually he began to concentrate on what he was going to do next.


    , he thought, staring fixedly at the street ahead of him. That was his first priority. He had to get as far away from Tulstan as possible, and quickly.


    He glanced down at his clothes. They were the old travelling garments he¡¯d worn when he¡¯d fled Arzath¡¯s castle. At the time, they had seemed to be in reasonably good condition: now they were showing their true age and had begun to literally fall apart at the seams. He would need a new cloak too, considering he¡¯d left his old one, along with the rest of his possessions, at Chellin¡¯s tavern. And he couldn¡¯t go back to get them.


    Not now. Not ever.


    The rhythmic clop of hoofbeats approached from behind him, and a few seconds later a large wagon clattered past, it¡¯s wheels sending up a flurry of dust and dried leaves which hung a moment in its wake before settling slowly back down to the ground. Cimmeran sidestepped the whirlwind absent-mindedly, and continued along the street.


    He reached the corner of an intersection, and was about to cross when a voice shouted:


    ¡°Hey! You there!¡±


    Cimmeran started and spun around instantly, his eyes searching. Suddenly he froze. He felt as if every bone in his body had been turned to ice. The only thing that moved was his eyes, which went wide with terror.


    There, on the opposite side of the street, was an armed, red-caped figure. It was unmistakable.


    It was a member of the Red Watch.


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    And he was coming this way!


    He managed to jerk his head downwards to look at the box in his hands. It suddenly seemed very conspicuous. Desperately he tried to find a place to hide it, but there was nowhere, there was no time...


    The Watchman approached him. Cimmeran looked around desperately. He stood right on the corner of the intersection. There was nowhere to run to without being seen.


    This was it. He was caught.


    The officer nodded slightly as he came up to stand before Cimmeran. ¡°Good morning,¡± he said.


    Cimmeran¡¯s mouth was so parched that when he opened his mouth to reply, no words came out. He swallowed heavily and tried again, trying to sound innocent, but knowing that it was already far too late.


    ¡° he kept thinking.


    The Watchman looked him up and down. ¡°Going somewhere, are you?¡±


    Cimmeran turned to look at him slowly, and searched for a reply, but couldn¡¯t find one.


    ¡°Well if you¡¯re not in too much of a hurry,¡± the Watchman went on, ¡°I was wondering if you could help me with something?¡± He reached into a pocket behind his leather breastplate and pulled out a well-creased fold of paper. He opened it and held it up in one hand for Cimmeran to see.


    ¡°Have you seen this man?¡±


    On the paper was a sketch of an unknown man¡¯s face. Beneath the portrait in large black lettering was the word ¡®REWARD¡¯ and a rather substantial sum of money.


    Cimmeran just stared at the picture blankly.


    ¡°Sir? Have you seen this man?¡±


    Cimmeran blinked. ¡°What? Oh... n-no...¡±


    ¡°You sure about that?¡±


    He nodded slowly. The Watchman nodded, folded the paper back up and returned it to his pocket. ¡°I appreciate your time, sir,¡± he said, and clapped Cimmeran on the shoulder. ¡°You have a good day, you hear?¡± Then he smiled and strode off down the street.


    Cimmeran just stood and watched him go in bemusement. He couldn¡¯t quite believe what had happened. The Watchman hadn¡¯t recognised him! He didn¡¯t know about the stolen money! Relief flooded through him so overwhelmingly that he almost sagged onto the cobbles.


    he reminded himself sternly. It wouldn¡¯t be long before the Watch really


    Cimmeran took a deep breath and hurried across the street, in the opposite direction to the Watchman. This time he scanned the crowds carefully. He could not afford to let himself be taken by surprise like that again.


    It didn¡¯t take him long to find one.


    The stableyard was a large one, sprawled between a blacksmith¡¯s and a two-storey inn. It was also very busy at this time of day, mostly with travellers and merchants who had stopped in Tulstan for the night and were now resuming their journeys. The wide yard was packed with wagons and stagecoaches, and horses of all breeds and colours. Dusty wheel-marks trailed out the gateway onto the cobbles of the street, and dust hung choking in the morning sunshine.


    Has Chellin called the Watch yet?


    He stopped in the middle of the busy yard. People bustled around him on every side, securing harnesses, checking supplies. Stablehands wandered around amidst it all, feeding and taking care of the horses and other odd jobs. He wondered where the manager was.


    A young stable boy noticed him standing in the middle of the yard, amidst the dust, and came over.


    ¡°


    Cimmeran started, and spun around. ¡°Oh... yes, I¡¯d like a horse.¡± Even as he spoke, Cimmeran¡¯s golden eyes flickered nervously around the stableyard, still wary of men in red capes. The stable boy considered him for a moment, then started walking off in the direction of the stables, gesturing for Cimmeran to follow.


    They passed through one last cloud of dust, before emerging abruptly into the cool shade of the stables. The boy left Cimmeran near one of the empty stalls beside the door, saying that he¡¯d go and fetch the manager. Cimmeran watched the young boy disappear through the far door, then turned his attention to the interior of the stable.


    The building was long and low, but otherwise unremarkable as stables went. What did surprise him though was that the place was entirely deserted, apart from three horses occupying the stalls, and himself. There were no other people to be seen.


    It made a sharp contrast to the crowded, noisy yard outside. A thick bar of hot sunlight stabbed through the open doorway, dust and dirt gliding in from where it had been disturbed outside.


    Cimmeran peered out through the wide doorway, careful to keep in the shadows, but there was nothing to be seen. Most of the merchant caravans and travellers had now departed, leaving only a few odd people and the ever-present dust, settling silently in the heavy air.


    There was a brief creak as the far door opened again, and Cimmeran turned to see not the stable boy, but a big, square-faced man in a sleeveless shirt and a beige hat with the sides pinned up. He strolled quickly and confidently down the aisle, and Cimmeran knew instantly that he was the manager. He looked like a horse sort of person.


    The man smiled warmly as he came up to Cimmeran and extended a surprisingly clean hand. Cimmeran took it and tried to smile back, but he was so nervous he could barely make his lips move.


    ¡°Pardo Rynall,¡± the man introduced himself. ¡°I¡¯m Manager of this here horse-hotel. I understand y¡¯rafter one o¡¯me steeds?¡±


    Cimmeran nodded jerkily, glancing sideways at the stalls.


    ¡°


    ¡°No,¡± he replied, still looking at the horses. Then on second thought he added: ¡°One that¡¯s fast.¡±


    Rynall¡¯s eyebrows raised. ¡°Fast, eh?¡± He walked over to the black, and reached out to stroke her nose. ¡°Well, Ardance here¡¯s the fastest we got, though she¡¯s a bit jittery - ain¡¯t yer girl?¡± he said as the mare snuffled into his hand, looking for food. ¡°How good¡¯a rider are yer?¡±


    Cimmeran stood well back from the horses in the stalls, his money box clutched protectively to his chest. He didn¡¯t like horses, which was probably just as well because they didn¡¯t like him. He resented the fact that he had to ride at all: he would have much preferred to walk, but in the present circumstances that option was not possible. He had to get away from Tulstan as quickly as possible.


    The three horses stared at him and tossed their heads as if uncomfortable in his presence. Pardo Rynall didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    ¡°Not... not that good,¡± Cimmeran admitted.


    Rynall¡¯s hand dropped from Ardance''s nervous head, and he stood back and put his hands on his hips thoughtfully.


    ¡°


    Cimmeran looked at the sorrels, then eyed the open doorway. The sun was now well above the horizon. Chellin would surely have found out about the missing money by now.


    Cimmeran made up his mind quickly. ¡°I¡¯ll take the black,¡± he replied.


    The smile faded from Rynall¡¯s face, and he stared at Cimmeran with a mix of anxiety and confusion. Whether the worry was for the horse or its potential buyer, Cimmeran could not tell.


    ¡°Y¡¯sure about that?¡± Rynall said uncertainly, a frown beginning to crease his rugged face. ¡°Ardance¡¯s not good with amateurs...¡±


    ¡° Cimmeran snapped, anger and impatience creeping into his voice. ¡°I need the fastest you¡¯ve got.¡±


    The manager stared at him in surprise for a moment. Then, realising he could lose a potential sale if he continued to argue the matter, Pardo shrugged his indifference and sighed. ¡°Oh-kay,¡± he replied, as if to say ¡°don¡¯t say I didn''t warn you.¡±


    He went to retrieve the saddle and bridle from the tack room.


    ¡°The fee¡¯s ten trevens,¡± he said as he returned and hefted the saddle onto the black mare¡¯s back. Cimmeran looked down at his money box and opened it slowly. The triangular coins were all still there, snuggled in and gleaming in the morning light. He chose ten silvers, removing them carefully and hesitantly, suddenly reluctant to give them up after all he¡¯d gone through to keep them.


    He looked up at the black mare, who was still watching him guardedly, and wondered suddenly, darkly, about not bothering to pay at all. He watched Rynall securing the bridle in place, and considered just taking off with the horse before anyone could stop him. But he dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came. More likely than not, Ardance would just throw him straight off, and then he¡¯d have not only the Watch, but Rynall to deal with.


    He waited while the stable manager finished securing the reins and walked Ardance out of her stall into the aisle. The mare huffed and tossed her mane and clopped her feet nervously as she approached Cimmeran. Cimmeran stood his ground and slowly handed the silver trevens over to Rynall without taking his eyes off the horse.


    Rynall took the coins and pocketed them quickly, as if afraid Cimmeran might change his mind. Then he handed the younger man the reins.


    Cimmeran took them gingerly and held them at the very end, trying to keep as much distance as possible between him and the horse. Ardance tossed her head and rolled her dark eye at him, but did not try to pull away.


    Rynall said goodbye and watched as the scruffy young man led the black horse out of the stable like a child leading a lion, disappearing quickly in the dusty yellow heat.


    He leaned on a nearby empty stall and shook his head as he watched them go. ¡°Now there¡¯s trouble walkin¡¯ if ever I saw it,¡± he muttered to himself.


    * * *


    The shadows drifted across the cerulean sky like two pieces of night gone astray. On the stark mountains below, the shadow of a shadow passed slowly over the grey, sunburned rocks, sending tiny beetles scurrying for cover beneath the pebbles and a mountain rat darting back into the coarse, dry grasses of the high altitude climates.


    Far above, the Murons passed across the glaring face of the sun, momentarily blocking out the scorching light with their sleek, coal-black bodies. Some of the bright rays passed through the thin but tough leathery membranes of their wings, making them look, to the distant observer, like frighteningly large bats.


    The Muron glided effortlessly through the summer sky on the warm air currents, a slight breeze rippling his smooth, black wings as they stretched wide, from this height seeming to embrace the world. His keen yellow eyes scanned the mountains below, relentlessly searching for the tiniest sign of the fugitive. Ten wingspans to his right, his companion did the same. They did not dwell on the reason for their search or why they had been given strict orders not to kill their quarry when they found him. They knew only that Lord Arzath had ordered them to find the servant Cimmeran and bring him back alive, and they would search without question, to the far horizons of Arvanor, if need be, until they did so.


    The Muron passed over a high, rocky peak, and his eyes swept the sunlit valley before him. Down below, a wide canyon split the mountains in two, a silvery river running along its base. A broad stone bridge leapt the canyon: a pathway for lesser, ground-based creatures across the giant, ancient peaks. A dusty road curved gently into the crags in both directions.


    The bridge was packed with Humans, horses and their wooden transportation devices. They were making quite a lot of noise. Silvery glints from swords and polished breastplates sparkled from one end of the canyon.


    The two dragon-men circled in the air above the canyon lazily for a few minutes, then began to move away from the crowd and descend in slow spirals. The road on this side of the bridge was completely deserted, but echoes from the crowd rose along with the heat haze off the mountain rock.


    The Muron alighted on the ground in a thick swirl of dust, followed a few seconds later by his companion. Immediately, he dropped into a low crouch and began scanning the dusty road with sharp, expert eyes. At the same time, he carefully traced the faint indentations in the dirt with taloned hands.


    It was some time later before the black, winged creature finally straightened and bared his impressive teeth in a mean sneer.


    ¡°


    ¡°Then we will continue sssearching,¡± the other replied, and lifted into the air without another word.

 Chapter Fifteen

    Pursued by shadow: without, within


    A deadly race, but who will win?


    Starshadow Flint finally caught up with the sorcerer on the road west of Meadrun. It was a pleasant day; the wind had shifted and a cool breeze blew off the mountains, yet the sun retained a sting in its tail: Flint was sweating buckets beneath his black clothing and the huge, heavy crossbow strapped against his back. He was grateful for his hat, though.


    To his right, the Valewood Forest crowded up against the side of the road; to his left, harvested fields stretched away into the lazy distance, dotted with farmhouses here and there. The sorcerer was not hurrying: indeed, he seemed to be wandering along lost in thought, but his strides were long and Flint had had to jog the whole way to catch him up.


    Flint hated jogging. He was no good at it. He wasn''t overweight, but he wasn''t exactly in great physical shape, either. Any of the other Bladeshifters would have been a more suitable candidate for this task, and done a cleaner and more subtle job of it, too. Darkstar could''ve shot one of her tiny poison darts into the guy''s back in the dark, when she''d tailed him, but no. Nightwalker was fond of playing games and Flint was pretty sure that his leader had singled him out on purpose, precisely because Flint was a most unlikely assassin.


    He scowled beneath his hat, feeling sweat trickling down his neck and his heart hammering a little too fast as he slowly gained on the sorcerer, trotting beneath the shade of the large oak trees that lined the road. Besides, he and Eltorian had never gotten along very well. Nightwalker respected his skill with crossbows, but if Flint botched this mission and ended up as little floating pieces of burnt hat, he was sure Nightwalker would continue sleeping soundly afterwards.


    Flint wiped sweat from his face with a clammy hand, and tried to concentrate on the plan. The idea was to attempt to befriend the sorcerer or at least gain his trust, so that he would let his guard down and provide an opportunity for Flint to remove him from all of their lives.


    It was obvious that Nightwalker didn''t want a sorcerer hanging around. No one had any idea of this man''s motives, but he was clearly powerful and dangerous. Whether he was trying to be a hero, going around protecting people, or whether he intended to use his magic for political influence, or some other mysterious reason, no one could say. But none of these options put the Bladeshifters in a good position. They currently had most of the countryside nicely intimidated. The Freeroamers were occasionally a problem, but a sorcerer¡­


    A sorcerer was something else entirely.


    Flint had almost told Nightwalker where to shove his plan, but something had stopped him. Despite himself, he was curious.


    The man had literally turned up out of thin air, defending a couple of hunters for no reason anyone could guess. Then he''d put a burning hole in Bloodmoon Grim and healed him directly afterwards, which was even more astonishing.


    And it seemed that he knew something about the silver-eyed kid¡­


    Flint wasn''t sure yet about the assassination part of the plan, but letting the sorcerer walk off with so many unanswered questions: that was the real crime.


    He was within hailing distance now. Thankfully, the sorcerer had stopped to examine something by the side of the road.


    A patch of flowers, of all things.


    Flint took a deep breath, and before he could think any more about it, called out: ¡°Hey! Er¡­ Yo!¡±


    The sorcerer looked up.


    Flint wasn''t prepared for the impact of that piercing blue gaze. Instantly, he felt his insides turn to mush and very nearly exit the premises, but he managed to hold himself together.


    ¡°Oh,¡± the sorcerer said. He sighed and stood up, his face darkening. ¡°One of you people.¡±


    ¡°Bladeshifters,¡± Flint panted, coming to a halt before the other man, who, he had just noticed, was significantly taller than himself. He stuck out a hand, beaming his best smile. ¡°Starshadow Flint!¡±


    The sorcerer stared down at Flint''s hand for a long moment, as though he''d been offered a plate full of severed fingers. Eventually he sighed again, unfolded his elegant arms and took Flint''s hand reluctantly in his own. ¡°Lord Requar.¡±


    The sorcerer looked down the road, towards Meadrun. ¡°I assume your leader sent you after me?¡±


    Flint hesitated, glancing away. ¡°No,¡± he lied. He removed his large floppy hat and scratched his sweaty head. ¡°What you did back there...¡± he gestured in the direction of the town, ¡°the way you healed Grim. It was¡­ impressive.¡±


    Requar looked back at him and shook his head. ¡°Magic is not only destructive,¡± he replied, his expression suddenly sad, almost defeated. ¡°It can be used for so many other extraordinary purposes...¡±


    Flint nodded nervously. ¡°Er,¡± he said. ¡°The thing is...¡± he fiddled with his hat. ¡°My sister. She''s, er¡­ dying.¡± He placed his hat back on his head and stared down at the dusty road. ¡°Ain''t no one been able to do anything for her.¡±


    There was a moment of silence, filled with the droning of crickets in the grass. Flint peered up from under the brim of his hat. Requar was studying him curiously.


    He stuffed his hands into his pockets, so that the sorcerer would not notice them shaking.


    He was sure that Requar had seen straight through the lie, was now examining it from every angle to best determine how to stab it back into Flint''s face.


    But to his surprise, the sorcerer nodded. ¡°Where does she live?¡± he asked.


    Flint''s heart leaped in relief. ¡°Two days west,¡± he replied, pointing down the road in the direction the sorcerer had been travelling. ¡°In Hillbank.¡±


    * * *


    , he thought morbidly,


    He shifted his grip on the rope handholds, wincing slightly as his hands stung. They were red and raw from trying to keep his hold on the raft, which now crashed into the wall at every corner.


    Behind them the stream rushed away, swirling with white foam from their passage. The cliffs had steadily closed in on them as they sped and bounced through the pass, as though slowly trying to crush them. The cleft had now become so narrow that the raft was continually jouncing against the walls.


    Ferrian barely noticed the uncomfortable jolts. He was too busy staring up at the cliffs, straining to catch some sign of the demons.


    But there was no hint of anything unusual. They appeared to have left the disturbing shadow behind.


    He was peering intently at the gloom beneath a slight overhang when he felt a prolonged shudder pass through the raft. Both he and Commander Trice looked over their shoulders.


    They saw the cause of the problem instantly. The cleft had become too narrow for the raft. The logs were grinding against the rock walls, sending up splinters of wood. Sirannor heaved on the steering pole, trying to force the raft onwards, but its passage became slower and slower until finally it stopped altogether. Water continued to rush over the raft in shining waves, oblivious of the hindrance.


    "What do we do now?" Ferrian asked anxiously, raising his voice over the booming crash of the water. Commander Trice glanced quickly behind them, but nothing followed except water and ancient grey rock.


    Captain Sirannor paused for a moment, panting, and wiped his dripping face with his sleeve. He drew his sabre. "Cut the side logs free," he instructed.


    They hastened to obey. Ferrian pulled out his knife and crawled to the side of the raft. Water was rushing over the logs, obscuring his vision. He felt for the bindings and slid his knife under them, hoping he was cutting the right ropes.


    As he was working, an odd sensation came over him: as though something was creeping up behind him. He stopped cutting and raised his head.


    A huge band of darkness was sliding through the cleft, as though something enormous were passing along it. But there was nothing there ¨Cthe strip of blue above their heads stretched away unbroken, and the stream rushed on unhindered.


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    Ferrian''s eyes went wide. "Commander!" he cried.


    Grisket and Sirannor''s heads jerked up at Ferrian''s cry. "Hurry!" Sirannor shouted.


    They slashed with renewed vigour at the logs. The raft groaned and rocked slightly as Sirannor bounded across it and began helping Ferrian.


    Ferrian''s heart was racing. He glanced up again and saw that the shadow was advancing smoothly and swiftly, darkening into an inky blackness as it came. Thin trailers of smoke were now drifting off the walls in the shadow''s wake, as though the rocks were smouldering.


    He did not know what would happen if that shadow reached them, and he did not want to know. He wanted to get as far away from it as possible.


    Sirannor sliced through the last of the bindings and threw himself against the cliff wall, pushing the raft forwards with his hands. Ferrian and Grisket quickly followed his example.


    Slowly, the raft began to inch forward.


    Ferrian pushed with all his might. He had a burning desire to turn around, to see how close the shadow was. He could sense it bearing down on them, silent and insidious, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled¡­


    The raft gradually gathered momentum as the current caught it and bore it forward once more.


    The three men slumped into a crouch, breathing heavily, and turned to look at the advancing shadow.


    right there!


    Horror filled Ferrian in a hot wave as he noticed shapes appearing in the smoke¡­


    He backed away in terror, willing the raft to go faster.


    His wish was granted. The stream was thundering along at a rapid pace, and slowly, slowly, the shadow began to draw back.


    Five feet.


    Ten.


    Fifteen¡­


    BANG.


    Grisket was nearly thrown off the back of the raft. He lost his grip on his sword and it dropped with a flash into the stream. He cursed loudly.


    Ferrian pushed himself up and gasped through the water crashing over him, trying to see what had happened.


    The raft had stopped again. It was well and truly stuck this time. The cleft here twisted sharply to the right, barely more than a yard wide. They would have to hack it to pieces to make it fit through that gap.


    Yet Sirannor was trying. He was heaving on the wall, trying to manoeuvre the raft through. Spray exploded all around them as the stream bounded over the obstruction.


    "Captain!" Grisket shouted, clutching the raft as it tilted ominously, the wood groaning and cracking as it scraped against the rock. "There is no way this raft is going to¡­" his voice trailed off.


    Darkness swept over them. Smoke billowed along the walls and across the water towards them. Ferrian and Grisket watched in frozen horror as the demons began to take shape.


    The nearest cloud of smoke swirled and thickened, forming into the torso of a man. Its arms were long and gangly, and all the fingers of its hands were twisted at unnatural angles as though broken. Two more arms with abnormally long, pale fingers protruded from its shoulder blades like hideous wings.


    But most terrible was its face. Its features were identifiable as Human, but they continually swirled around on its head as though its face were made of molten wax. Ferrian''s head spun and he felt queasy looking at it.


    The demon-wraith drifted towards them, its mouth opening in a silent scream that spread and melted into its face like a patch of oil. Ferrian''s stomach gave a heave and he retched.


    "Don''t look at them!" Sirannor screamed.


    More demons were forming out of the smoke: dozens of them.


    "Abandon the raft!" Sirannor yelled. The echoes of his voice seemed to linger on the mountain rock even longer than usual. He grabbed Ferrian''s shoulder and dragged him roughly towards the forward edge of the raft. Grisket clambered after them.


    Sirannor waited until Grisket had a firm grip on Ferrian''s other arm. Then he nodded once to the Commander and threw himself into the stream.


    The thundering of the water became eerily muted as Ferrian plunged beneath the surface. Everything became a whirl of confusion: he could see nothing but darkness filled with glittering bubbles. Something extremely hard slammed into the back of his head and he heard a dull crack. Pain exploded behind his eyes. He caught a wisp of red out of the corner of his eye. He gasped instinctively and choked as water flooded into his lungs. Panicking, he struggled for the surface.


    He only managed to gasp one breath before someone grabbed him and forced him back under. Ferrian started to fight, and then something burst into the water right by his shoulder. It was a long grey arm with horribly twisted fingers.


    He pushed himself away in terror, the clutching hand narrowly missing his flailing arm.


    Something smashed into him again, in a spot right between his shoulder blades. He spluttered silently in pain. Grey arms were plunging into the water all around him now, sending up clouds of silver bubbles. He twisted away, trying desperately to avoid them.


    A flailing arm grabbed him and he screamed, but the sound came out as a strangled gurgle, and once again water surged into his throat. He wrenched away from the hand, but the fingers dug deeper into his arm like claws. He thrashed violently until he finally realised it was not a demon who had grabbed him ¨C it was Sirannor.


    The Captain dragged him to the surface and Ferrian gasped and coughed up water, his lungs burning as he fought to breathe. When he had blinked the water out of his eyes, he became aware that the light had changed.


    Ferrian looked back over the swirling water and saw that the shadow had fallen away. The demons were still advancing, but they could not keep up with the racing stream. Slowly and steadily the shadow retreated until it was an ominous black shaft in the distance, like a cleft to the netherworld.


    As he gazed back the way they had come, over the roiling waves, he realised suddenly that he could not see Commander Trice.


    He looked around in panic, trying in vain to see through the churning water. "Commander!" he screamed, fearing the worst.


    But to his immense relief, Grisket''s head burst out of the water just behind him, spluttering and heaving for breath.


    The walls were rushing by incredibly quickly now. The three men let the current sweep them along while they caught their breath. Ferrian was so thankful that they had escaped the demons that he completely forgot where the stream was taking them.


    That was, until he became aware that the steady, echoing roar of water was now a great deal louder than it had been before.


    "Captain," Grisket yelled. "Tell me you''ve got a plan to get us out of this!"


    "Of a sort," Sirannor called back.


    "What does that mean?"


    "It means a large part of it relies on luck!"


    "Fantastic!" Grisket shouted. "No worries then! We''ve got plenty of that!"


    Thunder boomed through the mountain heights. Ferrian, Grisket and Sirannor were swept mercilessly towards the edge of the cliff. They rounded a final bend in the cleft. The stream surged on for another fifty yards or so, and then simply disappeared. Ferrian could see thick bars of sunlight falling across the craggy walls of the valley beyond, glittering in the haze of spray that hung over the head of the falls.


    His stomach was so twisted with fear that it ached. He looked up at the cliff walls on either side. They were sheer and pitiless all the way to the edge of the falls. He hoped to all the Gods that Captain Sirannor knew what he was doing.


    The falls rushed towards them at an alarming pace. Before him, Sirannor floated calm and motionless in the stream, as though unconcerned by the fact that there was a cliff rapidly approaching. Still Ferrian could see no sign of anything that could stop them being washed over the edge.


    The fear in his stomach began to rise up his throat. The roar of the falls was deafening. They were ten yards from the edge and picking up speed¡­


    Without warning, Sirannor made a sudden lunge to the right. Ferrian and Grisket swept helplessly by him. "Captain Sirannor!" Ferrian screamed.


    Just then all the air left his lungs in a rush as the rope which still bound him to the Captain went taut. A second later he felt another yank as Grisket jerked to a halt behind him.


    Gasping for breath, Ferrian turned and struggled to see through the white water crashing over him. Commander Trice was almost lost in the churning foam. He had come to a stop so close to the precipice that half of his body was hanging over the edge.


    Sirannor had managed grab hold of a small protrusion of rock in the cleft wall. He wedged himself as best he could beside it and began hauling on the rope, slowly dragging them away from the edge.


    It seemed to take an aeon for him to drag Ferrian in. Finally he took hold of Ferrian''s arms and pulled him up beside him. Ferrian had nothing to hold on to except Sirannor. He clutched the Captain for dear life, feeling the powerful current tugging at him, determined to drag him over the falls.


    Sirannor was hauling in Commander Trice, grunting with the effort. His long hair was grey with water and hung in dripping strands over his face. There was a fierceness in his eyes that Ferrian had seen only once before: just before they had entered the tunnel beneath the lake, when he was trying to convince them they could survive. Ferrian knew that Sirannor would rather give his own life than let anyone else die in this pass.


    He wanted to help the Captain, but he was terrified to loosen his grip even a fraction.


    Grisket finally pulled himself up beside Ferrian, and the three of them slumped against each other, exhausted. "You¡­ oughta be¡­ a chef," Grisket panted. " ''Cause you sure¡­ know how to cut¡­ things fine."


    "The worst part isn''t¡­ over yet¡­" Sirannor replied grimly.


    As though to emphasise the truth of his words, a movement in the cleft caught their attention. They looked around in dismay. The shadow was still advancing relentlessly.


    Sirannor struggled to unwind the spare length of rope he had tied around his waist. The shadow glided towards them soundlessly. Once again, they could make out the turbid grey smoke churning in its depths. Ferrian''s grip on Sirannor''s coat tightened. He remembered the skeletal grey arms, plunging through the watery darkness, searching for him¡­


    He shuddered. He would rather go over the falls than lose his soul to those gruesome creatures.


    "Sirannor, whatever you''re doing, do it fast!" Grisket yelled warningly. The darkness was almost upon them.


    Sirannor wrenched the last of the rope free and quickly scanned the mouth of the cleft, searching¡­


    Night fell upon them. Smoke billowed across their vision. All around them, demon-wraiths were forming, drifting towards them with their long arms outstretched as if to embrace them.


    Ferrian''s stomach churned and he almost threw up. He felt Grisket grasp his shoulder. "Don''t look at their faces!" the Commander yelled in his ear.


    There was an outcropping of broken rock on the very edge of the cliff: a barely visible silhouette in the gloom. Sirannor hurled the rope with all his strength towards it.


    The loop fell short and flopped with a splash into the stream.


    Sirannor swore. He began hurriedly untying the rope that bound his waist.


    "What the hell are you doing?" Grisket yelled.


    "Need more rope!" the Captain yelled back.


    Smoke was pouring off the rock like the ghosts of waterfalls. The cleft was crammed with demons, all of them reaching out with their terrible, disfigured hands like eager children. Ferrian tried not to look at them, but they filled his vision. He felt dizzy with nausea and fear.


    " Grisket screamed.


    The wraiths closed in, glowing with a pale grey light like the moon behind a cloud. The hands reached¡­


    Sirannor had freed himself from the rope. He pulled it in and hurled it again, though blindly this time, for the demons obscured his vision. The rope fell through the cluster of advancing demons, sending out swirls of smoke ¨C and caught.


    There was no time to test the rope to see if it would hold their weight. "Let''s go!" Sirannor shouted. Without waiting to see if they were ready, he took a tight hold on the rope and flung himself out into the stream.


    Ferrian and Grisket were yanked unceremoniously after him. They swept out into the current just as the demons converged on the place where they had been just seconds before ¨C but their lunging hands found nothing but empty air.


    The current snatched up the three men, bore them right underneath the swirling mass of demons and flung them like pebbles over the edge of the cliff.

 Chapter Sixteen

    Eyes of silver, bark and steel


    Forgiving is the grief you feel.


    He floated in the blackness, waiting for the pain to go away, waiting to slip into oblivion¡­


    A harsh sound disturbed his dark dream. He realised thickly that it was a voice, calling to him. He struggled to open his eyes.


    Being awake was not an improvement. The world seemed all wrong¡­ dizziness flooded him and his vision swayed ominously.


    "Ferrian!" a voice said again. "Wake up!"


    Ferrian blinked and tried to focus. The dizziness slowly subsided and his vision became clear once more.


    He was surprised to discover that he was not lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, but in fact hanging vertically, and that the hard rock that had smashed into his back was a cliff wall.


    A great mass of white water was churning beside him, flicking spray into his face.


    He looked up dazedly. The mouth of the cleft was filled with shadow and swirling smoke, but elsewhere the air was sun-drenched and clear, and the only shadows were those cast by the mountains. It seemed that the demon-wraiths were unwilling to venture out of their domain.


    Captain Sirannor was clinging to the rope just above him, water trickling off the hem of his long coat.


    Ferrian looked down and saw Commander Trice hanging a few feet below him. He had lost his hat and his hair was plastered across his face. He watched Grisket take out a knife and begin cutting the rope.


    A rush of alarm filled Ferrian until he realised there was a rocky path cut into the side of the cliff just below Grisket''s feet.


    The switchback trail Captain Sirannor had spoken of.


    Ferrian felt the weight on the end of his rope vanish abruptly as Grisket cut through and dropped safely onto the path. Ferrian fumbled in his belt for his own knife, and was dismayed to find that his hands were shaking badly. He pulled the knife free, but lost his grip and it fell away.


    Grisket only just managed to throw himself out of the way as the knife clattered onto the path. "Watch what you''re doing!" he yelled angrily. "I didn''t survive this blasted pass just to be killed by your bloody stupidity!"


    Ferrian tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, but it would not budge. "S- sorry!" he stammered.


    Above him, Sirannor drew his sabre with his left hand and twirled it to get a better grip. He leaned down and chopped neatly through Ferrian''s rope.


    It was not a long drop, but Ferrian landed awkwardly and stumbled, banging his knee, adding another ache to his already extensive collection. He slid over to the rock wall and rested his back against it, not bothering to get back up.


    Sirannor had the furthest distance to fall, but he landed like a cat. He sheathed his sabre, then picked up Ferrian''s knife and handed it back to him. Ferrian managed a weak ''thanks''.


    A silence fell as they all rested and caught their breath. Captain Sirannor lowered himself wearily onto the path beside Ferrian. No one spoke for a long time.


    Ferrian looked down at the knife he still held loosely in his hand. His pale, distorted reflection stared back. It reminded him - with an unpleasant lurch - of the twisted faces of the demons. Except this demon had eyes like two tiny mirrors.


    He closed his eyes and put his knife away.


    His eyes. He hated them. Why couldn''t he have ordinary brown eyes? Or at least proper grey ones like Captain Sirannor''s? Why did he have to be such a freak?


    His vision began to blur and crystallise. He crossed his arms over his knees and rested his forehead on them so that the others could not see his face. A tear managed to leak out despite his determination and rolled into the groove beside his nose.


    Aari was dead because of him. Because of this stupid magic inside him. They had all nearly died in the pass, just so he could save a few days on a mission that was probably doomed to fail anyway. How many others were going to suffer because of this curse?


    "Do you want me to look, Commander?" Ferrian heard Sirannor say from beside him. He wiped his tears away hastily and glanced up.


    Commander Trice was standing in the middle of the path, staring at the edge of the cliff. "No!" he said sharply, glaring at the Captain. "Don''t patronise me!"


    Despite his words, he hesitated a moment longer, running his hand over his beard. Then he took a deep breath, stepped purposefully to the edge of the path, and looked over.


    Sirannor and Ferrian watched his face carefully, but his expression did not change. "Can''t see anything," he said shortly, and turned abruptly away. "He might have been washed further down the valley."


    The thought of Aari''s body being swept down the valley made Ferrian feel sick and his throat ache with fresh emotion. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately to think of something else.


    As though Sirannor had sensed Ferrian''s thoughts, he changed the subject. "How far down to the next ledge?" he asked quietly.


    "Thirty feet or so," Grisket replied, joining them heavily by the rock wall. "Too far to jump, unless you like the idea of breaking your neck, and we''ve run out of rope."


    They sat in gloomy silence for awhile, listening to the pounding of the falls and watching the sun drift slowly westwards until it was glaring right in their faces. After a time, Sirannor rose and began wandering along the path, looking for a way down.


    Ferrian stared into the rushing water beside him and noticed two grey, lichen-encrusted posts embedded in the trail at the edge of the falls. He got up, wincing as his bruises protested, and wandered over to them. Anything was better than sitting around listening to his morbid thoughts.


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    As he came closer, he could see that the posts were the remains of an ancient bridge that had once spanned a break in the trail. He peered over the edge and saw that a tangle of ropes and wood were still dangling from the posts. The planks looked freshly splintered, as though they had been broken very recently. The bridge had probably been knocked down with the initial surge of water.


    He crouched on the edge of the gap and grasped one of the ropes, tugging on it experimentally. It seemed fairly secure. He looked back down at the mangled bridge and wondered if it was strong enough to hold his weight.


    At the sound of footsteps on the path behind him he looked over his shoulder. "Captain, do you think we could climb down this way?" he asked.


    Sirannor walked to the edge of the gap and leaned over. Then he, too, took one of the ropes and tested its strength. "Rope seems secure," he said. He considered the bridge for a moment longer and then turned and called to Commander Trice. Grisket joined them at the break.


    "Ferrian should go first: he''s the lightest," Sirannor suggested.


    "You willing to go first?" Grisket asked Ferrian.


    Ferrian nodded and sat down on the edge of the gap, spray from the falls spattering his chest like rain. Grisket and Sirannor supported him until he had a firm grip. The ropes creaked slightly, but held his weight.


    Once he had a grip, climbing down was actually quite easy. There were plenty of knots and loops of rope to hold on to.


    The ropes ended two feet from the ground. Ferrian let go and dropped carefully onto the slippery rocks, then moved out onto the path. "I''m down!" he yelled. His voice seemed to echo through the entire valley.


    Ferrian watched Commander Trice climb onto the makeshift ladder, and then turned and gazed around him. The valley was silent and peaceful and filled with sunlight. The ledge he was standing on looked almost identical to the one he had just left, but to his relief the switchback trail ran on unbroken to the base of the cliff. They should not have any more problems getting down.


    He turned back to watch Grisket''s descent when something at the base of the rock wall beside him caught his eye. He glanced down at it and then froze.


    For a long minute he stood paralysed, staring at the thing. Finally he forced himself to walk forward and pick it up.


    It was a feather.


    A long, white flight feather with a bright orange tip that shimmered in the afternoon light. It was much too big to have come from a bird. But Ferrian knew it didn''t belong to a bird. He knew whom it had belonged to.


    He stared at the feather, feeling his heart thumping in his chest, echoing through his body like a drum in a cathedral. He was afraid to raise his eyes, afraid he would see more feathers or¡­ worse¡­


    Grisket stepped out onto the path. When he caught sight of Ferrian he stopped dead. For a moment he just stared at the feather in Ferrian''s hand. Then he came slowly forward.


    "Let it go, lad," Grisket said quietly.


    But Ferrian couldn''t let it go. He couldn''t seem to make his fingers work. He couldn''t bring himself to look up into Grisket''s face.


    Grisket placed his hand on Ferrian''s shoulder, but did not speak.


    "If I knew you liked my¡­ feathers so much, I would have¡­ given you some," a voice said.


    Ferrian and Grisket both whirled as one. Their mouths dropped open.


    Sergeant Aari''Zan stood a little further down the path, supporting himself with one arm on the rock wall. His clothing was torn to shreds and he was covered in huge, angry bruises. His wings were a mess. They trailed muddy and broken on the ground behind him, the feathers that remained sticking up at all angles. Despite his terrible appearance, however, his eyes were strangely bright.


    " Ferrian and Grisket cried at the same time.


    Captain Sirannor, who was halfway down the bridge ladder, leapt the rest of the way and bolted out onto the path. He skidded to a halt and stared in astonishment.


    Grisket sprinted forward and caught Aari as the Angel collapsed. "Aari!" he cried again, his voice trembling with emotion. "Aari, lad, you''re alive!"


    Aari gasped and winced as Grisket threw his arms around him. "Not for much longer if you¡­ don''t let go¡­" Aari said painfully.


    Ferrian and Sirannor raced along the path and dropped into a crouch either side of Grisket. The Commander was still clutching Aari tightly, and his shoulders were shaking. Ferrian realised suddenly that he was silently sobbing


    Aari realised this too, and had to fight to keep his own tears in check. "Grisket," he gasped, "it''s all right¡­ I''m not dead¡­"


    At last Grisket regained control of himself and pulled away, taking deep breaths to steady himself. "Ferrian," he said shakily, "do you have any medical supplies?"


    Ferrian hurriedly removed his backpack and began pulling waterlogged supplies out of it.


    Grisket began carefully checking Aari''s injuries. "How badly are you hurt?" he asked anxiously. Aari''s face was very pale and there was a long red graze across his left cheek where the skin had been scraped raw. He was breathing heavily, obviously in a great deal of pain. "My¡­ wings," he panted. "I think they''re¡­ broken, I can''t¡­ feel them¡­"


    "Lean over, lad," Grisket instructed.


    Aari leaned forward gingerly, grimacing in pain. Grisket looked over his wings sombrely. They looked as though they had been crushed. His back was streaked with trails of dried blood.


    "How bad is it?" Aari said to the path. "I will be able to¡­ fly again, won''t I?"


    Grisket and Sirannor exchanged worried glances. "Not any time soon, you won''t," the Commander replied grimly.


    "How on Arvanor did you survive?" Ferrian asked as Sirannor and Grisket went off to make splints for Aari''s wings using planks from the broken bridge. He still could not believe that Aari was here talking to him, battered and bruised, but alive.


    Aari shook his head. "I have no idea," he replied. "I remember¡­ the water crashing into me¡­" He swallowed and shivered as though a sudden chill breeze had swept the cliff. "Then I¡­ woke up over there¡­ tangled in some ropes¡­" he pointed towards the falls.


    Ferrian looked back to where Sirannor and Grisket were working, and a look of sudden realisation crossed his face. "You were the one who knocked down the bridge!" he said. "It must have broken your fall!"


    Aari merely nodded and did not speak. Ferrian could tell from his expression what the Angel was thinking: the bridge had broken much more than his fall.


    They patched up Aari as best they could with the supplies they had. Ferrian found a first-aid satchel in his pack that contained herbs, ointment, razor blades and bandages. He gave Aari a mixture of powdered willow bark and water from the falls to ease his pain as Grisket bound his shattered wings firmly against his back with bandages.


    Apart from his wings and some nasty bruising, Aari did not appear to have sustained any major wounds, but Grisket was worried he might have internal injuries they could not see. He suggested they get him to a healer as soon as possible.


    "What about the mission?" Aari asked, wincing as Sirannor and Grisket helped him to his feet.


    "Captain Sirannor, Ferrian and I will continue to Crystaltina," Grisket told him. "You, my lad, will remain in Sunsee until a healer has seen to you, and then return to Forthwhite."


    Aari looked appalled. "What?" he exclaimed. "But... but it was my idea!"


    Commander Trice''s face was stern. "Exactly," he said as he started down the path.


    "But, Commander!"


    ¡° ''But'' nothing, Sergeant!"


    Aari was furious. He shrugged off Sirannor''s supporting hand and staggered painfully forward. "I''m not a kid!" he yelled at Grisket''s back. His voice echoed alarmingly around the mountain walls.


    Grisket stopped. He was silent for a moment before turning around. When he spoke, his voice was iron. "No, you''re not," he said. "You''re a Freeroamer. And I am your Commander, and those are your orders!"


    Aari looked desperately to the others for support, but Sirannor''s face was granite and Ferrian merely shrugged helplessly.


    Aari fell into a sullen silence for the remainder of the trek down the cliff.


    "You need me," Aari insisted stubbornly as they stopped for a rest at the bottom of the path. "I know more about sorcerers than¡ª"


    For a moment the flare that passed between Aari''s eyes and Grisket''s could have melted stone. Finally, the Angel looked away and sighed in resentment. "Yes, Sir," he muttered bitterly.


    "Good."


    "Commander?"


    "What?"


    "I believe this belongs to you." Captain Sirannor held out something black, crumpled and sodden in his hand. It was Grisket''s hat.


    Grisket took the hat with a rather forlorn expression on his face. The long striped feather had been snapped in two. He slid it out of its band and stared at it regretfully.


    A thought occurred to Ferrian. "Why don''t you use this, Commander?" he said, pulling something out of his belt. It was Aari''s feather.


    Commander Trice hesitated, and glanced at the Sergeant.


    Aari glanced up when he realised they were all looking at him. "Whatever," he said disinterestedly.


    Grisket wrung out his hat, took the feather and wedged it firmly into the band. He settled the hat on his head, and for the first time that day his eyes flickered with familiar confidence.


    He nodded wordlessly to them, and they turned their backs on the horrors of Demon Heights and headed west towards the setting sun.

 Chapter Seventeen

    Friendships found on uneasy ground


    Shadows within a heartbeat''s sound.


    Ferrian and the Freeroamers made their way slowly along the valley, following the newborn stream as it bounded exaltedly over the rocks. The valley was narrow, and clogged with boulders and upthrusts of jagged rock. They were relieved to find signs of animal life again: ants and blue lizards and even a mountain rat darted for cover as they approached.


    As they walked, the light on the cliffs around them faded from golden-grey to dusky orange and then deep amethyst, and shadows pooled and spread. Ferrian couldn''t help but feel nervous at the growing darkness. He kept looking over his shoulder at the cleft, but the terrifying blackness that had filled it earlier was gone. It appeared now as nothing more than a distant break in the cliffs.


    The sun had fallen well below the furthest ridgeline and the blue of the sky had deepened by the time they reached the end of the valley. The Dragon Eyes ¨C the first two stars of evening ¨C had appeared in the sky almost directly ahead of them. The twin pricks of light gazed down on them from the west: emotionless and unblinking like their namesake. An ominous feeling came over Ferrian as he looked up at them, as though a real Dragon were watching them from afar.


    The valley ended in a steep, rocky decline. Beyond was another, smaller valley filled with a cluster of dark pines. Beside them, the stream continued on its way, sweeping over the drop in a small waterfall and disappearing into the trees.


    After a short discussion, they decided against going down into the valley that evening. Instead, they climbed some boulders to their left and discovered a flat, rocky shelf from which they had a clear view back across the valley to Demon Heights. There was plenty of the woody, prickly alpine bushes and bleached deadwood lying around with which to make a fire, so it was here they settled down for the night.


    The change that had come over Commander Trice since they had discovered Aari alive was remarkable. He appeared to have returned to his usual good-natured, confident self. As they sat around the little campfire, he related everything that had happened to himself, Ferrian and Sirannor after they had emerged from the tunnel. Aari listened to him wide-eyed, and not without a few exclamations of disbelief.


    Ferrian and Sirannor remained quiet, speaking only when they were asked a direct question.


    After awhile, Ferrian rose and moved out of the firelight. He didn''t want to relive what had happened in the pass. He wanted to shut it away in his mind and never think about it again.


    He sat down on the edge of the shelf, staring out across the valley to the dim white line where water still poured out of the cleft. A bull ant was making its way across the rock towards him. He folded his legs to let it pass. Goose pimples rose on his arms as a cool breeze rustled through his still-damp clothes. He felt exhausted. And despite the fact that he was incredibly happy that Aari was alive, his heart still felt heavy: as though it had become water-logged like his pack.


    He turned at a scuffing sound on the rock behind him, and found Aari limping towards him. "They''re talking about the mission," Aari said in explanation as he lowered himself, wincing, beside Ferrian. He sighed heavily. "Too depressing."


    Aari was forced to lean over double when he sat on flat ground, in order to ease the pressure on his wings. Ferrian thought it must be extremely uncomfortable ¨Cnot to mention painful ¨C for him to sit like that. He wondered how the poor guy was going to sleep.


    The Angel shrugged, and then screwed his face up in pain and clutched his shoulder. "Yeah¡­ so?" he panted. "I''m afraid of¡­ tunnels, not sorcerers."


    There was a few seconds of silence, and then Aari started laughing painfully. After a moment, despite himself, Ferrian joined in. Both of them realised how ridiculous that sounded.


    They were quiet for a moment then, staring down at the shadowy valley and listening to the murmur of Grisket and Sirannor''s voices. After awhile, Aari said quietly: "I''m sorry."


    Ferrian glanced up. Aari was not looking at him. He was staring down at a bit of heather he had been picking to pieces. His eyes were dark and there was no hint of laughter in his face now.


    "For what?" Ferrian asked, not comprehending.


    "You know¡­" Aari said, still avoiding his gaze. "Back in the tunnel. Freaking out like that."


    Ferrian shook his head. "Forget it. Everyone''s afraid of something." He was silent for a moment, and then added quietly: "Besides. I''m the one who should be sorry. It was my fault you were swept away."


    Aari did look up then, and this time it was Ferrian who couldn''t meet his eyes.


    The Angel stared at him for a long moment, and then shook his head and said: "You don''t know that. The tunnel might have been unstable to begin with. It could have collapsed simply because we were walking through it."


    Ferrian did not reply. His eyes glimmered in the dark.


    "Hey," Aari said, trying to sound encouraging. "We''ll find a cure for your curse, don''t worry!"


    Ferrian forced a small smile. He turned to the Angel gratefully. "And you''ll be able to fly again," he said, nodding at Aari''s bandaged wings.


    Aari forced a positive smile in return. But deep in their hearts neither of them really believed what the other had said.


    * * *


    . Which meant he only had until tomorrow night to get this... mission... over and done with.


    He removed his wide-brimmed hat and ran a sweaty hand through his hair nervously. He glanced up at Lord Requar, who was walking just ahead of him.


    It didn''t help that the sorcerer was setting a fast pace, either. Flint''s legs were beginning to ache with the effort of keeping up with him. Though Requar had not spoken another word to him since their conversation that morning, it was obvious that something was playing on his mind. He seemed preoccupied: his face was tight with anxiety and his blue eyes held a distant look as he stared unseeing at the countryside. Every now and then a frown would cross his face and he would shake his head, as if disagreeing with his own inner voice.


    Flint wondered if he could use the distraction to his advantage. Perhaps, in his preoccupation with his own thoughts, Requar would remain oblivious to Flint''s true intentions.


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    That was, of course, if he hadn''t already suspected.


    Flint''s eyes flicked to the sorcerer again. If Requar had deduced anything about Flint''s motives, he was doing a masterful job of hiding it.


    Flint had to admit, he was slightly more at ease around the sorcerer now than he had been when they had first met. So far, Requar hadn''t shown the slightest hint of threat or aggression towards him. Back in Meadrun, he had genuinely seemed to want to help the townsfolk.


    And yet... despite this, there was something about Requar that disturbed Flint.


    And that wasn''t the only thing that was making Flint''s insides try to squirm their way up his throat. There was the matter of the magical longsword that was strapped across the sorcerer''s back. He stared at the eerie thing as he walked, wondering what else it was capable of, other than extraordinary strength and a miraculous ability to heal.


    , Flint couldn''t help thinking,


    He wondered suddenly if he should just do it now.


    The thought was a daring flash, momentarily cutting through his apprehension in a thrill of possibility. Screw the sea of questions floating around in his mind. Screw getting answers. Just get out the Justifier, shoot him in the back, steal his sword and get the hell out of there.


    ¡°


    Flint blinked, trying to calm his racing heart, and hurriedly gathered up his scattered thoughts.


    It was exactly the same thing Requar had asked of Nightwalker back in the tavern. It seemed to be important to him. Flint debated how much he should say, then remembered he was supposed to be gaining the sorcerer''s trust. He jogged a little to keep pace with the other man''s stride.


    ¡°


    Flint glanced up at Requar, but the tall man continued to gaze ahead, saying nothing.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± Flint went on, ¡°about a week ago, Nightwalker decided to trap him. Wanted to test for himself if this Winter thing was for real. Well,¡± Flint shrugged. ¡°It was. There we were, sweatin'' in the heat, and one mornin'' we woke up an'' there was fluffy white snowflakes fallin'' all around us, and we was freezing our arses off.¡±


    Requar was silent for a long moment, a dry breeze playing with the braided end of his long white hair. ¡°What happened then?¡± he asked quietly.


    Flint shrugged again. ¡°The Freeroamers came and broke him out of Nightwalker''s prison,¡± he replied. ¡°They carted him off to their Guard House in Forthwhite.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Dunno what happened after that.¡±


    They walked along the road in silence for a long while, seas of grass rippling on either side of them over the low, rolling hills.


    ¡°


    Requar was silent for another long moment, and Flint was sure he wasn''t going to answer, but finally he sighed, and admitted: ¡°I do.¡± He shook his head. ¡°And after I''ve helped your sister, Starshadow Flint,¡± he said, ¡°I intend to find him.¡±


    * * *


    The morning sun was an inferno on Cimmeran''s back as he slid his right foot forward as slowly as possible.


    Having achieved this, he paused for a moment, savouring the small victory. Then he painstakingly shifted his weight and moved his left foot forward.


    The end of the leather reins lay unmoving on the dusty road before him, only inches from his left foot. The muscles in his legs were beginning to cramp with the effort of moving so slowly, and it didn''t help that they already ached nastily from last night''s flight through the town.


    Carefully, he lifted his eyes. Ardance was glaring at him with one dark, sinister eye, her head lowered and her ears pulled back as though waiting for the slightest excuse to bolt again.


    A droplet of sweat trickled uncomfortably down the back of Cimmeran''s neck. He ignored it, glancing down again surreptitiously. He could make it this time, he was sure. Just one quick lunge¡­


    He made a grab for the reins, but Ardance anticipated his move and leapt aside. Yet again, the reins swung out of his reach and the horse trotted away down the road, the sunlight rippling along her silky hide.


    Cimmeran clutched nothing but a handful of dirt, overbalancing as he did so, he fell heavily onto his face in the dust.


    Gritting his teeth, he scrambled immediately to his feet and hurled the handful of dirt at the departing horse. "You stupid, worthless ANIMAL!" he yelled, his patience finally snapping.


    the stupid thing. He could have made better progress on one foot!


    Cimmeran''s breath caught in his throat as he suddenly realised how loudly he had just shouted.


    He whipped his hands from his face and spun, his heart rate rising.


    Tulstan glimmered in the shadow of the mountains about five hundred yards behind him. Cimmeran stared hard at the distant buildings, but there was no hint of movement: no flash of anything red. The road was deserted.


    Swallowing dryly, he turned back to his more immediate problem.


    Ardance had moved to the side of the road and was standing in the shade of some trees. She turned her head and stared back at him, her ears swivelling nervously.


    Cimmeran stared at her helplessly. He could feel the minutes ticking silently away as the sun rose ever higher in the sky.


    Cimmeran thought fervently.


    Terror prickled through him in a sudden wave and he spun again.


    Still nothing.


    He was sweating so much his clothes were sticking to him. He wiped his brow with his threadbare sleeve and looked back at Ardance. The horse was sniffing the ground, looking for something to eat.


    he thought suddenly. ... But yet again he had neglected something important: he had been so obsessed with getting away from Tulstan that he had completely forgotten to buy provisions.


    It was far too late to go back now.


    Cimmeran looked around in desperation. He hurried over to a clump of dry grass by the side of the road and ripped out a handful. He turned back to the horse and began to advance hesitantly. Ardance jerked her head up as he approached, and her ears flattened again.


    He held out the hand containing the grass, still edging carefully forward. "Look, Ardance!" he said, in what he hoped was a friendly tone. "I have something for you!"


    He waggled the grass encouragingly. Several strands fluttered to the roadway.


    Ardance''s ears swivelled forward and she lifted her head as if in interest, but as Cimmeran continued to advance she turned away and trotted a few steps further down the road.


    Cimmeran''s fist tightened on the grass as he struggled to remain calm. "Alright," he said, looking at the wilted grass. "Alright, I know it''s dead, but I''m sure it still tastes all right!"


    The horse had stopped also. She turned and stared at him warily.


    Cimmeran extended his hand a little further. "Come on¡­" he begged. "Come on, Ardance!"


    At last, the temptation of food won over. Ardance took a hesitant step forward.


    ¡°Yes!" Cimmeran breathed, his muscles relaxing a fraction. "That''s right! Nice grass!"


    Ardance came forward slowly. She lifted her nose and sniffed at the grass in Cimmeran''s hand. "That''s right¡­" he said, his heart now hammering very fast. "Nice¡­ grass¡­"


    He glanced down. The reins were trailing in the dirt a few feet away. Ardance had stopped again, still unsure of him.


    Without warning, Cimmeran lunged.


    Startled, Ardance reared and galloped away.


    "FINE! If you don''t want to let me ride you, well, that''s FINE with me! See how well you do on your OWN! GO ON!" He rushed at the horse. Ardance leapt away and cantered into a nearby field.


    "THAT''S RIGHT! GO!" Cimmeran shrieked after her. Breathing heavily in anger and despair, he spun on his heel and ran off down the road.


    Ardance watched him go. After awhile, she walked back to the road and nibbled at the grass scattered across it. Finding it to her liking, she lifted her head and began walking down the road after Cimmeran.

 Chapter Eighteen

    The start of a bond, or return of a foe?


    Only the one who must run can know.


    Cimmeran ran until he developed a stitch so painful it felt as though someone had thrust a spear into his side.


    He slowed and pounded heavily to a stop, his feet sending out small clouds of dust. He leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath.


    When the throbbing of blood in his ears had finally subsided, he looked over his shoulder anxiously towards Tulstan, but nothing moved on the road except heat-haze, rippling as though the air had turned to water.


    he thought. He looked into the field to his left. It was empty, apart from a few clusters of sheep dozing in the thin shade of scattered trees.


    If he cut across country he would be harder to track ¨C and there were more places to hide.


    With that thought in mind, he left the dusty road, waded through a ditch choked with long grass and thistles, and climbed over a split rail fence. Looking around quickly to make sure no one was in sight, he made a run for the nearest stand of trees.


    Cimmeran spent the remainder of the day darting across the hot fields, keeping to the shelter of trees where he could. Every now and then as he ran, sudden spikes of unexplained panic would stab his chest, causing him to scramble for the nearest tree or bush. He would huddle there, sometimes for half an hour or more, his wide golden eyes peering back towards Tulstan, flicking across the dusty horizon for any sign of his pursuers.


    But the Red Watch were nowhere in sight.


    He made his way quickly across the countryside, heading south-west through the heart of the Coastlands towards Sunsee. At one point, he passed very close to a farmhouse. He dropped into a crouch behind a bush a hundred yards away and stared at the house cautiously.


    Cimmeran''s stomach was growling. He had not had any breakfast, or any dinner the previous night. He was also extremely thirsty, and his head felt light. He knew he was at risk of becoming seriously dehydrated with all this frantic running around in hot weather.


    But the sight of people moving around inside the yard caused him to hesitate.


    His hand strayed to the money box he had secured tightly to his waist with a salvaged piece of leather. He was in enough trouble as it was without adding trespassing and another count of stealing to his growing list of crimes.


    he thought miserably. And what did it matter anyway? The Watch were


    Resigned to that thought, Cimmeran rose very carefully into a half-crouch and hurried back the way he had come, circling around the farm until he reached a band of trees that shadowed the rear of the neat white cottage.


    He paused for a moment in the dappled shade, pressed close to a tree, before creeping forwards as quietly as he could manage, and climbing over a weed-engulfed fence. To his fortune, there was a well here, and it had been used recently: a bucket of cool, dark water stood on the bricks, still rippling.


    Cimmeran barely cast a glance around the yard. He ran to the bucket and began scooping up handfuls of water, almost choking in his effort to drink as much as possible.


    "Hey!" a voice yelled suddenly.


    Cimmeran did not even bother to glance up. Water splashed across the bricks as he bolted for the fence. He hauled himself over it, ignoring the splinters, and tore into the trees. He did not stop running until he was sure the only feet pounding the hard ground were his own.


    Cimmeran continued on through the endless, sweltering day. He did not attempt to infiltrate any more farmhouses. Instead, he began searching for anything edible that was growing wild. Unfortunately, however, Cimmeran had very little knowledge of living off the land, and nothing he did recognise presented itself, though thankfully he found a couple of small streams to drink from.


    Finally, weariness and the harsh sun beat him down and dragged at his steps. He stumbled into a stand of birch trees and collapsed. For long minutes he lay as he had fallen, feeling the hot ground pressed against his cheek and droplets of sweat rolling down his body beneath his clothes. He rolled tiredly onto his back and stared up at a quietly swirling cloud of midges, flickering like specks of dust caught in an updraft. His eyelids felt heavy and he let them close, feeling the heat and the darkness enfold him¡­


    Cimmeran woke with a jerk. For a split second he thought something was wrong with his vision, until he realised that night had fallen.


    He rolled onto his side and pushed himself into a sitting position. He was surprised to find that he was wide awake, though his mind still felt foggy with fatigue. He gazed into the dark trees, wondering vaguely why he had awoken so abruptly.


    His thought was answered by a gentle snuffing noise from somewhere to his right.


    Cimmeran started and leapt to his feet. Panic flooded through him so powerfully he felt his head swim. Had the Watch caught up to him while he slept?


    He staggered backwards into a tree: pain lancing sharply through his tortured legs. He couldn''t breathe as he searched frantically for the source of the noise and found it ¨C the large, black silhouette of a horse. Cimmeran clutched the tree and prepared to bolt despite the pain in his legs, and then he realised that the horse was riderless.


    Sudden comprehension dawned. It was Ardance!


    Ardance merely swivelled her ears and stared at him, her eyes like polished onyx in the darkness.


    Cimmeran lowered himself gingerly to the ground. Ardance continued to watch him, as though waiting for something.


    "What?" he said angrily. "Go on! Go away! I don''t need you any more!"


    Cimmeran glared at the horse. He picked up a stick and threw it at her. "Go away!"


    Ardance retreated a couple of steps, but continued to stare at him.


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    Cimmeran pushed himself to his feet once more and limped out of the trees onto a parched field. The ground still felt warm beneath the worn soles of his shoes. After a couple of agonising yards, he paused and turned.


    Ardance walked quietly out of the trees behind him. Clenching his jaw in anger, Cimmeran increased his pace. After a few more yards he stopped again, swaying slightly, and looked back.


    The horse was still following him.


    Cimmeran spun and broke into a sprint. He didn''t get very far. His abused legs refused to run another yard further, and folded up beneath him.


    He fell heavily into the dirt and clutched at his burning legs in agony.


    Ardance''s shadow fell across him. He pushed himself up, panting and wincing, and glared at her. His eyes glimmered with tears of frustration and self-pity. "Leave me¡­ alone!" he cried.


    Ardance remained where she was. She lowered her head and began sniffing the ground, searching in vain for an edible scrap of grass. Cimmeran sighed in despair, and it was then that he noticed the reins were once again within his reach.


    He stared at them for a moment, and then turned stubbornly away. "No," he said determinedly. "I''m not falling for that trick again."


    He looked out across the moonlit field. A cool breeze stroked his face. His legs throbbed.


    a voice in his mind mocked.


    Despondently, he looked back at the reins. Then he reached a hand out experimentally. He expected Ardance to jerk away again, but this time she did not. His fingers closed around the leather.


    For a moment Cimmeran simply stared at the reins in his hand. Then he looked up at Ardance.


    ¡°You,¡± he said, ¡°you¡­ ARGH!¡±


    * * *


    Lord Requar and Starshadow Flint made camp in a band of tall pines which bordered an unharvested corn field. The air was fragrant and still beneath the closely interwoven trees. Each consumed their dinner in silence, lost in their own thoughts.


    Flint picked up a stick and poked at the fire unnecessarily. Requar was sitting on the opposite side of the clearing with his back to a tree, his long legs stretched out before him and his Sword held loosely in his lap, gazing up at the shards of the moon that were visible through the branches.


    Flint could feel his heart pounding abnormally hard in his chest. He was running out of time. They would reach Hillbank tomorrow night. And when they did, Flint would not be able to keep up this charade any longer. Requar would find out that he didn''t have a dying sister. His lie would be exposed.


    He swallowed nervously and glanced up. Requar had closed his eyes. Flint could not tell if he was asleep or merely resting. Or¡­ a sudden, cold thought occurred to Flint. Was he silently performing some spell? Was he - right now ¨C reading Flint''s mind?


    he thought.


    He swivelled his eyes sideways, taking care not to turn his head. The Justifier lay silently beside him, gleaming in the orange firelight. It was not loaded. His quiver lay beside his right knee.


    Flint shifted his gaze upwards, lifting his head very slightly so that he could just see Lord Requar under the brim of his hat.


    The sorcerer still had his eyes closed, his head resting against the trunk of the tree.


    Adrenalin mixed with fear pounded through Flint''s veins. How long would it take him to grab the Justifier, load an arrow and fire?


    A little of the adrenaline burned away. Too long. Much too long. But if he could do it quietly¡­ if he could manage to wind a bolt on without Requar noticing¡­


    "Tell me about your sister,¡± Requar said suddenly. ¡°What exactly is wrong with her?"


    Despite Requar''s soft tone, Flint jumped so violently that he almost fell forward into the fire. His arm jerked reflexively, scattering coals into the pine needles.


    "Wh-what?" Flint stammered breathlessly. He had been so startled that he had forgotten what Requar had said.


    "Your sister," Requar repeated patiently. "What is wrong with her?"


    Flint''s mind was racing as fast as his heart. He was glad he had spent the long hours travelling carefully devising excuses.


    "She¡­" He gave what he hoped was a convincingly despairing sigh and bowed his head. "She has sun sickness."


    To Flint''s relief, Requar nodded slowly. "Sun sickness, I have treated that a few times before. Does she often work out in the open fields?"


    "Uh, yeah," Flint replied. "Yeah. She''s a farmer."


    Flint listened to the booming of his heart, waiting for further questions and trying to anticipate what they would be.


    ¡°


    Flint just nodded.


    Requar looked at him. ¡°You are doing a courageous thing, Flint,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Not many people would seek out help from a sorcerer. You must care for your sister very much.¡±


    Flint swallowed and looked down at the fire. ¡°She¡­ she''s my little sister,¡± he replied. ¡°She meant everything to me...¡±


    That part was not a lie, and he realised his slip of the tongue immediately. His breath caught in his throat and he looked up, but Lord Requar had shifted position, legs crossed, leaning forward, an expression of sympathy on his face so genuine looking that Flint felt his heart twist a little.


    ¡°I have the power to save her, Flint,¡± Requar reassured him. ¡°And I will. I promise. You have not lost her yet.¡±


    An unexpected tide of emotion rose in Flint, constricting his throat. Unable to reply, he just nodded again.


    Requar watched him for a moment longer, then slowly got to his feet. "I think I shall go for a walk," he told Flint softly, and nodded. "Good night."


    "Night," Flint managed.


    The sorcerer walked into the pines, invoking his camouflage spell and melting away into the darkness.


    * * *


    The evening sky was choked with clouds. A stiff breeze brought with it the smell of rain, yet dust as dry as bone powder puffed up from the roadway as the horses'' hooves slowed and stopped at the junction to the Great Ocean Road.


    The officer leaned forward and peered down the gloomy, paved highway: first towards Sel Varence, then towards Sunsee.


    "I don''t reckon he came this way, mate," the officer''s companion said.


    The wind ruffled the officer''s plume and snapped at his red cape as he straightened. His saddle creaked as he turned to look back the way they had come. After a moment he nodded in agreement. "If you ask me, he''s fled into the Outlands. That''s where all the crims go."


    "Yeah," the second officer said disgustedly. " ''Cause they know it''s beyond our Ju-ris-dic-tion." He spoke the last word in a sarcastic, sing-song voice.


    The first officer sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Ah well," he said, sounding not at all disappointed. "Maybe those Freeroamers''ll catch him."


    There was a silence, filled only with the soft tinkling of the harnesses and the rush of wind in the trees. Then both of the officers sniggered.


    "Those mongooses?" the second officer snorted. "They couldn''t catch a bucket of snow in a blizzard!"


    They both laughed, but the sound was lost in the wind.


    "So, what d''you wanna do? Keep searching?"


    The first officer glanced one more time down the deserted road. "Nah," he said. "Screw it. What''s the point? That money''s long gone."


    They turned their horses.


    Something huge and black shot across the second officer''s left peripheral vision. He turned to see that his companion''s horse was riderless.


    "What the¡­?"


    A piercing scream tore through the air, but was abruptly cut off.


    The horses suddenly panicked. His companion''s horse bolted down the road and his own reared. A sudden fear took hold of the officer, and he scrabbled for his sword.


    Gasping in fright, the officer swung his sword madly, trying to hit whatever had grabbed hold of him. Instead, another hand snatched his flailing wrist and squeezed so hard the officer felt his bones crunching. A burning spike of agony shot up his arm and he dropped his sword and screamed.


    It was then, through vision blurred with terror and pain, that the officer saw his companion. He was lying face down in the dust. Around him, dark, shining patches were splattered all over the roadway. The officer''s breath quickened in horror and then froze in his throat. A huge, dark shadow rose from the fallen officer and turned yellow eyes like dimmed lanterns towards him.


    A wave of ice washed through the officer and he struggled to breathe. The second creature still had its hand clamped paralysingly tight around his neck.


    The first creature drew itself up to its full, terrifying height and moved slowly towards him. "Where isss he?" it whispered.


    The officer couldn''t speak.


    The officer whimpered in terror. The claw filled his entire world. "Wh-ere is wh-o?" he choked.


    "The Out-la-lands!" the officer sobbed desperately.


    The Muron glared at him, its pitiless yellow eyes boring into his soul. "You lie," it whispered.


    And with that it thrust its claw deep into the man''s brain.


    The second Muron released its grip as the first tore its fist from the gurgling corpse. Blood and gore oozed down its claws onto the roadway.


    "We are clossse," the second Muron hissed, its voice barely audible above the wind.


    The first Muron lifted its reptilian head as though listening to something far off on the breeze.


    "Thisss way," it said, and the two shadows leapt silently into the air and disappeared.


    On the road, nothing stirred except the dust and the feathers of two red helmet plumes.

 Chapter Nineteen

    Darkness follows, stormy air


    The one who haunts you isn''t there.


    Dry leaves tumbled across the dark highway, borne on a strong, cool wind that blew not from the sea, but from the mountains to the east. The Great Ocean Road was one of the oldest roads in Arvanor. The Angels had built it, in that time ¨C remembered now only in faded history books on dark shelves ¨C long ago when they had treasured beauty and freedom, when their hearts had been open, before they had become indifferent to the world''s problems.


    Over the span of untold generations, the road had been worn down, repaired, destroyed, rebuilt, abandoned, discovered and worn down again. It had endured the tread of countless feet, had helped to carry every burden imaginable. It was an important trade route, and was usually littered with travellers of all persuasions, but tonight the great highway was strangely empty ¨C apart from a lone rider on a horse as dark as a silhouette against the evening sea.


    He blinked his eyes wearily. He was exhausted, but strangely, didn''t feel like sleeping. He supposed he was so tired that he was beyond feeling sleepy. He no longer felt hungry, either, even though he''d had nothing to eat since leaving Tulstan except a few wild plums and (out of desperation) grass.


    Dimly he wondered at his lack of appetite and desire for sleep. It couldn''t be a good sign. Perhaps it was his body''s way of letting him know that it had given up, that it didn''t care what he did to it any more. His mind had ceased to care, as well. As long as his body held out long enough for him to reach his destination, he wasn''t concerned.


    The thought of his destination was the only thing that had kept him moving through the brutal, scorching days. Just one more day of travel, and he would reach Sunsee. If he could reach Sunsee, he would be all right.


    He had long since given up looking over his shoulder for the Red Watch. Perhaps they would chase him all the way to the city, perhaps not. Perhaps they had given up already. Perhaps, he thought, they had never been chasing him in the first place. He had not seen a single sign of them throughout the entire journey. Either they were extremely incompetent, or they simply couldn''t be bothered running all over the country through furnace-like temperatures looking for a petty thief. The latter was more likely.


    Whatever the reason, once he reached Sunsee, he would quickly disappear in the narrow streets, losing any potential pursuers. The city had its own guard ¨C the Blue Watch ¨C but it would not concern itself with a minor criminal from a country town. After that, it was simply a matter of buying passage (or, failing that, stowing away) on one of the ships ¨C any of the ships, he didn''t care which ¨C and no one would ever find him again.


    As if to test the strength of his resolve, a fierce gust of wind shoved him sideways. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on Ardance''s reins. At first, he had welcomed the breeze: the coolness of it was soothing against his sunburnt skin. But he had quickly come to despise it: it had nearly blown him right off Ardance''s back once or twice, and its constant pounding was aggravating his stiff, aching muscles.


    The horse endured the wind silently and without faltering, although Cimmeran could tell she was just as exhausted as he was. Her steps were becoming heavier, and her neck was lowered as though she didn''t have the energy to lift her head.


    Cimmeran felt a pang of guilt for the way he had treated Ardance over the past two days in his desperate attempt to escape the Red Watch. He had managed to mount her without too much difficulty, although getting her to do what he wanted was much harder. He had not ridden a horse for a very long time: in fact, he''d only ever ridden once, and then only because Lord Arzath had forced him to. It hadn''t been a very pleasant experience then, and it wasn''t much better this time. Ardance had come to him on her own accord, but she still didn''t fully trust him. And Cimmeran didn''t trust her. But they tolerated each other out of mutual need: he needed her speed, and she needed someone to look after her.


    The pain and frustration had been worth it, however. Once he had managed to coax her into a gallop, they had made excellent progress. Pardo Rynall had not exaggerated when he''d said she was fast. Ardance flew over the ground like a dark eagle through the clear summer sky.


    He had ridden her hard through the day and night, following fields and farm tracks, and keeping to the shelter of trees where possible. He had paused only to drink from whatever water source they could find. He had passed more farmhouses, but he kept well clear of them, trying to ignore the terrible hollow feeling in his stomach. Now that he had finally gained control of Ardance, he did not dare to let go of her reins for fear that she would have a change of heart and flee.


    On the third day out from Tulstan, Cimmeran had decided to chance the main road. His fear of getting caught was slowly dissipating, eroded by heat, fatigue, and the continued failure of any red cloaks to appear, and the highway made for much easier and swifter travelling.


    He glanced at the sky. It was heavy with swirling clouds. The stars had been consumed like stray crumbs on a beggar''s plate, and the moon was visible only as a dim grey glow behind him in the north. The ominous dark clouds that had been banking against the mountains over the past few days had pushed forward to smother the coastal sky, but not a drop of rain had yet fallen. The clouds were holding back, waiting as though in anticipation...


    A fresh gust of wind swept over Cimmeran, tossing Ardance''s mane into tangles and throwing invisible dust into his eyes. He rubbed at the grit in annoyance.


    It was while he was blinking his vision back into focus that a strange, uneasy feeling began to develop deep in the pit of his stomach. He paused, thinking it was his tired mind playing tricks on him; that his old doubts and fears had resurfaced to haunt him, but the feeling not only persisted: it grew stronger.


    It was the feeling that he was not alone: that he was being followed.


    He spun immediately in his seat, but the roadway behind him was deserted. Nothing moved except for the trees and the black waves rolling on the sea.


    He stared down the roadway for a long moment, his weariness instantly forgotten, his eyes fully awake and shifting, searching for the slightest hint of anything out of place. When nothing changed, he slowly turned and faced forward once more.


    The skin on his back prickled as though spiders were crawling down it. He spun again, breathing hard, but still there was nothing.


    A sudden crack of thunder ripped the air directly above his head, so loud that it almost deafened him. Both he and Ardance started violently. Ardance''s head whipped up in terror and she began prancing in sudden movements, threatening to throw him off.


    Cimmeran scrabbled for Ardance''s mane, having lost his grip on the reins, and struggled to keep his seat. "I-it''s alright!" he choked breathlessly. His heart had almost leapt straight out of his throat. "It''s just the s-storm!" But the wind carried his words away to join the dead leaves blowing across the roadway.


    When the thunder had died away, Ardance calmed slightly, but she was still tossing her head nervously. She turned and stared back down the road just as he had done, her ears pricked.


    , he thought.


    He looked around wildly. The rush of wind and the crash of the waves on the shore seemed too loud, the trees filled with too much movement, too many shadows¡­


    And then he saw it. A scrap of shadow in the north-eastern sky, visible only because it was caught against the clouds closest to the moon, which were a slightly paler shade than the surrounding sky. It was impossible to identify what it was. At first, he thought it was simply a piece of debris, a branch perhaps, blown out of the forest by the strong wind. But the wind did not bear it out to sea, as he would have expected. Instead, it hovered in the sky, battling the wind, like a moth caught in a spider''s web. Then a second shadow appeared, and Cimmeran realised that they were not hovering at all, but flying directly toward him!


    No¡­ they were much too big to be birds, and they were flying too fast and purposefully. They were becoming larger and more substantial by the second.


    Realisation swept through him in a sudden, chilling wave. "No," he whispered, disbelieving. "It can''t be¡­"


    Beneath him, Ardance became anxious again. Cimmeran was barely aware of her. He couldn''t take his eyes off the advancing black shapes.


    "Murons!" he gasped.


    Terror exploded inside him, sending burning shards into every fibre of his body and disintegrating all other thoughts.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    What then? What do they want with me?!


    He stared at the black creatures, paralysed on Ardance''s back. Every one of his instincts was screaming at him to run, but he couldn''t move. He couldn''t breathe. He just watched the creatures approach like a nightmare he was powerless to prevent.


    Ardance, however, had no such hesitation. She turned and broke into a gallop without waiting for her master''s command. There was a predator on her tail and her only thought was to flee.


    The sudden movement jolted Cimmeran back to his senses. He grabbed the reins and jabbed his heels into her sides much harder than he needed to, but he was overwhelmed with panic. "Go!" he screamed. "RUN!"


    Ardance increased her speed in response, her hooves clattering loudly on the paving stones. Cimmeran crouched low over her neck and tucked his limbs as close as he could into her body in an effort to stay on. The wind whipped Ardance''s mane into his face, stinging his eyes. He could feel heat and fear radiating off her like a furnace, seeping into him and fuelling his own terror. He didn''t know what the Murons wanted with him, but he had a vivid mental picture of his head torn open and pieces of his brain splattered all over the highway.


    He twisted his head and looked over his shoulder, to see how close the Murons were, and screamed. They were nearly on top of him already! He could see the yellow slivers of their eyes and hear the leathery swoosh of their huge wings, even over the wind. His breathing became as rapid as his heartbeat. He had to do something! The Murons would catch them in moments if they stayed on the highway. Ardance was swift, but no horse in Arvanor could outrun a Muron.


    he thought desperately. The Murons would not be able to follow them as easily through the trees¡­


    He yanked hard on the left rein, swinging Ardance''s head toward the trees. Ardance swerved wildly, leapt down a short embankment and plunged into the forest.


    Cimmeran was almost knocked from the saddle with the force of her landing. If the reins had not been twisted so tightly around his hands, he would have fallen. As the horse pounded through the trees, he clutched her mane with one hand and the pommel of the saddle with the other, and pulled himself into a safer position. Branches snapped across his arms and whipped over his head, and he crouched low again to avoid them.


    He glanced at the sky. The tops of the trees were flattened and swaying in every direction with the wind. Everywhere he looked, there were shifting shadows. He could not see the Murons anywhere, but he was not foolish enough to believe that he had lost them. They were still out there, he just couldn''t see them.


    If anything, that thought scared him even more.


    Cimmeran realised suddenly that he was shivering: from fear as much as the chill of his sweat-dampened clothing. He could hear Ardance panting, her breath coming in rough gasps. Fear had given the horse a fresh burst of energy, but she was tired and starving, and Cimmeran doubted she could keep up this pace for much longer.


    . There were no towns nearby, and the city was still an entire day away. They had not passed so much as a barn for hours. There was nothing out here but scattered forest and empty fields. No matter how long or how far they ran, the Murons would catch them eventually.


    , Cimmeran thought in despair.


    Hot tears leaked from the edges of his eyes and streamed across his cheeks. He choked a sob.


    He raised his head just in time to see something black and enormous drop from the treetops like oil spilled on the night. It landed directly in their path, increasing in size as the creature spread its wings to their fullest extent, creating an impenetrable barrier that none could pass.


    Ardance screamed and skidded in the leaves, trying to stop her forward momentum. She reared sharply, causing Cimmeran to lose his grip and tumble from her back.


    The hard ground knocked all the air out of his lungs and left him dazed, his head spinning crazily. He could see nothing but a confused mass of moving shadows. He heard a sharp hissing noise, like a giant snake frighteningly close, he felt the ground vibrate with thumping hoofbeats, and then there was only the wind.


    For a few moments he simply lay there, catching his breath, feeling pain throbbing through the shoulder that had suffered the worst of the fall. The tiny part of his mind that had remained detached and rational wondered if it was broken. He moved his arm tentatively, and was relieved to discover that it still worked.


    It was then that he remembered the Murons. He scrambled immediately to his feet, fear returning in a sharp rush, and froze.


    Both of the Murons were standing there, watching him, not more than ten feet away. Ardance was nowhere in sight. He was alone.


    The Murons made no move to attack. They simply stared at him as though waiting to see what he would do.


    He reached for his knife, but it was not there. He remembered suddenly that he had left it behind in Chellin''s tavern. He had absolutely nothing on him at all, except for his clothes and the money box, which was still tied around his waist. He''d been too afraid to put it in one of Ardance''s saddlebags in case she took off again, but it was useless now. All of his previous worries seemed almost laughable in comparison to the threat that now faced him.


    "W-what do you want?" he cried.


    "To take you back," one of the Murons whispered, his voice almost lost in the sudden gust of wind that scattered leaves against Cimmeran''s trembling legs.


    "Back?" he replied uncertainly. It was not what he had expected the Muron to say. "Back where? To the keep? But¡­I don''t understand! Lord Arzath is dead!"


    There was a long, deep pause in which the Murons stared at Cimmeran unblinkingly, almost curiously, the wind humming through their massive wings and creaking the branches of the trees around them.


    And then they laughed.


    It was a low, scratching, hissing sound, like a rusty piece of metal being dragged across wet stone. It jarred Cimmeran''s senses and set his nerves on edge. "Lord Arzath livesss," the Murons hissed. "And he wantsss to sssee you!"


    "You''re lying," he finally managed in a hoarse whisper. "You''re¡­ lying¡­ YOU''RE LYING!" He screamed the last word so loud his throat burned, as though the sheer force of effort would make it true.


    "You know we do not lie," one of the Murons said in a cold, mocking tone.


    The Murons regarded him with dark amusement. One of them laughed again. "Then your eyesss deceived you," the other whispered. It started forward slowly, its yellow reptilian eyes pinning him, like a cat regarding an insect it has caught beneath its paw. "Now you mussst come with ussss!"


    Arzath is alive. And I¡­ I ran from him. I ran¡­ I escaped¡­   the Memory whispered mockingly.


    "No!" he sobbed, still backing away. "I can''t go back, don¡¯t take me back! Please¡­" Yet even as he spoke the words, he knew they were a waste of breath. Murons did not understand compassion or sympathy, or even pity. He would have had better luck pleading to the trees.


    Or perhaps even they, too were against him¡­ His heels banged into something solid and immovable, and he tripped and fell backwards into a hard trunk. The Muron continued to advance unhurriedly. The second Muron watched silently.


    Cimmeran looked around in a last, desperate effort to find some way to escape, but there was nothing. There was no one to help him. There was nowhere to go. He was completely defenceless. Wind howled through the trees like a final lament. Thunder rumbled again, the sound of his world crashing down around him.


    He could feel tears running down his cheeks, but he didn''t care if the Murons thought he was weak. The vision of the advancing Muron was overlaid with a vision of a coal black castle. A prison, a stone to which he was shackled by an unbreakable chain. He felt once more the coldness of the stones beneath his worn shoes, the heavy, choking dust, the nauseating, ever-present smell of Griks and rats. The long stone staircase: three hundred and sixteen steps. The polished wooden door at the top, the lavish chamber beyond.


    A room, cut into the raw stone in the bowels of a mountain. A pitch black room so deep that no sound, no scream could escape¡­


    The scream was born from the very heart of Cimmeran''s soul, taking shape from the Memory and rising, gathering force, until it burst from his throat in a primal, inhuman wail of pure terror and anguish. It rose above the wind and shattered the air. It was a scream filled with madness. Even the approaching Muron hesitated at the sound.


    And then something happened that the Muron did not expect.


    The scrawny little Human attacked.


    With astonishing suddenness and a fury that took it completely by surprise, Cimmeran tore the money box from his belt, charged forward and threw it with every ounce of strength he had at the Muron''s head.


    The box hit the Muron directly in its face and exploded into a thousand pieces, green and silver coins scattering through the air like glittering rain.


    Cimmeran was running before the coins hit the ground.


    He ran harder than he ever had before in his life, crashing recklessly through the undergrowth, barely able to see where he was going in the gloom, and not caring.


    His mind was disjointed and swirling. He had no idea why he had attacked the Muron. He didn''t know what he was hoping to achieve. He couldn''t outrun them on Ardance, let alone his own useless, blistered feet¡­


    Tears blinded him, and something hard smashed into his face.


    He knelt in the dirt, not bothering to get back up. Great sobs shuddered through his body.


    Freedom had never been within his grasp, he realised. It had all been an illusion, a dream. A hopeless dream. He should have just accepted the destiny he had been given. He was a servant.


    He was Lord Arzath''s servant, and so it would be until his death.


    "I''m sorry!" he cried aloud to the windswept night. Sorry for Chellin, for the old beggar in the alley, for Ardance. Sorry for everything. All of it had been pointless.


    He wept freely, finally resigned to his fate. The rush of anger that had consumed him briefly had died, replaced with bitter despair. He could not escape the Murons, just as he could not escape Arzath. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable.


    As he lifted his head to look for the Murons, his blurred eyes caught a glimmer of brightness in the dark. He tensed in terror, but as his vision cleared slightly, he realised that it was not the eye of a Muron. It was a fire.


    It took him several seconds to recognise the significance of what he was seeing. A fire? If there was a fire out here, that meant there were people as well. And where there were people, there might be weapons. There might be someone who could help him¡­


    Summoning one last, desperate burst of speed, Cimmeran sprinted for the light.

 Chapter Twenty

    Terror stalks this fateful night


    Which is worse: to flee or fight?


    Ferrian sat with his back to the wind, huddled with his companions around a tiny campfire that clung bravely to its charred sticks as it was tossed mercilessly by the wind. The fire was for cooking rather than heat; the ground retained the day''s warmth long after sunset, although the chilly breeze sweeping down off the mountains was doing much to dissipate that warmth. The air smelled of eucalyptus and rain.


    Ferrian looked up at the black sky. "What will we do if it rains?" he asked no one in particular. They had no tents or tarpaulins, only their cloaks and a couple of blankets. They had been forced to leave most of their heavier supplies on Demon Heights to reduce the weight on the raft. Aari had lost all of his supplies, including his weapons.


    Grisket glanced at the sky as well, holding on to his hat to keep it from being blown off. Aari''s feather was still stuck in the band, quivering as though contemplating taking flight. "Nothing much we can do, lad, except sit here and weather it."


    Aari lifted his head and looked as though he was about to say something, then changed his mind and dropped his head back onto his arms. The Angel was sitting on a rock beside Ferrian, hunched over and also facing west in an unsuccessful attempt to reduce the movement of his broken wings. His arms were folded across his knees; his hands clenched into fists and his whole body tensed every time the wind picked up. Ferrian looked at him worriedly. He knew that Aari was suffering from a great deal of pain. The supply of willow bark from the medical satchel had run out several hours ago. Aari had not complained, but his face was pale and tight and he had been uncharacteristically quiet during the journey out of the Barlakk foothills.


    In fact, the only one who seemed to be in reasonably good spirits was Grisket. As they travelled, he chatted away casually, even though no one was really listening. Captain Sirannor rarely made idle conversation in any case, he usually only spoke if he had something that was worth saying.


    Ferrian hadn''t felt much like talking either. The incident on Demon Heights had shaken him, had brought the reality of his situation into sharp focus, and had reminded him that death was a very real possibility for any of them. And despite Sergeant Aari''s reassuring words, he couldn''t shake the belief that everything that had befallen them in the mountains was his fault.


    happen again. So far, the white light had seemed relatively harmless, but he didn''t want to take any chances.


    And the most dangerous part of the journey was yet to come.


    He brushed all thoughts of sorcerers aside: he didn''t want to think about that right now. They would reach the city of Sunsee tomorrow night: there would be plenty of time to dwell on it during tomorrow''s journey.


    He turned his attention to his companions to distract his thoughts. Captain Sirannor was sitting off to his left with his back against a tree, his long coat flapping in the wind. As Ferrian looked at him, he realised something odd about Sirannor that he was surprised he had never noticed before. The Captain wore the Freeroamer uniform like the others, but it was always covered by an ankle-length, dusty brown coat, although he had pinned his silver Captain''s badge to his left sleeve. Ferrian wondered if there was a reason Sirannor didn''t want to be seen in Freeroamer colours, or if he simply liked the coat. The Commander didn''t seem to have a problem with him wearing it. Ferrian didn''t know anything about Sirannor except that he was an ex-Lieutenant from the Darorian Army. Perhaps that had something to do with it, although he couldn''t think what.


    A sudden noise interrupted Ferrian''s thoughts. It came from somewhere out in the forest, disturbingly close: a terrifying, wailing shriek that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his blood freeze.


    They all looked up, startled. "What was that?" Ferrian said, his eyes wide.


    The pause that followed was far too long for Ferrian''s liking. "A firedog, probably," Sirannor finally replied in a low voice. "They come down out of the mountains in summer."


    "It sounded like someone was slaughtering it!" Aari said, looking horrified.


    "In all likelihood, they were. Firedogs are notorious for taking unattended sheep. The local farmers sometimes roam these woods at night, hunting them."


    Ferrian was glad his shiver was masked by the wind. He wondered what someone could possibly do to an animal to make it scream like that.


    "There is no need to be alarmed," Sirannor added, seeing the apprehensive looks on their faces. "Firedogs are large enough to take down a man, but they rarely attack humans, and would certainly not come near a group of them."


    Nevertheless, Ferrian adjusted his knife so that it was within easy reach. The howl of the wind suddenly seemed much more unnerving.


    "How do you know so much about firedogs?" Aari asked, more to break the anxious silence than out of curiosity.


    Sirannor leaned forward slowly, his grey eyes intense. "I used to hunt them," he said quietly, his face shadowed by the long hair whipping around it. "When I was five."


    His expression was so grave that for a long moment everyone was silent, staring at him. Then Commander Trice grinned and shortly after, Aari laughed.


    Ferrian laughed nervously with him. Sirannor''s attempt at humour, to lighten the mood. But there was something in the Captain''s thin smile that gave Ferrian the disturbing feeling that it wasn''t entirely untrue.


    The atmosphere darkened once more, however, when another noise issued from the surrounding trees. It sounded like something crashing through the undergrowth.


    To everyone''s surprise, Captain Sirannor was on his feet almost at once, his sabre hissing from its scabbard in a flash. Startled, Grisket and Ferrian both reached for their knives.


    "What happened to not being alarmed?" Aari said.


    "It''s not a firedog," Sirannor replied, staring intently in the direction of the noise. "It''s someone¨C"


    A man burst through the scrub, running so fast that he tore straight into the middle of their campsite, tripped over a pile of cooking utensils and went sprawling to the ground with an enormous clatter.


    Grisket, Ferrian and Aari leapt instantly to their feet. But before anyone could move, the man was up and hurling himself at the nearest person, which happened to be Ferrian.


    "Help me!" he gasped. His eyes were huge and wild with terror. "They''re after me!"


    The man was yanked off him, and Ferrian backed away hurriedly, shaken by what he had seen in his face. The stranger was now flat on his back on the ground with Sirannor''s sword at his throat. "Who are you?" the Captain barked.


    Commander Trice started across the clearing. "Captain, there''s no need to¨C"


    "Commander!" Aari yelled suddenly, his voice edged with fear. They all spun.


    A huge black shadow was prowling through the trees, in the same direction from which the stranger had come. The shadow stopped at the edge of the firelight, and they could see its eyes, floating in the darkness like twin lantern lights.


    "A Muron!" Aari gasped.


    "Two," Sirannor corrected. Ferrian spun to see another of the black creatures standing on the opposite side of the clearing.


    "Give the Human to ussss," the first Muron hissed. The creature''s voice sent a shiver through Ferrian like cold iron being drawn down his spine.


    "NOOOOO!" the stranger screamed suddenly. "Don''t let them take me! Please! You can''t let them take me back!"


    He was hysterical, almost mad with fear. No one moved or made a sound, except for the stranger, who was crying loudly. A gust of wind gutted the fire, almost extinguishing it. Ferrian felt a sudden surge of horror at the thought of being in total darkness with these things.


    Sirannor''s sabre was still pressed against the stranger''s throat. He exchanged a glance with Commander Trice. "What do you want with this man?" Grisket demanded.


    The Muron hissed dangerously. "That isss none of your consssern! Ssstand assside, or you will die!" The Muron on the other side of the clearing shifted slightly, just enough to catch the flickering orange light on its lethal claws.


    Silence fell. The air was so tight with tension that it almost hummed. Ferrian and the Freeroamers exchanged glances, each looking to the other for a clue as to what to do next.


    Finally, Captain Sirannor stood up, dragging the man to his feet by his collar. Without a word, he walked over to the first Muron and threw the stranger at the creature''s feet.


    The stranger was stunned into complete silence. Even his whimpering had stopped. He lay on the ground as he had fallen, turned to stone with terror.


    Grisket, Ferrian and Aari all stared at Sirannor in disbelief. "You''re not just going to let them have him?" Ferrian said, horrified.


    The Captain turned to him. "What would you have me do?" he said. "This?" He gestured with his left arm, so casually he could have been handing a drink to a friend, and the Muron who had reached down to pick up the stranger let out a terrible shriek. The hilt of a dagger was protruding from its eye.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    The second Muron sprang forward in a black blur, but Sirannor was already there, parrying the blow it aimed at Ferrian.


    Ferrian leapt sideways, his heart jumping. The situation had changed so quickly that for a moment he was completely disoriented.


    Aari was the first to recover. While the first Muron was preoccupied with the dagger, he snatched a branch from the campfire, and before anyone could yell out a warning, ran forward and thrust the burning stick at one of the Muron''s unprotected wings.


    The fire ignited quickly with the oil in the skin and flared with a dull whoosh, given strength by the wind. The Muron wrenched the dagger from its eye, only to find that its wing was on fire. It shrieked again and whirled, trying to bat out the flames, but in seconds the fire had engulfed its entire wing, quickly spreading to its shoulders and head. The creature screamed horribly.


    Ferrian felt sick as he watched the creature burning, its great wings flapping like a demon''s, consumed by roaring fire. Thankfully, the stranger had gathered enough of his wits to crawl out of the way.


    Aari picked up a fresh stick and lit it with his own. He tossed it to Commander Trice, and they turned their attention to the other Muron, who was still battling with Sirannor. As fit and experienced as the Captain was, he was grunting and panting with the effort of defending himself. He had managed to slip past its guard several times, but each time his sabre simply clanged off its iron-like scales.


    Aari and Grisket circled the fight cautiously, both in a different direction, looking for an opening. However, the Muron had seen what they had done to its companion, and it was prepared. Grisket threw his torch. The Muron folded its wings tightly against its back and ducked. Sirannor took advantage of the distraction and swung his sabre at the Muron''s head, but once again, it simply glanced off harmlessly. The Muron snarled, and retaliated with a vicious swipe that opened three gashes in Sirannor''s upper arm. The Captain blocked the Muron''s second swipe, fighting on as though nothing had happened.


    Then yet another cry pierced the night: not one of pain, but of determination and fury. To their surprise, the stranger rushed out of nowhere and hurled himself onto the Muron. The Muron hissed and threw the man off with a flick of its arm, but that split second of distraction was all that Sirannor needed. He rammed the point of his sabre into the creature''s eye as deep and as hard as he could, trying to penetrate its brain.


    The Muron let out an ear-shattering screech, and slashed furiously with its claws. Sirannor caught another blow across the chest before he managed to leap out of its reach. The Muron scrabbled at the sword sticking out of its head, but its movements were becoming sluggish. It swayed and staggered drunkenly.


    Everyone watched breathlessly, waiting for it to fall.


    But to their dismay, it did not. Instead, it lunged at Grisket.


    It had made a mistake. It had turned its back on Sergeant Aari, who was still holding the burning branch.


    Aari seized his chance. He darted forward and set the torch against the Muron''s wings. In moments, the creature was ablaze. It let out one final, agonising wail, then stumbled to its knees, collapsed, and was still.


    For a long moment, no one moved or spoke, everyone regaining their composure and catching their breath. Ferrian felt his shoulders sag and the breath he had been holding leave his lungs in a rush. He couldn''t take his eyes off the fallen Muron: he was half-expecting it to get back up again.


    Then the stranger let out a cry: "Behind you!"


    Everyone turned, and Ferrian gasped in horror.


    The first Muron wasn''t dead! Its wings were reduced to smoking skeletons, and one eye was a mass of congealed black blood. It stalked toward them, a hideous silhouette against the backdrop of a burning tree, its shoulders hunched, its lips curled back in a snarl of pure hatred, revealing all of its terrifying teeth.


    "Anyone got any other ingenious ideas?" Grisket asked.


    No one replied. The Muron stepped on the campfire and crushed it into the ground with its taloned foot.


    Sirannor held his hand out to Ferrian. "Give me your knife," he panted.


    Ferrian did as he was told without question. Sirannor caught Grisket''s attention, and made a brief gesture. The Commander nodded almost imperceptibly.


    Sirannor lifted Ferrian''s knife in both hands and walked purposefully toward the Muron. Ferrian watched him nervously, the knots that had started to unravel in his stomach tightening again. He hoped that the Captain wasn''t going to attempt to attack the Muron with only a knife¡­


    Then Ferrian realised that Sirannor was drawing its attention away from the others, turning it in a half-circle so that its blind eye was facing Grisket.


    Grisket raised his own knife, took careful aim, and flung it.


    The knife wedged in the Muron''s damaged eye. It screamed and swung its head toward its attacker. Sirannor leapt at once, plunged his knife into its other eye, and scrambled out of the way as it thrashed wildly. It tore the knives out of its eyes and snarled, black blood oozing thickly down its face. It continued to advance, swinging its head from side to side blindly, searching for its enemies.


    "Gods¡­ what does it take to kill these things?" Grisket exclaimed.


    "More than we''ve got," Sirannor answered. "I suggest we run."


    It quickly became obvious to the others that there was no other option left to them. So, following the Captain''s example, they turned and fled into the forest.


    The forest was so dark that it was impossible to make out anything except different shades of black. Ferrian was torn between the desire to run flat out, and his fear of crashing into a tree. He could not see any of his companions, and the wind masked all sound of their movement. He had no idea if the Muron had followed them, but it was blind and flightless, and he didn''t think it would be able to find them easily. At the moment, he was more worried about becoming lost. He began to panic.


    Thunder rolled across the sky like a gigantic boulder crashing down a mountainside. It was followed a second later by a flash of lightning. In the brief glare, Ferrian caught a glimpse of his companions scattered amongst the trees, frozen in that instant of time like figures on a painting.


    He turned in the dark to where he thought he had seen Aari, and could just make out the pale shape of the Angel''s bandaged wings. He ran toward them, trying to keep the vision in sight.


    He wondered if Angels could see better in the dark than Humans could. He hoped so.


    Ferrian could not estimate how long they ran. His sense of time ¨C past and future ¨C had vanished. The burning ache in his legs and his increasingly laboured breaths were the only indications that he was running at all.


    And then the rain fell. It poured out of the sky as though a floodgate had opened, drenching him in seconds. He thought he heard a shout from somewhere ahead, but he couldn''t make out the words over the storm. Aari swerved suddenly to the left, running away from the wind. Ferrian quickly followed.


    , he thought, relieved to have some sort of bearing. He also saw Captain Sirannor, who had stopped not far ahead and to his right.


    As blackness engulfed the forest once more, he shouted at Aari to turn right. Not knowing whether the Angel heard him or not, he ran in that direction himself.


    A dim figure appeared in the gloom, and he stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath. Sirannor was calling out so that the others could follow the sound of his voice. "Who''s here?" Sirannor yelled. Ferrian and Aari both spoke their names.


    "Commander Trice!" the Captain shouted.


    To their relief, an answering shout echoed through the rain. A short time later, they heard the sound of footsteps and two people panting. "I''ve got the stranger with me," Grisket told them.


    Then there was nothing left to do but sit and wait for the darkness and the rain to subside.


    "At least there''s something to be thankful for," Grisket muttered. "That Muron is more blind than we are."


    "Not by much," Aari said gloomily.


    A light flared in the darkness, momentarily dazzling them. Captain Sirannor had struck a match. Through the rain that glittered in the spluttering light, Ferrian saw him reach into his coat pocket and take out what looked like a tiny, dark box, with brass hinges on each edge and a little sloping roof on the top. As he watched, the Captain opened a miniature door on the side of the box, and brought the match to it, lighting a tiny wick inside. A glow emanated from within the tinted glass, no brighter than the coals of a fire, yet enough to allow them to make out each other''s faces.


    "Waterproof lantern," he explained. "Standard army issue. Folds up to fit in a pocket. Not bright enough to be noticeable by anyone unless they''re right on top of us." He handed the little lantern to Aari, who inspected it with fascination. Then he turned to look at the wound on his shoulder. He removed his coat carefully.


    "Damn," Grisket swore. "All our medical supplies are back at the campsite."


    Sirannor touched the wound gingerly, but did not wince. "It''s not life-threatening," he said quietly. The blue sleeve of his Freeroamer uniform was dark with blood. He tore away the remnants of the sleeve and then (with Grisket''s assistance) tore the black sleeve off as well to use as a makeshift bandage.


    "What about your chest?" Grisket asked as he finished tightening the knot.


    "Just a scratch," Sirannor said unconcernedly, slipping his coat back on.


    They were quiet for a while, listening to the storm and watching the dim flicker of the lantern. Ferrian squinted through the rain streaming down his face at the stranger, who was sitting across from him. The man was huddled into a ball with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, not looking at any of them. Soaked with rain, he looked even more miserable than he had before. He had not made a sound since they had left the clearing.


    "Who are you?" Ferrian asked quietly.


    The man glanced up nervously. He seemed to have trouble meeting Ferrian''s eyes. "M-my name is C-Cimmeran," he whispered.


    The other three looked over. "I think now is as good a time as any for an explanation," Grisket said sternly. "What did those Murons want with you?"


    Cimmeran looked at him sharply, his eyes growing wide again with fear. "T-to take me b-back!" he stammered.


    "Back where?" Ferrian asked.


    Cimmeran''s breath began coming in quick gasps. A look of anguish came across his face, and he buried his face in his hands and began to sob.


    Grisket reached out to put a reassuring hand on the man''s shoulder, but Cimmeran immediately flinched away as though Grisket had been about to strike him. The Commander withdrew his hand hastily and lifted it to show he meant no harm. "It''s all right lad, no one''s going to hurt you. Where were those creatures going to take you?"


    "L-Lord Arzath''s keep!" Cimmeran choked.


    Cimmeran nodded, but didn''t look up. "I''m his s-servant!"


    Aari gaped. "So¡­ you escaped from this Lord Arzath, and he sent Murons after you?" he asked, as though he couldn''t believe that he had heard correctly the first time.


    Cimmeran sobbed again. "Y-yes!"


    Ferrian had only been half-listening to the conversation. An entirely different thought had occurred to him. "Cimmeran¡­" he said slowly, "do you know any other sorcerers?"


    Cimmeran immediately became defensive. His body tensed and his eyes shifted rapidly from one face to the other. "Why d-do you want to know?" he asked guardedly.


    Ferrian hesitated, thinking carefully about what he was about to say. "It''s important," he replied finally. "Please answer my question. Do you know any other sorcerers?"


    "There ar-aren''t any," Cimmeran said.


    There was a deep pause. Ferrian looked away through the rain, feeling his soul dissolving.


    "Except for L-Lord Re-quar," Cimmeran added. Ferrian looked back quickly.


    "This Lord Requar," Grisket interjected. "Is he as evil as your master?"


    Cimmeran shook his head and hugged his knees to his chest, rocking backwards and forwards slightly, like a child. "N-no. He was k-kind to me."


    Ferrian pushed himself to his knees and shifted forward until he was directly in front of Cimmeran. "Do you know where he is?" he asked.


    Cimmeran looked up and met his eyes directly for the first time. "Yes."


    Ferrian felt a surge of anticipation rush through him. He grabbed Cimmeran''s shoulders. "Where?" he asked breathlessly.


    Cimmeran cried out and cringed from Ferrian''s touch. "Where?!" Ferrian demanded again, his fingers digging into the man''s shoulders. "WHERE IS HE?!" he yelled in frustration, desperate for an answer.


    Both Aari and Grisket grabbed Ferrian and pulled him away. "Ferrian, calm down!" Grisket said. He turned to a distraught Cimmeran. "If you know where this sorcerer is, man, tell us!"


    !"


    "Why?" Aari asked.


    "Because that''s where¨C" he choked on the words, and continued in a whisper: "That''s where Arzath lives!"


    They all fell silent. Ferrian was breathing rapidly, his heart racing. He could barely feel the rain pouring over him. They had found a sorcerer! There was no need to go to Crystaltina! No need to question the scholars, no need to hunt in the dusty archives for information... For the first time, the possibility of getting rid of the Winter seemed within his grasp. He found that he was shaking with the force of sudden hope rushing through him.


    He stood up. "I don''t care," he said, with a fierceness that surprised even himself. "That''s where I''m going!"

 Chapter Twenty One

    Waiting nightmare; one mistake


    Balanced on a slender fate


    !" Struggling desperately, Crysk tried to dig his thick heels into the stone floor, but the two huge Grik guards clutching his arms simply dragged him forward regardless. Behind him, the handful of other Griks who had trailed along to witness the fun jeered and sniggered.


    Grogdish whirled abruptly and snarled, causing the party to come to an abrupt halt.


    "Shuddup, all of yer! Do yer wanna bring da whole eyrie down on us?"


    Silence fell. The Griks looked nervously at one another and at the dark corridor stretching ahead. Grogdish snorted, adjusted his grip on the enormous spiked cudgel in his hand, and continued walking.


    The others followed in silence save for the ponderous thump of their boots and the faint clanking of their weapons.


    Crysk''s face was crunched up like a shattered boulder. "B-but," he spluttered. "But it worked! You saw it¨C!"


    Grogdish swung around, hardly breaking stride, and advanced on the hapless Grik. He shoved his big, flat face so close to Crysk''s that for a heartstopping moment the smaller Grik thought he was going to bite his head off. Grogdish''s eyes were deep, black pits under his brow, torchlight seething within them and reflecting off the gold shards embedded in his face.


    Crysk shrank back, his face crunching up even further.


    didn''t


    Grogdish''s face was suddenly gone. In its place was the cudgel.


    Crysk swallowed. His eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the crushing weapon. Some of the spikes were bent or broken, but Crysk was quite certain that such a weapon, in the hands of an angry Grogdish, was more than capable of smashing even his rock-hard head inside out.


    "Do yer know what dis cudgel tastes like?" Grogdish snarled.


    Crysk shook his head carefully.


    Crysk shook his head again.


    Crysk nodded.


    The corridor ended after a short distance at a junction. The light from the guard''s torches revealed an empty alcove directly before them, and another corridor disappearing into heavy blackness to the left and right.


    Grogdish stepped aside as the two Grik guards came forward and shoved Crysk into the middle of the junction. His impact on the floor sent a shudder down the corridor and dislodged a few cobwebs and their occupants from the ceiling.


    Crysk picked himself up and stood hunkering in the circle of orange light, peering in dismay down the passageways on either side. He hadn''t been allowed a weapon. He felt like a piece of bait that had been thrown down to lure something out, and it wasn''t a pleasant feeling.


    The darkness pressed silent and expectant all around the group.


    Crysk made a small, strangled noise in his throat.


    "Well?" Grogdish barked. "Don''t jus'' stand dere, Slugface! Get goin''!"


    "Hang on!" one of the other Griks spoke up. "He oughta bring somefing back, so''s we know he''s really been dere!"


    Grogdish turned back to Crysk and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "All right," he sneered nastily. "Bring back da fang of a Muron."


    Crysk''s brow rose, his craggy face bleaching a lighter shade of grey. Even some of the Griks, who delighted in watching others being tortured, quit grinning.


    One of the Grik guards threw his torch at Crysk''s feet. "Wouldn''t want yer ter be alone in da dark," he said.


    The group of Griks snorted and cackled with laughter. Even Grogdish sniggered.


    He raised his cudgel. "Now move! An'' hurry up, before one ''o dem black fings comes down ''ere an'' stumbles onto us!"


    Shaking, Crysk bent down and picked up the torch. He gripped it tightly in both hands, holding it out before him as though it were some kind of talisman that would protect him from any horrors that might leap out of the dark.


    "W-which way?" he stuttered.


    Grogdish growled impatiently. "Take yer pick!"


    A faint draught was blowing from the left-hand passage: a dusty strand of spider silk was swaying gently from the ceiling. Crysk turned towards it, hoping that where there was air, there would eventually be a way out. A few steps down the passageway, a sudden rush of defiance surged through him. He turned back to face the Griks. "I-I''ll show yers! I''ll bring back a fang! I''ll bring back a whole bloody skull!"


    At this, the Griks burst once more into raucous laughter. "Yeah!" one of them called back to him. "Yer own!"


    "On a stick!" another added.


    The Griks laughed even harder.


    Crysk gritted his teeth and turned away. Ignoring their taunts and jeers, he began walking slowly but determinedly towards his fate.


    * * *


    Sunlight sparked off the gold embroidery decorating Arzath''s black tunic as he stood, arms folded, glaring up at the white castle before him as though the sheer, potent venom of his gaze alone could dissolve the shield of magic that protected it. Cloud shadows moved slowly over the milky stone, sliding across the towers and walls like silent wraiths protecting their home. Flashes of gold and silver ignited briefly in intermittent patches of sunlight.


    Arzath had risen before dawn and come out here alone in the grey light to explore the bluff upon which his brother''s castle stood. His expectations that he would find a way inside were not particularly high, but determination and anger surged through his veins.


    As powerful as those feelings were, however, they could only partly fill the enormous aching void inside him that had been left with the departure of a power that had been as much a part of him as his blood for almost all of his life.


    He had crossed the river downstream at the ford and started his search at the base of the bluff: running his hands over the weathered rock and peering intently at it for the tiniest clue that might indicate the presence of a hidden entrance. Though he had, of course, never been inside Requar''s castle, he was almost certain that the bluff beneath it and the cliffs surrounding it were catacombed with secret passages, just like his own.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    A sudden burst of pain flooded through his head, scattering his thoughts, and he clutched it with both hands, eyes screwed tight in agony. A sharp gust of wind threw his hair across his face and snatched at his long black cloak, causing him to stumble slightly. He curled his long fingers into his hair and waited for the pain to subside into a dull throb, and his blurred vision to come back into focus. Slowly, he removed his hands from his face, and was horrified to find that they were shaking. He clenched them tightly into fists and forced them to stop, taking long, deep breaths to steady himself.


    The thought made him feel queasy. He swallowed and took another deep breath, and burned the feeling away with anger, reminding himself once again whose fault it was that he was forced to endure this agony. Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention back to the castle, his determination rekindled.


    Spinning on his heel, he set off in a counter-clockwise direction around the perimeter of the keep, despite the fact that his constant pacing back and forth across the bluff was beginning to wear a path in the dry grass.


    He stared hatefully at the castle as he walked, careful to keep a generous distance between himself and the walls. The magic shield was invisible, but very substantial. It would not harm him if he touched it, but he knew that it was linked to Requar''s mind, and that his brother would most certainly have increased the sensitivity of the shield in order to feel its effect over a long distance.


    In other words, if anything so much as breathed on it, Requar would know.


    The shadow of the cliff fell across Arzath, and he slowed and stopped.


    It was impossible to walk in a full circle around the castle, because it abutted a sheer wall of grey cliffs. Beside him, a mass of pitted rock pressed forward to join with the smooth white stone of the castle''s walls.


    Arzath studied the corner created by castle and cliff. It was lichen-speckled and seamless. Solid and unyielding and unclimbable. Even without the shield, it was near impossible to scale, but he could have ordered the Murons to find a way inside...


    shield!


    The dark windows of the castle gazed back at him impassively. They seemed as distant and unreachable as eagle''s eyries.


    In short, it was hopeless. There was simply no way inside.


    He turned away and raked his hands through his hair.


    "No!" he yelled suddenly, his voice echoing off the towering cliff walls. He spun back and snarled at the castle. "I will NOT let you win!" On impulse, needing to vent his anger, he snatched up a stone.


    He managed to control his throw at the last moment and direct it at the boulders at the foot of the cliffs, instead of the castle. But to his surprise, it bounced off a boulder, ricocheted off seemingly empty air and rattled back down the rocks into the grass.


    Arzath stood, frozen with horror, his eyes widening as he watched a circular patch of ripples appear in the air a few yards out from the castle wall, spreading outwards like the disturbance caused by a pebble dropped into a perfectly still pond.


    He continued to stare at the spot, even after the ripples had faded, his breath stuck in his throat. Wherever Requar was, he would have felt that disturbance, as small and trivial as it had been. If Requar decided to use a Mind Sweep to find out who had thrown the stone¡­


    A mass of grey clouds drifted over the sun, and the air went suddenly cold. Arzath looked out over the valley: a patchwork of cloud shadows and sunlight. He felt even sicker than usual.


    The implications were terrifying. With one single, impulsive action, he might have just made the worst mistake of his life.


    "A stone. It was only a stone!" he muttered. His skin prickled all over as though he could feel his brother''s eyes glaring at him over the miles that separated them. The wind picked up again, moaning through the empty peaks and shivering the grass at his feet.


    Arzath stepped backwards, staring at the white castle, until his back was against the cliff. Then abruptly he turned and ran for the bluff path.


    * * *


    Long fingers of pale sunlight reached tenderly through the trees to stroke the faces of the sorcerer and the Bladeshifter as they walked through the pine forest. It was completely silent apart from the melodic song of birds echoing through the branches. Even their footsteps were quietened on the thick carpet of pine needles.


    Flint trailed Requar miserably at a short distance. He estimated that at the pace they were currently travelling, they would reach Hillbank just after sunset. Nine hours, maybe less.


    He was going to have to think of something bloody fast, or he was a dead man.


    He kicked at a drift of pine needles in frustration, then looked up quickly to make sure Requar hadn''t noticed.


    The sorcerer wasn''t even looking in his direction. Flint watched him picking his way steadily through the trees. He looked calm and relaxed; perfectly at ease, sure-footed and confident. The hilt of his sword glittered like a bright blue star when it caught the sunlight. Flint suppressed a shiver.


    What am I going to do?


    a voice in his mind again whispered, with increasing urgency.


    The Justifier was loaded and set, with the safety catch on to prevent it from triggering while he walked. He had loaded it last night, while he was waiting for Requar to return. All he needed to do was unstrap it, flick off the catch and pull the trigger.


    Flint licked his dry lips. His fingers tingled. He kept his eyes fixed on the sorcerer''s back, carefully regulating his footsteps and breathing, though his heart was beyond his control. A thrill of excitement swept through him. He could end this game, shred this veil of deception, right here and now.


    One way or the other.


    Despite the insistence of the voice in his head, however, he could not bring himself to reach back for the Justifier. Something held his arms to his sides in an iron grip, and he knew what it was.


    Fear.


    At least, he could if Requar were an ordinary person.


    But he wasn''t. He was a sorcerer.


    suspected that Flint had sinister motives, and was simply waiting for him to make the first move?


    The consequences of failing this mission were not pleasant to contemplate.


    he thought, but it was not a particularly attractive one. He could make a run for it: abandon the mission. To hell with Nightwalker. If he wanted the sorcerer dead, he could assassinate him his own damn self.


    But he knew that Lord Requar would come looking for him, as would Nightwalker. He tried to decide which was worse, and gave up. It would mean he could never go back to the Bladeshifters. He could imagine the ridicule: he''d be branded a coward for the rest of his life.


    And there was someone in particular that Starshadow Flint wanted very much to find¡­


    Gazing off into the trees, Flint was so immersed in his own thoughts and worries he didn''t notice that Requar had stopped, and walked right into him.


    Flint jumped in surprise and leapt backwards so quickly he almost tripped over. He straightened his hat and garbled a hasty apology, but Requar didn''t seem to have noticed. He was staring straight ahead, into the forest.


    Flint peered warily ahead as well, trying to see what the sorcerer was looking at.


    The forest was empty. He glanced up at Requar, and noticed that his blue eyes were unblinking and strangely blank.


    Flint stared at him in growing apprehension. He started to ask what was wrong, but at that moment Requar blinked: his eyes refocusing as though returning from a daydream. He gave a slight shake of his head, as if dismissing a thought, and continued walking without so much as a glance at Flint.


    "What¡­ was that about?" Flint asked, slightly disconcerted and still glancing about as though expecting to see something.


    "Hmmm?" Requar stopped and turned to Flint with a vaguely surprised expression on his face, as though he had forgotten the man was following him.


    "Oh. Nothing," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Just someone throwing stones at my castle. No doubt one of the Griks amusing itself."


    Flint nodded, no more enlightened than he had been before he''d asked. "Griks," he replied. "Right."

 Chapter Twenty Two

    Darkness falls and sunlight fades


    Tonight the stars come out to play.


    Hillbank wasn''t so much a town as a tiny hamlet. Its dozen or so buildings huddled in a narrow, sheltered dale between two round, grassy hills. The buildings were small and quaint, constructed of bluestone from the nearby Barlakk Mountains: a common building material in the area. But the most notable and beautiful feature of Hillbank''s architecture came from its distinctly Sirinese influence: the steeply-pitched wooden roofs; the tall, sunken windows and highly decorative white architraves. Matching white, ornate fences bordered well-kept gardens outside every cottage.


    Nestled snugly around the houses were sprawling oaks, golden ash, Sirinese maples and other deciduous trees which draped shawls of shadow and deep amber sunlight over the buildings.


    The occasional trickle of chatter or laughter could be heard from the houses that lined the hamlet''s single, dusty street, as farmers returned home from their fields and headed for the tavern to ease their stiff muscles with even stiffer drinks.


    Over the little bridge leading into the hamlet stretched two long shadows, accompanied by the clear sound of footfalls on wooden planking. One set of footsteps slowed and stopped, while the other kept purposefully onwards.


    Flint turned to see that Lord Requar had paused in the middle of the bridge, glancing into the dark stream below. The Bladeshifter muttered under his breath and started pacing restlessly as he waited, unable to decide whether he was annoyed or relieved at the delay. A peaceful lull had fallen over the countryside, filled with the glugging of frogs and the nearby creaking of a water mill.


    "It''s so peaceful here, " Requar remarked. Had Flint been listening, he would have noticed a slight tinge of regret in the sorcerer''s voice.


    Requar looked back the way they had come, at the setting sun streaming through the trees behind them. "It reminds me of my valley, before¡­." His voiced trailed into silence. After a moment, he shook his head, dismissing whatever thought he had been about to voice, and continued walking.


    Flint''s stomach was churning. He had reached the end of the road. Here they were in Hillbank, and Lord Requar was still alive...


    "Which one is your sister''s residence?" the sorcerer enquired as he caught up with Flint.


    Flint looked up from chewing his thumbnail and pointed at a random house. "Over there. That one at the end." He had been expecting this question. Requar nodded, and started to move in the direction Flint had indicated.


    "Wait!" Flint cried suddenly. He made as if to grab Requar''s arm, then remembered who it was he was grabbing, and hastily retracted his hand. "I¡­ uh¡­ I mean¡­" he stammered as Requar turned to look at him.


    "You''re a¡­" he hesitated, glancing about to make certain no one was close enough to overhear, then continued in a lowered voice: "You''re a sorcerer. My sister doesn''t know you''re coming. You walk in there and start wavin'' magic around and you''ll scare the livin'' wits out of her!"


    Requar stared at him for a long moment. "You''re absolutely right," he said finally. "What would you like me to do?"


    It was all Flint could do to keep from sagging with relief. For the first time since he had agreed to this mission, he felt as though he gained some real control over the course of events.


    He took a slow, deep breath, hoping that Requar would assume his obvious anxiety stemmed from concern for his non-existent sister.


    "I think I should go an'' talk to her first," he replied carefully. "To¡­ y''know, explain things¡­" He gestured at the nearby tavern. "You can stay at the tavern tonight, and I''ll come an'' fetch you in the morning. By then I''m sure she''ll have had time to¡­ uh, get used to the idea of meeting a sorcerer."


    Requar nodded. "Agreed," he said. Then, to Flint''s surprise, he gave a small smile and placed a hand on Flint''s shoulder.


    "There is no need to be anxious, Flint," he said. "I''ll take care of her."


    Flint forced a smile in response. He watched Requar turn and start across the street towards the tavern, while he himself began walking slowly down the road toward his supposed sister''s house.


    The moment he heard the tavern door close, however, he shot a hasty glance over his shoulder and bolted for a shadowed laneway between two cottages.


    As soon as he was certain he was out of sight, he slumped against the wall, taking several deep breaths to steady himself.


    Throughout the conversation with Requar, his heart had been beating so hard he was sure it was visible beneath his black leather jacket. This is it, he thought. The point of no return.


    Tomorrow there would be no more chances. There could be no more excuses.


    He had to complete this mission tonight.


    As he looked at the sunset-gilded trees at the end of the lane, he was struck with an almost overwhelming desire to flee into their leafy depths, to keep on running until he had put several dozen miles between himself and the sorcerer.


    But once again, all of his old doubts came crawling back to point out that running would achieve nothing. Both the sorcerer and Nightwalker would come after him, and one or the other would probably kill him.


    Nightwalker didn''t take too kindly to traitors and deserters. Requar might seem good-natured on the outside, but Flint had no idea what he would do if he found out someone had been sent to deceive and assassinate him.


    He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, muttering bitterly. There was nothing else for it. He had no choice but to kill Requar. He tried to steel himself against this decision.


    Just DO it, Flint, he told himself. Stop worrying about the consequences and do it! Shoot him, steal his sword and get the hell out of this place¡­


    But before he could think about how he was to achieve this, he reminded himself that he had more immediate concerns. He cursed himself again for choosing Hillbank as a destination; it had only complicated matters further. The Bladeshifters had passed through here barely a fortnight ago. If one of the villagers happened to catch sight of him, there was sure to be a scene. News of the presence of a Bladeshifter would be all over the hamlet in thirty seconds, and he didn''t need that kind of attention.


    He needed to acquire some new clothes. If he didn''t look like a Bladeshifter, there was a good chance no one would recognise him.


    He unbuckled the Justifier and stared at it in the gloom, thinking hard. He needed somewhere to stash this, as well. Walking around with a gigantic crossbow on his back was a dead giveaway.


    He walked to the far end of the lane and glanced cautiously to the left and right. A well-worn pathway ran along the backs of the houses. Beyond it was a thicket of trees which screened the hill from view. There was no one in sight.


    Flint stepped out of the lane and turned right, walking quickly towards the rear of the tavern. The sun had disappeared below the horizon now, and night was gathering rapidly. A bright oblong of light spilled without warning across his path. Flint drew up just in time, his breath catching in his throat, but the light narrowed a moment later to a thin sliver as someone drew the curtains.


    Glancing nervously at the window, Flint hurried on.


    He passed a tiny stableyard and came to a walled courtyard which backed onto the tavern. An iron gate in desperate need of a new coat of paint provided entry from the path. Flint edged along the wall and peered through the gate into the courtyard. It was flooded with light from the tavern''s windows. A stone path led up to a door, which was wide open. He caught glimpses of people bustling about, and heard a loud voice calling out instructions. The kitchen, Flint thought.


    Turning back to the gate, he examined it as closely as he could while remaining hidden in the shadows. Flint suspected that it was probably not locked, but it was impossible to be certain without physically testing it. His eyes flicked once more to the open kitchen door.


    Too risky.


    With another quick glance over his shoulder, he moved swiftly across the path, up a short embankment and into the trees, being careful to stay out of the blaze of light from the tavern. Just as he''d hoped, the undergrowth beneath the trees was thick.


    He shoved his crossbow beneath a bush, checked to see that it was well hidden, then pushed his way back out of the thicket and onto the path.


    From there he began to retrace his steps, although more slowly this time, inspecting the tiny, walled backyards of the cottages as he went.


    Unfortunately for Flint, there did not happen to be any convenient washing hanging out to dry in any of them. When he reached the end of the row, he darted across the street and checked the houses there as well: again, no success.


    In the end, now thoroughly frustrated, he was forced to follow the road out of town for about a mile until he found a barn. To his luck, he found a pair of dusty breeches and a shirt on a hook within. They were too large for him, but Flint was grateful for this, as it meant he only had to remove his jacket and they slipped easily over his usual clothing.


    The sky was speckled with glittering stars by the time he finally arrived back at the tavern, which went by the name Emor¨¦''s Rest.


    The interior of the establishment was bigger than it looked from the outside, but cosy. A row of the distinctive narrow windows that gave the hamlet its charm ran along the right-hand wall, overlooking the river. The bluestone walls were hung with paintings depicting Hillbank and the surrounding countryside. Obviously, this place was popular with artists.


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    Smoke from the lanterns drifted up into the exposed blackwood beams of the ceiling. A few coals had been left glowing in the fireplace to take off the slight chill of the evening.


    Flint quickly scanned the sea of heads as he entered. Brown hair, grey, some dusty-blond¡­ no white. Lord Requar must have retired to his room.


    Relaxing slightly, Flint made his way to the bar at the end of the room. Only a couple of people glanced at him as he passed, and soon returned to their drinks or conversations. A bald, round-faced barman was leaning on the counter, engaged in an animated conversation with two of his customers. Flint waited impatiently, casting uneasy glances at the staircase.


    Finally, the barman broke off his conversation with a bellowing laugh and turned to Flint, still grinning. "What can I do for you, my good man?" he asked cheerily, slapping the counter with a thick hand.


    "A room and a meal, if you don''t mind," Flint replied, tossing a single gold gruble onto the bar. The barman picked up the gruble and held it up to the light, his thick eyebrows lifting. "I''ll be damned," he said. "Don''t see these much any more¡­"


    "I''m travelling with a friend," Flint went on, ignoring him. "Tall guy? White hair? Expensive clothes?"


    "Ahhh," the barman said, as though he suddenly understood something that had been bothering him. His smile widened. He bounced the coin on his hand before slipping it into a box beneath the counter. "You''re with Lord Requar?"


    He used his real name? Flint thought, astonished. "Right," he told the barman, flashing his friendliest smile. He leaned casually against the counter. "You, er¡­ wouldn''t be able to tell me what room he''s staying in, by any chance?"


    "That''d be number six," the barman replied, fetching Flint''s room key and handing it over. His face turned suddenly thoughtful. "Odd bloke," he said. "Most of the nobs that come through ''ere want the best room in the house, no matter the cost. That Requar¡­ he tossed down two grubles and said he''d take whatever I had. And he wouldn''t drink naught but plain water, neither!"


    The barman continued rambling for some time, pausing suddenly with an embarrassed laugh when he realised he had forgotten to ask Flint''s name. Flint gave it as ''Tilfn Wodahsrats'' and watched the innkeeper scribble it down in his ledger. If his nerves hadn''t been buzzing so violently, Flint would have been hard pressed to resist a smirk.


    Flint managed to navigate the barman''s occasional difficult questions with shrugs and vague answers, but his reluctance to talk did not seem to worry the barman in the slightest, he was perfectly content instead to give Flint the history of his own town and a seemingly endless supply of gossip.


    Flint gained a brief, yet welcome respite from the barrage of incessant chatter when the man departed to check on his meal, but unfortunately he returned all too soon and waffled all through Flint''s dinner. Flint shovelled his food down as quickly as he could (which wasn''t difficult after living on camp food for two days), and seized the opportunity to take his leave while the innkeeper was distracted with a newly arrived customer. He ascended the stairs unhurriedly, trying to memorise which steps creaked when he put his weight on them.


    The noise from the crowded common room faded to a muffled murmur as he reached the landing. The tavern''s upper storey was quiet and still. A long corridor stretched before him, dividing the upper floor in two. Lanterns spaced evenly along the walls gleamed dully off the wood-panelled walls. The floorboards had been scrubbed clean, but were not polished. The ceiling was high and dark, with exposed beams. A vase of fresh wildflowers stood on a wooden table beneath the far window, filling the corridor with a relaxing scent of lavender, though it did little to unknot Flint''s taut muscles or dispel his dark thoughts.


    He started walking casually down the corridor, again noting where the floorboards creaked. He wished his footsteps didn''t sound so loud. His heart had begun hammering again, and an unpleasant, queasy feeling was rising in his stomach. Get a grip on yourself, Flint! he chided himself.


    There was no way that Requar could know he was here; he had taken great care to approach the tavern inconspicuously, keeping close against the walls. The windows were deeply sunken; no one on the upper floor could have seen him enter unless they had opened a casement and leaned right out over the sill, and Flint would have noticed such an obvious action.


    He reached the middle of the corridor, where two short hallways ¨C one to the east and one to the west ¨C intersected it. There were two doors set into the opposite walls of each one, all of them closed. He paused and checked his room key. Number two. His room was tucked in the north wall of the left-hand corridor. He glanced ahead. Number six, Requar''s room, was in the main corridor, at the end.


    Flint stared at the closed door. That was the room he would be entering later, when the night deepened.


    Upon entering his own room, Flint quickly closed the door behind him, locked it, and strode at once to the window. His room looked out over the back courtyard of the tavern, which was still filled with light, but deserted. His eyes shifted to the dark cluster of trees where his Justifier lay hidden. He would need to wait until all the tavern''s lights had been extinguished and its occupants had retired to bed before he ventured out to get it.


    Flint drew the small curtain, leaving just enough of a gap to permit a dim ambient glow that allowed him to make out his surroundings and move around without tripping over. An oil lamp sat on a desk against one wall, but he left it deliberately unlit. With only a cursory glance at his room, he set immediately to work preparing himself for the task ahead, mainly to keep his mind occupied. Unslinging his knapsack, he tossed it onto the bed, pulled off his farming garments and began removing the weapons that had been concealed beneath.


    As well as the Justifier, Flint carried a range of knives of various shapes and sizes hidden in various parts of his clothing. He removed them all carefully from their sheaths and set them somewhat regretfully on a nearby chair, but he could not afford to risk any hazardous clinking that might jeopardise his mission. Besides, he thought. If I have to resort to blades, I might as well dig my own grave right now and save the sorcerer the effort....


    Once Flint had fully unarmed himself and removed all metallic objects from his clothing, he took one of the knives and cut the farmer''s shirt into strips, binding them around his boots to muffle his footsteps. Having completed this to his satisfaction, he rose and checked the small brass clock on the bedside table. It was an hour before midnight. Still too early¡­


    As he stood there in the gloom, staring at the clock in his hand and listening to its soft ticking, an oddly serene feeling came over him, as though someone had draped him with a blanket of finest silk. For a moment, his fear trickled away, his thoughts became focused and his stomach settled. He felt as though his fate had been taken out of his hands, that someone, some higher intelligence that he could never hope to understand, was guiding his actions.


    He was going to shoot the sorcerer tonight, and whatever happened afterwards was up to Lady Fate to decide.


    Midnight had been gone two hours and the moon was low in the northern sky when Starshadow Flint rose from the bed, checked the window and the clock one final time, and walked silently to the door. He unlocked it with a quiet click, then hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder at his possessions and wondering with an odd feeling of detachment if he would have time to come back for them. Or even if I''ll still be alive to do so¡­


    After a moment''s pause he went back, picked up his hat and placed it on his head, pulling the brim down resolutely. Then he twisted the doorknob as quietly as he could and stepped out into the corridor.


    The murmur from downstairs had ceased: Flint could hear nothing save an indistinct snoring sound from the room directly opposite him. All of the lanterns had been extinguished, leaving the corridors crowded with shadow; except for a single, almost abnormally bright shaft of moonlight that speared into the central hallway. It lay directly across his path, between him and Lord Requar''s room like some kind of eerie, outstretched arm, as though the moon had learned his terrible secret and was determined to bar his way. Flint shuddered involuntarily. It reminded him too vividly of the white light that had spilled from the sorcerer''s fingers on the day both their fates had been sealed, back in that tavern in Meadrun.


    He left the door to his room open just a crack, in case he had to return suddenly. Then, with a deep breath and a silent prayer to the Gods, he began to ease his cloth-bound boots very slowly and carefully down the hallway.


    His eyes flicked apprehensively at the other rooms as he passed, but no light glimmered beneath any of the doors. To his great relief, the floorboards did not protest too loudly at his passage. Reaching the central corridor and the edge of the moonlight, he peered cautiously around the corner, but it was empty. He purposefully avoided looking beyond the glow into the ominous darkness of Requar''s corridor, instead concentrating his immediate attention on sneaking successfully out of the tavern and back in again without raising suspicion.


    Flint''s shadow stretched out before him like a wraith as he crept slowly towards the stairs, freezing every time one of his steps happened to be a little too heavy.


    But no one stirred. No doors opened, no creak of footsteps could be heard. The occupants of the tavern remained deep in slumber.


    Flint reached the notoriously cranky stairs, paused for a moment to let out the breath he had been holding, then started down. By some favour of the Gods, he managed to avoid the worst creaks. He paused frequently, his ears alert to the slightest sound, but only silence and his own pounding heartbeat answered.


    The common room was pierced with hazy shafts of moonlight from the front windows, but was otherwise dark and deserted. Flint skirted the counter quickly and peered through the kitchen door, which had been left ajar.


    No one there.


    He slipped into the kitchen and moved quietly through the benches, heading for the back door. The kitchen was warm and still, filled with the heady aroma of freshly baked bread and wine. A dusky orange glow from the ovens along the far right-hand wall provided barely enough light to see by. Flint was just about to negotiate some sacks of flour when he almost jumped through the ceiling at a loud, grating noise from somewhere very close by. He let out a loud gasp and stumbled, but managed to catch his fall on the edge of a bench.


    Breathing hard, his heart racing like a wild horse somewhere in the region of his throat, Flint looked around wildly for the source of the noise, but could see nothing but jumbles of unidentifiable black shapes. He looked at the bench to which he was clinging like a drowning man, and noticed with mingled horror and relief that his hand had landed half an inch from the bottom handle of a towering stack of empty saucepans. He swallowed thickly and listened intently, still trying to identify what had startled him.


    The noise came once more and Flint jumped again, despite himself. It had come from somewhere near the floor¡­


    He peered hard into the darkness, and after a minute or two his eyes made out the slim figure of a boy, slumped against the flour sacks with his legs sprawled out directly in Flint''s path, fast asleep.


    Flint let out a shaky breath and straightened, silently cursing himself for being so jumpy. Some assassin I am, he berated himself, scared out of my wits by a damn snoring kid¡­


    He stepped carefully over the sleeping kitchen hand and arrived without further mishap at the back door. Beyond, the courtyard was blanketed in darkness. Though the sky was clear, the moon had sunk low in the sky, and the bulk of the tavern blocked out most of its light. Flint eased the door open and hurried down the path to the gate.


    As he had hoped, it was not locked. He pulled it open tentatively, holding his breath, but to his surprise it swung soundlessly on its hinges: it had obviously been recently oiled. He darted through the gate, across the path and into the thicket of trees, squinting around in the darkness for the place where the Justifier lay concealed.


    For one terrifying moment, he thought he''d forgotten where he''d left it. When he felt with his hands beneath the bush that he swore he''d hidden it under, it was not there. He straightened quickly, panic beginning to swell through him, then he took a step backwards and his foot became entangled in something that had too many hard edges to be naturally made.


    He very nearly tripped again, only managing to stifle his curse at the last second. He picked up the Justifier, inspected it for damage and blessed a thousand times over the man who had invented safety catches.


    Flint managed to make his way back through the kitchen, past the still-snoring kitchen boy and up the stairs again without incident. When he finally reached the corridor junction again, he paused with his back to the wall and took a moment to gather his thoughts.


    A thin sheen of cold sweat glimmered on his skin, and he brushed it away from his face with his sleeve. The serene feeling that he had experienced earlier had regrettably disappeared, and his anxiety had returned with an unpleasant jolt. He licked dry lips and stared at the Justifier in his hands. The huge crossbow looked even more sinister than usual, etched in stark relief against the white moonlight. Flint knew that time was still ticking away somewhere, but to him it appeared to have frozen. He was about to assassinate a sorcerer. A paralysing uncertainty suddenly gripped his mind. What am I doing? Am I insane?


    You''re carrying out a mission, another, colder voice in his mind reasoned calmly. You''re doing the world a favour by eliminating him. If you pull this off, you''ll be rich. Remember that sword¡­?


    Trying not to think about what would happen if he didn''t pull this off, Flint tightened his grip on his crossbow, hardened his thoughts to uncrackable stone, and swung around the corner, the tip of the loaded bolt flashing momentarily with the movement.


    Willing the floorboards to be silent, Flint began to stalk down the corridor towards the room at the end.

 Chapter Twenty Three

    Every heartbeat feels like steel


    What will moonlight''s touch reveal?


    The brass number six stared back at Flint like an unblinking eye watching his every move. Standing there, clad in shadows and silence, he felt his nerve begin to falter again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. Then he opened them and stepped close to the door, listening.


    He could hear nothing except his own pounding heartbeat.


    He was all too aware of the fact that the entire mission was based on this assumption. If Requar happened to be awake, even at this early hour, the mission was finished and all Flint could do was make a run for it and hope for the best.


    Shifting his weight to support the heavy crossbow on his left arm, Flint took his right hand off the Justifier, placed it on the doorknob, and turned it very, very slowly.


    It moved smoothly and silently. The door was not locked.


    Flint paused and listened again. Still no sound.


    He pushed the door inwards with excruciating care, inch by painful inch, until he could make out items of furniture: the dark bulk of a wardrobe and the corner of a desk. The sorcerer''s sword lay in its sheath on the desk, its hilt glinting coldly with reflected moonlight.


    Flint ignored the chill that raced down his spine and continued pushing the door until it was wide enough for him to enter.


    He took in the layout of the room with a single glance. It was small and sparsely furnished, similar to his own. A dressing table and washbasin stood against the right-hand wall, and the bed lay directly in front of him, beneath the room''s single window. The casement had been propped open slightly to let in a cool night breeze, and the curtain was wide open, flooding the room with moonlight.


    Requar lay on the bed, turned to face the wall, with one arm curled under his head and a blanket pulled up to his waist. His long hair was unbound and spilled down his back like liquid silk. He wore a loose white shirt: his waistcoat, boots, cloak and the rest of his belongings were arranged neatly on a chair by the foot of the bed. Flint felt his heart skip a beat, every muscle tensed for flight, but the sorcerer did not stir. His breathing remained deep and slow.


    Flint edged as close to the bed as he dared, leaving the door open behind him so that he could make a quick escape. He wanted to be out of here before anyone discovered what he had done.


    he thought.


    He lifted the Justifier silently, its shadow rearing up on the wall behind him like some enormous, skeletal bird of prey, and settled the groove of the stock on his shoulder. He eased the safety catch off as quietly as possible, adjusting his grip so that his right hand rested lightly against the trigger. He sighted carefully down the bolt and slowly lowered the point until it was aimed directly at Requar''s head.


    The sorcerer did not wake. Flint''s heart boomed in his ears. His hands were sticking to the wood with sweat. He tried not to breathe. The smooth metal of the trigger lever pressed coldly against his fingers. A vivid image of what would happen when he squeezed it flashed before his eyes. He was less than two yards away. There would be blood everywhere¡­


    He swallowed against a wave of nausea and began to tremble. He realised, in that moment, that he had never actually shot anyone with the Justifier before. Animals, yes, but never an actual person. He had never murdered anyone, never purposefully killed a person in cold blood.


    Flint''s eyes focused on the gleaming, unforgiving tip of the bolt. It was quivering. All he had to do was increase the pressure on that little piece of metal beneath his hand, and Lord Requar would be gone.


    And Flint would be a murderer.


    Why had he called it that?


    What kind of reasons were those?


    he told himself desperately.  But still the doubts crept in, like swarms of black spiders, sending all his careful reasoning scattering for cover.


    A final, frantic thought rang out in his head.


    Flint''s fingers tightened around the lever¡­


    Shoot him!


    He gritted his teeth.


    The thought rang through his mind as certain and ominous as a death bell.


    The tip of the crossbow sank, along with Flint''s heart, as his grip went slack. His face felt drained of blood; his entire body shook.


    "Good choice," a quiet voice said.


    Flint jumped so hard he almost dropped his weapon. He stumbled backwards, eyes widening in horrified disbelief as Lord Requar pushed himself up on his elbows and stared directly at him.


    Then his survival instincts kicked in. He bolted for the door, but it swung closed as though on an unfelt gust of wind before he could reach it. He lunged for the doorknob and tried to wrench it open, but somehow, impossibly, it was locked. Panicking, he spun: but there was no other way out of the room except through the window, which was right over Requar''s bed.


    Not knowing what else to do, he backed away hurriedly until he hit the desk in the corner and could go no further. He brought the Justifier up defensively, trying to keep his arms steady enough to aim. "Try anything, sorcerer," he snarled, "and I''ll have all the justification I need!"


    Requar had risen into a sitting position, with his arms resting across his knees. He stared at Flint calmly, and started to make a gesture with his hand¡­


    Flint''s nerves were so highly strung that he pressed the trigger in a purely reflexive action. He realised what he''d done a split second too late.


    But instead of an explosion of blood, there was an explosion of brilliant white light, so intense that Flint gasped and turned his head aside. It vanished a moment later, and the room was once again filled with ordinary moonlight, which seemed dull and grey in comparison.


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    It took Flint several seconds to realise that he was still alive.


    He looked up tentatively, blinking the floating coloured shapes from his vision, and his breath caught in his throat.


    He wasn''t the only one who was still alive. The Justifier bolt was nowhere to be seen, but there were black twisted pieces of debris scattered all across the bed and floor.


    Requar picked a lump of melted steel off the bedclothes and looked at it, turning it over in his hand. He sighed, a weary, slightly disappointed sound, like a parent who had just found out their child was misbehaving for the hundredth time. "That really wasn''t necessary. I wasn''t going to attack you."


    Flint simply stared at him, speechless.


    Requar repeated the motion with his hand, and a chair slid out from under the desk. "Sit down, Flint," he said quietly.


    Flint did so, mostly because his legs were so weak he couldn''t have remained standing much longer even if he''d wanted to.


    Requar tossed the blanket aside and got up. Flint watched him breathlessly, but Requar didn''t move towards him. Instead, he walked unhurriedly across the room to the wall opposite Flint and rested his back against it, folding his arms across his chest.


    "I take it this means your sister isn''t sick," he said.


    Flint was silent for a long moment. "No," he said at last. His throat tightened as old memories surfaced, the emotions they induced almost powerful enough to flood out even his fear. "She''s dead."


    He looked away, lowering his head so that his face was hidden beneath his hat. He did not want Requar to see the tears in his eyes.


    "I''m sorry," Requar said. There was genuine sympathy in his voice.


    Flint forced his tears away angrily and clenched his jaw. "It was the reason I had this made," he went on, nodding at the crossbow in his hands. He was not quite sure why he was telling Requar this.


    "She was murdered?" Requar said in a low voice.


    Flint nodded, not looking up. "I would''ve had a bolt engraved ''specially for him, ''cept I don''t know the bastard''s name."


    A long silence fell. Eventually, Flint lifted his head and risked a glance at the sorcerer.


    He was gazing at the moonlight streaming through the window with an unreadable expression on his face.


    "You''re¡­ uh¡­ not¡­ angry that I¡­ that¡­ I tried to¡­"


    "Tried to kill me?" Requar finished. He considered Flint for a moment, then shook his head. "Disappointed, yes. Somewhat annoyed, yes. But no, I''m not angry."


    Flint was beginning to wonder if all this was real, or if he had fallen asleep back in his room and was dreaming. A minute ago, he''d been convinced he was going to die, and now he was talking with the sorcerer as though all of this had just been an unfortunate misunderstanding. He swallowed. "How¡­ how did you know?" he asked hoarsely.


    Requar sighed and closed his eyes. "I''ve lived for a long time, Flint. Sometimes I think too long. You''re certainly not the first person who has attempted to assassinate me, and you probably won''t be the last. You would not believe the highly inventive things my brother has tried over the years to get rid of me. You could say I''ve learnt to recognise the signs."


    "Signs?"


    "I suspected you were up to something from the first moment you asked me for help in Meadrun, although I admit I didn''t know exactly what. Nor did I know that you were lying about your sister. But there were¡­ certain things that caught my attention. For instance, throughout the entire time we were travelling, you would not walk in front of me. And last night, you kept your crossbow loaded.


    ¡°Were it anyone else, I would not have found these actions to be particularly unusual; I am a sorcerer, after all, I wouldn''t expect a stranger to trust me. I found it odd, though, that you seemed to be quite willing to trust me with your sister''s life, and yet, not your own."


    Requar gave him a thin smile. "Not exactly. In fact, I did not realise your full intentions until just this night, about an hour ago." He gestured at the band of moonlight streaming through the window. "The moonlight in the corridor. Did you notice anything unusual about it?"


    Flint blinked, trying to sift through his mess of thoughts. "Uh¡­ not, not really¡­ it was pretty bright¡­"


    "And?"


    He looked up at Requar, his eyes wide.


    A dark, sick feeling settled in the pit of Flint''s stomach. This mission had been doomed to fail from the start. Requar was much too clever and perceptive to be caught off guard so easily.


    All of a sudden, the idea of attempting to kill a sorcerer with a crossbow, even a massive one, seemed ridiculous. He couldn''t believe he''d been na?ve enough to think he could pull this off.


    Flint shook his head, appalled at his own foolishness. "Wouldn''t it have been easier to just..." he shrugged, "read my mind, or something?"


    Requar regarded him. ¡°I do not read minds.¡± He shook his head. "At least, not in the way you think. I can use a Mind Sweep to detect the presence of nearby life forces and see their emotional states as a coloured aura, but in order to delve deeper, into individual thoughts and memories, I would need to make physical contact. Such a spell is extremely intrusive, akin to spying on someone getting undressed, and I would never use it without permission from the person involved, except as a last resort.¡±


    "R-right," Flint said, not sure he was entirely convinced.


    They were both silent for awhile. Flint''s eyes flicked towards the door. He wondered nervously if it was still locked. After a few moments, he pushed himself slowly and tentatively to his feet, trying not to make any sudden movements. "I¡­ er, should be going," he said carefully. Requar looked at him, but to Flint''s relief, he simply nodded slowly.


    Requar shook his head. "There''s no need to apologise. No harm was done."


    Flint shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, but¡­ I wasted your time when you could''ve been out lookin'' for that Winter kid."


    Requar was silent for a moment. "Yes," he said finally. "That''s true¡­"


    Flint chewed his lip. "So, uh¡­ no¡­ hard feelings, then?" It seemed a highly inadequate thing to say to someone he''d just shot a thousand-pound crossbow at.


    Requar smiled slightly. "None at all." He straightened and came towards Flint. Flint tensed instinctively, but the sorcerer merely extended his hand. "In spite everything that happened," he said quietly, "it was nice to have company for a while."


    Flint stared at the hand uneasily for a long moment. Finally, and with great reluctance, he shifted the Justifier onto his left arm and took the hand, saying nothing. Requar turned and walked back towards the bed. He snapped his fingers and waved his hand over the floor, and the charred pieces leapt into a neat pile on the bed. Despite himself, Flint couldn''t help watching in fascination.


    "You''re going back to the Bladeshifters now, I take it?" Requar asked as he reached over the bed to open the window.


    "Nope," Flint replied. "Won''t be goin'' back to them any time soon. Probably not ever."


    "Why is that?" Requar asked, scooping the burnt debris into his hands and tossing it out the window.


    Flint snorted bitterly. "Cause it was Nightwalker who gave me this mission, and he ain''t gonna be too pleased that I screwed it up."


    Requar closed the shutters quietly and glanced over at him. "What will you do?"


    Flint shrugged despondently. He stared down at the now empty Justifier in his hands, and then turned to the door.


    "Flint," Requar said suddenly. Flint paused. The sorcerer took a long moment to speak, as though he was struggling to find the appropriate words. "You''re welcome to come with me," he finished finally.


    Flint stared at his slanted shadow on the door in front of him, a jagged mosaic of thoughts and emotions running through his head. Saying nothing, he turned the doorknob ¨C it was unlocked ¨C and quietly left the room.


    Flint thought as he entered his own room.


    he thought. Nightwalker could do what he liked. The sorcerer could do what he liked. From now on, Flint was on his own.


    he thought angrily as he slotted all his weapons back into their places.


    He secured the Justifier in place on his back, gathered up the rest of his belongings, and strode from the room. He was halfway down the corridor before he realised that he''d walked through the moonlight-spell again.


    "Screw it," he muttered. "I don''t need anyone!"


    No longer caring about the creaks, he descended the stairs and was gone.


    Requar lay on his bed with his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at a water stain on the ceiling. A tingle ran through his head and an image of Flint walking down the corridor with all of his possessions appeared in his mind. He felt his heart sink, but only a little: it was what he had expected. He closed his eyes and banished the image.


    He lay with his eyes closed for a long time, listening to the silence. Eventually he opened them again and sat up slowly. He gazed across at his Sword, lying on the desk in the far corner. After staring at it for awhile, he got up off the bed, walked over to it and pulled it out of its sheath, watching the moonlight slide off it like water.


    Requar turned and leaned back against the desk, holding the Sword before him and staring at his sad reflection in the perfect silver metal.


    ¡°

 Chapter Twenty Four

    Twice shall every word be written


    An Angel''s dream, but no one listened.


    Kyosk slouched against the balcony, his fanged mouth opening wide in a huge yawn as he cast an uninterested gaze over the huge entrance hall of Lord Arzath''s keep. A few weak streamers of sunlight faded in and out every now and then through the dusty, arched windows high above the main doors. The hall was clad in its usual musty gloom; gargoyles on stone plinths stared sightlessly out of the shadows between the six massive pillars that supported the lofty, vaulted ceiling. To his right, an impressive black marble staircase flowed from the landing into the hall, the stone polished to a high sheen to match the floor of the foyer. A long red carpet oozed down the stairs like a trickle of giant''s blood.


    Kyosk tapped his halberd lazily on his shoulder, listening to the echoes of the two Grik guards stationed by the door. Evidently they thought their game of Rat Bones was preferable to watching the dust settle.


    The Grik Clanmaster yelled at them, relishing the way his voice was magnified by the stone walls and the startled looks on the faces of the guards as they scrambled to hide the bones and rush clumsily back to their positions. He sniggered to himself and then yawned again. He was bored and becoming restless. He wished a fight would break out so that he would have an excuse to lop a few gems off someone. Or better yet, a Human servant to torture. But the only current resident of the dungeon was that servant Arzath had locked in a cell filled with starving rats, and his screams had died away several days ago¡­


    A sudden metallic grating noise invaded his thoughts, and he turned his gaze back to the doors. The two Grik guards were heaving on the heavy iron bar that secured the doors. It slid grudgingly sideways in its brackets and the Griks grasped a door handle each and pulled them open, letting in a sliver of sunlight and a brief rush of fresh air. A black-clad figure pushed through the gap as soon as it was wide enough to permit his body and immediately ordered the guards to close the doors. As the strip of daylight disappeared behind him, Lord Arzath strode across the entrance hall, his black cloak billowing, and swept up the stairs.


    Kyosk stood to attention immediately. Arzath looked angry, but that was not unusual; these days those green eyes permanently smouldered, like a forest on fire. As the sorcerer reached the top of the stairs, however, he slowed and then stopped, supporting himself with one hand on the balustrade and breathing deeply, as though he''d just been for a long run. Kyosk caught a glimpse of his face as he lifted his head, and for a moment, the anger wavered and a different, but equally powerful emotion flickered there.


    "My Lord?" he asked cautiously.


    To Kyosk''s astonishment, Arzath actually jumped, apparently unaware that the Grik had been standing there. In an instant, the angry expression was back, his eyes blazing more fiercely than ever. "What?" he demanded.


    Kyosk suppressed an urge to shrink back into the corner. Arzath looked as though he was about to disembowel him.


    The Clanmaster averted his gaze. "Nothing, my Lord," he muttered.


    The sorcerer continued to glare at him for several frightening seconds before stepping onto the landing. "What news of Cimmeran''s whereabouts?" he asked.


    Relieved at the change in subject, Kyosk nevertheless hesitated a moment before answering: "None, my Lord."


    Arzath stared at him. "None?"


    "Yes, my Lord."


    of the patrols reported in?"


    "Day ''ave, my Lord, but day ''ave nothing to report. Day could find no trace of ''im."


    He punctuated the last word by wrenching open the door; or at least, tried to. Instead he nearly dislocated his arm: the door was locked.


    "Who¡­ locked¡­ this door?" he raged as soon as he could speak again. Kyosk was already fumbling with his key ring, but before he could select the right one it was snatched from his hands.


    , lock


    "Yesmlord," Kyosk grumbled.


    "Go and fetch Wingmaster Varshax! I want to speak with him!"


    "Yesmlord!"


    Kyosk let his breath out slowly, and tactfully decided to complete the remainder of his guard duty in another corridor.


    ordered him to lock all rooms that weren''t being used, and the sorcerer had not visited his throne room in weeks. He had not specifically requested that it be left unlocked, so how was Kyosk to know?


    The Grik was twenty paces down an adjoining corridor when his ponderous footsteps stopped. He turned slowly and looked curiously over his shoulder, his brow furrowing deeply.


    he thought.


    Arzath strode across his throne room shaking his right arm vigorously; partly to restore the feeling, partly because he was angry, and partly to cover the fact that he couldn''t seem to stop trembling.


    A long beam of sunlight sliced through the dark hall like a burning blade from a single, thin window above the doors, igniting an exquisite throne at the far end of the room. The throne was made of redstone, deepened with age to the colour of pooled blood and gilded extravagantly with gold. It had once belonged to a Sirinese emperor until the museum that housed it had been mysteriously ransacked in the midst of an unexpected thunderstorm. Sitting in it gave Arzath a comforting feeling of power and authority.


    He sat in it now, but its presence did little to fill the echoing cavern inside him, or banish the pervading sense of vulnerability. A redstone chair would not protect him from his brother''s wrath.


    A wave of panic surged inside him and he snapped his head up to look at the black stone walls around him.


    , he thought.


    A sudden cry of mingled anger, fear and anguish tore from his throat, the echoes bouncing around the empty hall as though searching for a way out.


    down and triumphantly discovered him hidden away in this quiet little valley all those years ago.


    He squeezed his eyes closed and put his face in his hands, but the image of that stone bouncing off Requar''s shield seemed burned into the back of his eyes.


    After a moment he became irritated by an insistent rapping sound. He grabbed the arms of his throne, ready to glare at whatever was making the noise, then realised that it was his own heel tapping nervously on the marble dais. He got up abruptly and paced around his throne, his black cloak swishing behind him.


    From somewhere far above him in the shadow of the ceiling, a deeper swatch of liquid black dropped to the floor, silent save for the faint click of its talons on the highly polished marble.


    The shadow folded its wings and waited patiently for its master to notice it was there.


    Arzath swept around the chair for the third time and stopped at the sight of the Muron Wingmaster.


    "What do you want?" he snapped irritably, resuming his pacing.


    "You sssent for me, Masster," the Muron whispered with icy calmness.


    Arzath shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then rubbed at his temple as yet another headache flared up. "Why has Cimmeran not been found yet?" he demanded, sitting back down.


    "The sservant eludesss uss, Masster."


    , for Dark''s sake!"


    Varshax''s already narrow eyes shrunk into barely visible slits, and his lip curled back to reveal obsidian dagger teeth in what could have been a grin or a snarl. "Very perceptive of you, Massster," he hissed.


    This time, it was the sorcerer''s eyes that narrowed. Instinctively he sought to call forth his magic, as he always did when faced with such bold insolence. His only reply was a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.


    He settled for glaring hard at the Muron instead.


    Varshax met his gaze apathetically. Unlike his Griks, Arzath''s Murons harboured no fear of him. They feared nothing. But they had witnessed the devastating effects of his magic and they respected him for it.


    "Send the patrols¨C¡± Arzath started after a long moment of tense silence, then stopped. He had been about to order Varshax to send the Muron patrols out again to continue searching for Cimmeran, but another, more anxious thought had occurred. It was impossible to know for sure if his brother was on his way back here, but nevertheless¡­


    He leaned forward. "Are my orders understood?"


    The Muron did not reply at once. Instead he cocked his head on one side and gave Arzath an intensely curious look. Staring into the creature''s eyes was like looking at the sun shining through a vial of poison; sinister and sickening, but at the same time strangely entrancing.


    No one had ever outstared Arzath before, and no one had ever outstared Varshax. Yet the longer he held the creature''s gaze, the more his confidence began to flake away.


    He suspects that something is amiss. Could it be that he knows¡­?


    Varshax blinked double-lidded eyes, breaking the trance. His voice sighed between his teeth like a snake sliding over pebbles: "Ass you wisssh."


    He spread his great wings and with a single powerful flap leapt back through the opening in the ceiling, leaving Arzath alone with the gentle rustling of the drapes.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The beam of sunlight dwindled as a cloud smothered it, and the throne room felt suddenly very cold and dark.


    * * *


    Morning dawned slowly, darkness easing aside to reveal a dreary grey, the ghost of a sun yet to come. Shadows lay thick across the land, as though the night was reluctant to release its grip. Ferrian was not aware that the day had broken at all until he opened his eyes from a cold, miserable doze and realised he could make out the hunched figures of his companions without squinting. A distant rumble of thunder told him that the storm hadn''t yet fulfilled its vendetta, although the rain had softened into steady drizzle. It made little difference, however; Ferrian was so wet that he could no longer feel the water trickling over his skin.


    He straightened from the tree he had been slumped against, wincing at the spikes of pain that shot through his cramped muscles. Commander Trice glanced up at the movement, and Ferrian noticed that Captain Sirannor was awake as well. From the drawn looks on their faces, he surmised that they had been no more successful in gaining any sleep that he had.


    The same, however, could not be said of their new companion. Cimmeran lay curled up in a ball like a cat with his head buried in his arms, fast asleep.


    "How can he sleep in this?" Ferrian muttered, attempting to rub the feeling back into his shoulder.


    "If you''re tired enough, you can sleep in anything," Grisket replied. "At least we know we have his trust."


    Ferrian looked around at the forest. A thick white mist had rolled in off the sea during the night, clinging to everything with a cold, clammy dampness and reducing visibility to about ten feet. Ferrian suppressed a shiver. It was as though the world had been eaten away and the only place left in existence was this patch of ground where they sat, and a few shadowy trees. "What do we do now?" he asked.


    The Commander stood up stiffly, water showering off his cloak, and stared into the mist, considering their options. "We won''t be going much of anywhere without food and supplies. We''ll continue on to Sunsee as planned, re-equip, and then head north to the Break." He glanced down at Sirannor. "But first I want to head back to our camp and see if there''s anything left to salvage. Captain, how are those wounds?"


    "Not a concern," Sirannor replied simply.


    , that Muron is still out there!"


    Grisket gave him a steady look. "It''s blind and flightless, lad. Not to mention it''ll stand out like an ink stain on white linen in this fog," he nodded at the white veil of mist encircling them. "Should be easy enough to avoid."


    "But¡­ what about the other one?" Ferrian persisted.


    "The one with my sabre in its skull?" Sirannor replied quietly, glancing up at Ferrian without moving his head. "If by some curse we should happen to come across it alive, I will make certain to push the sword in even harder." He got to his feet, the briefest flicker of pain flashing across his angular face as he did so. He turned swiftly to stare out into the mist.


    Ferrian''s doubt must have shown on his face, because Grisket placed a hand on his shoulder, startling him slightly. "Sirannor and I know how to watch our backs," he said. "We won''t be gone more than half an hour. And you and the others are as safe here as anywhere, if you sit still and keep quiet. If one of the creatures stumbles upon you, run for the highway." He pointed west. "That way you won''t lose your bearings and we''ll know where to find you. From what I''ve learned from Aari of those black devils, they''re not the most dexterous creatures over solid ground."


    Ferrian nodded reluctantly and glanced to his left, where Aari was hunched over his knees on the sodden ground. The Angel had not made a sound or looked up throughout the conversation. Ferrian had assumed that he was asleep; but now that the light had brightened, he could see that the Angel''s eyes were open, though shadowed, and his face was disturbingly pale. He was also shivering, Sirannor''s tiny lantern clutched tightly in his hands as though trying to leach every bit of warmth out of it, even though the flame had long since gone out.


    "Are you all right, Aari?" he asked.


    The winged man did not reply.


    "Sergeant?" Grisket said.


    Aari blinked and lifted his head jerkily. "I¡­ I c-could do with s-some more w-willow bark," he replied, his voice a strained whisper.


    Ferrian and Grisket exchanged troubled looks. "Ferrian, are you sure there was nothing left in that medical satchel?"


    "I¨C" Ferrian started, then stopped, casting another look at his battered companion. He was certain, without a doubt, that there had been no healing herbs of any sort left in the satchel. He remembered scraping every last grain of willow bark powder out of its packet a couple of days ago. "I¡­ think there¡­ might have been a bit," he said.


    Grisket caught his eye and a moment of shared understanding passed between them. Then the Freeroamer nodded. "We''d best get moving, then. Captain?"


    Grisket and Sirannor stepped over the sleeping form of Cimmeran and headed into the forest. Ferrian watched them go. Within moments, they had been swallowed by the damp, pale void.


    As though an omen of their leaving, the rain picked up again.


    Ferrian sat down, listening to the steady patter fill the silence, oblivious to the thrumming on his face and head. He stared at the mist drifting languorously across his vision. The leaves on the trees around him hung limp and dark. He felt chillingly exposed and vulnerable with the Commander and the Captain gone and his hand felt for the reassuring solidity of his knife, but it was not there.


    He remembered with a sudden jolt that none of them had any weapons: the few they did have had been abandoned with the Murons back at the campsite. Should one of the hideous black creatures lurch out of the mist, neither Aari nor Cimmeran were in any state to fight. And as for himself¡­


    Ferrian swallowed against a throat that was strangely dry, despite his drenched surroundings. Their only choice, as Commander Trice had said, was to flee.


    He tried to tell himself that one of the Murons was probably dead and the other severely incapacitated, but the frightening strength and relentlessness of them had shaken him. He didn''t think he would feel truly safe unless he saw, with his own eyes, their bodies cut up into a lot of very small pieces.


    He shuddered.


    To his relief, the gruesome mental images scattered at the sound of Aari''s voice.


    "Guess you''re going straight to the Sorcerer''s Valley now, huh?" the Angel said softly. The disappointment in his voice was unmistakable.


    "I guess so," Ferrian replied. "But Commander Trice isn''t going to change his mind about letting you come with us."


    Aari was silent.


    Ferrian looked sideways at him, attempting futilely to brush the water out of his eyes with his dripping sleeve. What he saw in the other''s face surprised him: he had expected resentment, bitterness even, but instead he saw a fierce, almost angry, determination. Buried in the depths of the Angel''s dark eyes was a tiny blazing light that no amount of rain could extinguish.


    Ferrian sighed. "You would have found a way anyway, wouldn''t you?" he said quietly.


    To his even greater surprise, Aari''s mouth twisted into a smirk, some of his old mischievousness returning. "You bet I would."


    "Even if it meant disobeying a direct order from your Commander?"


    "Yep."


    Ferrian shook his head in exasperation, but couldn''t help smiling himself.


    The smile faded from Aari''s face then, and he stared down at the lantern in his hands. Water dripped off his fringe and trickled over the dark glass panels. An awkward silence fell between them. The mist thickened. Lightning flashed somewhere far off to the north-west, briefly illuminating the fog. Several seconds later there came a faint mutter of thunder from the same direction. The storm was moving out to sea.


    Aari sighed hoarsely and set the little lantern aside, unpeeling his stiff fingers from around its frame. Very slowly and carefully he shifted his position, pulling his legs out from under him and half-stretching them before him. His shivering became more pronounced and he caught his breath sharply several times in pain, but eventually he seemed to settle into a position he was reasonably comfortable with.


    He folded his arms on his knees and rested his chin on them. "I used to love reading, when I was a kid," he told Ferrian, not looking at his companion but staring ahead into the gloomy morning. He was silent for a moment more, and then he asked: "Have you ever heard of Grath Ardan?"


    Ferrian shook his head uncomprehendingly. "No."


    Aari nodded. "Didn''t think so. Not many people remember it any more. Grath Ardan is an immense library that lies deep in the ground underneath Fleetfleer, the capital city of Arkana. It''s an entire city in itself; it was once ¨C and probably still is ¨C the largest repository of knowledge ever created. According to legend, it is supposed to contain a copy of every word ever written."


    "Yep," Aari replied. "Not just every book, either; but every letter, personal journal, poet''s random scrawl, signature carved in a tree by a passing traveller, in every country and every known language. Everything."


    Ferrian stared at him incredulously, remembering all the times he''d idly carved his initial into kitchen benches or tavern tables. "Do you mean," he said slowly, "that if I were to write my name here in the mud with a stick¡­"


    "¡­a copy of it would appear somewhere in Grath Ardan, yeah," Aari replied, grinning.


    "But how is that possible?"


    "Magic," he replied simply. "An extremely complicated, ancient form of magic, of a kind that was used by a forgotten race of beings that dwelt in Arkana before Angels, Humans, or any other race even existed." He stared into the rain. ¡°No one knows what this race looked like or what they were called, or anything about them, except that they were powerful. They left behind Grath Ardan and Caer Sync, the Holy Tower. My folk just call them the Ancients.¡±


    Again, a flurry of questions rustled through Ferrian''s mind, but he held his tongue.


    Aari gave a sudden sigh. "Or at least, that''s the way it used to work. I don''t know if the magic is still active or not, since no one goes there any more. The Arkanian government let the library fall into ruin."


    "They let a place as incredible as that fall into ruin?" Ferrian said, aghast.


    The Angel nodded glumly, blinking the rain out of his eyes. "For centuries, my people have closely guarded Grath Ardan. We went to painstaking lengths to keep it secret from the other races, afraid of the knowledge and truths it contained, and what potentially catastrophic uses such information might be put to.


    There were legends, of course, though. Some of the sorcerers at the SOMS probably knew of its existence, but they would not have been allowed access if they''d gone looking.¡±


    His voice took on a bitter edge. "There was a time when Angels shared their secrets freely with Humans, until the School of Magical Studies turned into a den of corruption. Sorcerers used their magic for selfish purposes and petty plots, and it all ended in catastrophe. Our people came to distrust them and decided that Humans were not worthy of our knowledge. Eventually, our governor closed not just the library but the entire country as well¨C¡±


    "Aari!" Ferrian said suddenly. His voice was not loud, but held such a tone of urgency that the Angel gave a start and looked up, eyes wide in alarm.


    "You said this Grath Ardan place contains a copy of every word ever written, so¡­" he paused, drawing his breath in carefully, "¡­ that would include spells, right?"


    "W-what?" Aari stammered, momentarily off balance and still expecting a sinister dark shape to appear through the mist.


    "Spells," Ferrian repeated in a whisper. His silver eyes reflected not fear but a wide, distant look as though he was gazing at something wondrous on a far horizon.


    The glitter faded from Ferrian''s eyes. "You really know how to kill someone''s enthusiasm, don''t you?"


    The Freeroamer gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry." Then he added: "You could always mention it to this sorcerer you''re supposed to be meeting in the mountains."


    "Right," Ferrian replied dully. The dismal weather had done much to dampen the enthusiasm that had flooded through him the previous night.


    They were quiet for a moment, listening to the rain. "Was there a reason you brought up the topic of this mysterious library, other than to tell me how impossible it is to get in?"


    Aari coughed a laugh, which turned into another gasp of pain. "Y-yeah," he breathed, "there was."


    He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "A group of friends and I discovered Grath Ardan at a very young age," he continued. "The main entrance ¨C what was left of it, in any case ¨C was well guarded; but one day, while exploring the forest, we found an alternative entrance under a mossy cracked slab.


    "We had no idea what we had uncovered at first: as kids we were excited over the prospect that it might be an abandoned mine shaft or a hole filled with pirate''s treasure. But when we climbed down into the darkness and saw the endless silent aisles looming ahead of us, stacked with books and scrolls and tablets, all covered in dust like grey velvet¡­ we instantly realised that we had entered forbidden Grath Ardan.


    "Every child had heard the horror stories of this place from their elders: chilling stories of black ghosts who would eat us and write books with our blood. My friends went pale with fright and wanted to flee immediately, but one of our group who was a few years older and had an irresistible adventurous streak ¨C Mekk''Ayan, his name was ¨C held no fear and wanted to delve further into the ruins and explore. My two other friends would have none of it and ran back to the hole, leaving Mekka and myself alone in the darkness.


    "I almost went with Mekka, but¡­" he hesitated for a long moment, as though reluctant to continue. Finally, he said in a quiet, resentful voice: "My fear of underground places seized my mind like one of the black ghosts, and in panic I fled with the rest of them."


    He turned his face slightly away, whether out of embarrassment or to avoid the rain dripping on his face Ferrian could not tell. He waited silently for the Angel to continue.


    "Mekka was gone for two days. I was racked with guilt and fear, and my friends and I were convinced that he had succumbed to the fate that our elders had explicitly warned us against.¡± He shook his head, and smiled a little. ¡°But then Mekka showed up, perfectly fine, though with a huge appetite and his wings grey with dust. And he brought with him some stolen relics from the library.


    "They were books." Aari''s eyes ignited with wonder at the memory. "My terror of Grath Ardan disintegrated the moment I laid eyes upon them. They were amazing. One of them in particular was bound in ancient red leather and studded with rubies, and the corners of each page were dipped in gold.


    "It was a book about Dragons." He closed his eyes. "Mekka let me read the book whenever I wanted, on the condition that I keep it a secret. There were heavy penalties for those who trespassed in the library.


    "The writing in the book was highly calligraphic and difficult to read, but I was entranced. And there were pictures¡­" he gave a wistful sigh. "As soon as I saw those exquisite colour paintings of huge, mighty beasts with fire in their eyes and scales that outshone the sunset¡­ something came alive in my heart.


    "I desperately wanted to see these creatures with my own eyes." He shook his head suddenly as though in answer to Ferrian''s unspoken thought. "It wasn''t just a childhood fantasy. As I grew older I became increasingly frustrated and bored with my homeland and its endless, pointless laws, and became ever more intrigued with the world beyond its borders. And I could not get the image of those Dragons out of my head; they came to be a symbol that represented my most burning desire: where Dragons dwelled, there also dwelled freedom." He gave a deep sigh and lapsed into silence.


    Ferrian thought he was finally beginning to understand. "You left Arkana to see Dragons, and the world?" he said quietly.


    Aari nodded.


    ¡°And...¡± Ferrian hesitated, staring out into the mist. ¡°Is Arvanor as you expected?¡±


    Aari was silent again for a long moment, then shook his head sadly. ¡°No. Humans are much the same as Angels; just as petty, just as self-centred. The Middle Isle is a war zone; the Dragons are mean and angry and bitter, and just as trapped on their rocks as I was in Fleetfleer. The book didn''t tell me that.¡± He stared gloomily into the rain. ¡°None of the books that Mekka brought out of Grath Ardan mentioned¡­ that the world¡­ would be such a disappointment.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Ferrian replied quietly, watching the shadows of trees shift in and out of existence around them, unnervingly like the demon-wraiths in the mountains that they had come face to face with and survived. ¡°Perhaps.¡±

 Chapter Twenty Five

    Swirling mist and dark concealed


    Mysteries and bones revealed.


    Ferrian and Aari were silent for a long while, each digesting their own thoughts. Beside him, Aari dozed off, his head on his knees.


    The shadow appeared without warning. One moment there was nothing but swirling mist, the next¡­ there it was, a dark smudge shimmering in the rain.


    Ferrian caught his breath and flailed once again for his non-existent knife, but it was only Commander Trice and the Captain returning.


    He sagged in relief.


    "What did you find?" he asked when they had come close enough to speak without raising their voices.


    "Not a great deal," Grisket replied darkly. "The campsite was completely burnt out. It''s a good thing that storm came when it did, otherwise the whole forest might''ve gone up." He shook his head. "We''ve lost all our supplies. There was nothing left to salvage."


    They glanced at Aari. The Angel didn''t move, he had finally fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion.


    "What about the Murons?" Ferrian asked.


    "Dead," Sirannor replied. "One of them, at least." He tossed his sabre carelessly on the ground. The blade was severely warped and blackened by heat and congealed black gunk. He gave the other weapons he had collected a perfunctory examination before discarding them as well.


    The final knife, however, he brought to Ferrian. "Not many blades have tasted the blood of a Muron," he said quietly. "This one has been blessed by the Lady. Don''t lose it."


    Ferrian took the knife, surprised that his was the only weapon that had survived the battle. It was nothing special, just a cheap hunting knife he''d bought at a market years ago. He stared at the black stains on the blade. Then he looked Sirannor in the eye. "I won''t."


    Grisket crouched down beside Cimmeran and shook him awake. To everyone''s shock, he uncurled and sprang to his feet like a startled snake, staring around wildly and poised to flee. "The Murons! The Murons!" he cried. "Where are they? Where are they, where are they?"


    "Quiet!" Grisket hissed. "One of them is dead and the other blind and flightless, but no doubt it can still hear any fool who raises his voice!"


    Cimmeran went quiet instantly, his face becoming very pale. He shrank against a tree, clutching it as though for support. There he froze like a statue in the rain, except for his eyes, which never stopped moving.


    "We''re going to Sunsee," Grisket continued in a more level tone of voice. "All our equipment and supplies have been destroyed, and we need to restock." He hesitated, glancing briefly at the others. "We can''t force you to come with us," he said carefully, "but we give you our word as Freeroamers that we will protect you if you choose to do so."


    Cimmeran''s eyes stopped moving and flicked towards the Commander. "S-Sunsee?" he whispered.


    Grisket nodded. "That''s right. You''ll be safe there. We''ll get you a good hot meal and dry clothes and anything else you need."


    Ferrian noticed that the Commander was purposely avoiding mentioning anything of their plans beyond the city. If Cimmeran decided not to cooperate with them¡­ what then? He still had not revealed to them the exact location of the Sorcerer''s Valley, and that information was vital if Ferrian was to have any chance of curing the Winter, or finding out what was causing the strange explosions of light.


    He realised that he was holding his breath. This bedraggled, pitiful stranger held Ferrian''s life in his hands.


    Cimmeran straightened and his curious golden eyes brightened noticeably. The hunted look diminished somewhat. "Sunsee," he said. He gave a jerky nod. "Yes. I¡­ I want to go to Sunsee."


    Ferrian let his breath out silently. Grisket smiled. "Good, good." He hazarded a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The servant flinched, but did not back away.


    "Now, let''s get out of here," Grisket said, and stepped over to wake Aari.


    Long hours stretched away, and the rain showed no sign of ceasing; if anything, it got worse. At irregular intervals, the clouds darkened even further, pressing menacingly close to the treetops. The rain spilled down in heavy, pounding sheets, thundering upon their hunched backs as though determined to bring them to their knees. Ferrian guessed it must be sometime around noon; it was impossible to be certain of the time, as the sun had disappeared and the day felt like an extended twilight. He had been considering suggesting a rest stop for some time, although any comfort gained from this would be minor: there was no dry shelter to be found under the tall, high-limbed eucalyptus trees. He stared at his feet splashing through the mud and wet leaves, and wished he could feel the sun burning on his back again¡­


    It was then that two things happened at once: a scream pierced the pattering gloom, and Aari collapsed.


    Both Ferrian and Sirannor spun, their hearts leaping through their chests, to see Commander Trice dashing to Aari''s side. "What happened?" Ferrian cried, but he realised almost at once that the scream had not been Aari''s.


    It had come from Cimmeran. The man was pointing a trembling finger into the trees, his eyes wide and a look of terror on his face. Sirannor swept to Cimmeran''s side and peered intently in the direction the servant was pointing. "What did you see?" he demanded.


    "It''s out there!" Cimmeran wailed, his voice shrill with panic. "It''s out there! It''s coming for me!"


    "The Muron?"


    "Yes!"


    They all fell into a terrified silence, staring out into the rain, watching the mist swirl and shift around them.


    Nothing showed itself.


    Ferrian stood rooted to the spot, wide-eyed, his attention torn between watching the mist for signs of shadowy beasts and Aari lying motionless on the ground. Eventually, concern for his friend won over his fear and he ran to Commander Trice, who was hunched by the Angel''s side.


    Grisket carefully peeled back the bandages that bound Aari''s wings so that he could inspect the wounds. Aari was unconscious. His face was horrifyingly pale and his lips were beginning to turn blue. "What¡­ what''s wrong with him?" Ferrian gasped, fear sticking the words to the back of his throat. Grisket gently replaced the bandages and shook his head, water droplets scattering from the point of his hat. "It''s this blasted rain!" he muttered angrily. "He''s caught an infection and there''s no chance the wounds will heal in the damp. We need to get him to a healer."


    Ferrian looked down at Aari and swallowed. "But¡­ but we''re still hours from the city!"


    Grisket stared at him until he caught Ferrian''s eye, and his face was grim. "I know, you don''t need to tell me."


    Cimmeran and the Captain were still staring into the mist. Sirannor was turning in a slow circle, eyes grey and hard as the rain, scanning the trees. Cimmeran backed close to Commander Trice and stood in a half-crouch as though trying to shrink into himself. His bony hands wrung his sodden clothes and his eyes flicked this way and that like trapped insects. A long moment of tense silence passed, but still nothing could be seen.


    All of a sudden Ferrian gasped and pointed in the direction from which they had come. "There!" he cried.


    They all spun to look.


    The mist shifted to reveal a large shape, as black as wet coal beyond the sheets of rain. Grisket and Sirannor moved at once to protect the others, though they had nothing to defend themselves with. Ferrian drew his knife quickly and gave it to Sirannor, trusting the Captain''s aim better than his own. Cimmeran started whimpering, and kept repeating in a strained whisper: "I won''t go back, don''t let them take me! I won''t go back, don''t let them take me¡­"


    A moment later, the shape faded back into the gloom.


    The mist continued to swirl languidly as before.


    Then the shadow burst out of the mist to one side and was on them in seconds, nearly trampling the stricken Sergeant Aari. Everyone except Captain Sirannor yelled and stumbled backwards in fright, but it was only Grisket''s quick reflexes that caught Sirannor''s arm and kept the knife from leaving his hand.


    "It''s a damned horse!" the Commander cried.


    He was right. The big black mare reared and sprung back a few paces, startled by their shouts.


    "Ardance!" Cimmeran cried, as soon as he had recovered from the shock.


    They all turned to look at him in surprise. "That''s your horse?" Grisket asked.


    "Y-yes!" Cimmeran stammered. His breath was coming in short, rapid gasps: they could not tell if he was sobbing or laughing.


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    The horse stood a few yards away, eyeing them suspiciously. Her saddle, bridle and saddlebags were askew but still in place, and she did not appear to be hurt; merely wet, dirty and frightened.


    As they all were.


    Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ferrian couldn''t stop himself smiling as well.


    With extreme care, Grisket gathered Aari off the ground and tried to bundle him on Ardance, but the horse was incredibly jumpy and shied away if anyone so much as took a step towards her. It seemed that Cimmeran was the only one she would permit to touch her. Eventually, though, with the servant''s help, they managed to get Aari onto her back and secure him in position. Then, with Cimmeran leading the black mare on foot, the little party resumed the long, dreary march to the city of Sunsee.


    * * *


    Crack.


    The torch clattered to the floor, sending shadows leaping all over the corridor.


    Crysk hunched down against the floor, glancing wildly in both directions, not daring to breathe.


    Silence.


    It was quite a while before his mind unglued long enough to register the source of the sound: bone fragments all over the floor. He had stepped on the skull of some unfortunate creature and it had crushed beneath his foot.


    The Grik gulped in several deep breaths and retrieved his torch, relief flooding through him. He wondered how far he had come, and whether Grogdish and the others had heard the crack. He was glad they hadn''t seen him panic. Perhaps they thought poor old Crysk had met a nasty demise. Perhaps that was what they were hoping. They were probably laughing their big, ugly heads off.


    Crysk scowled into the darkness and sniffed indignantly. He felt a sudden, strong rush of pride at the fact that he was still alive. "I''ll show yers," he muttered.


    He took a firm grip on his torch and continued on his way with renewed purpose.


    He stopped.


    On the walls, picked out sharply by the torchlight, were markings. Long, deep scars in the stone that looked as though they had been made by claws or some sort of sharp implement. They were everywhere. Crysk followed one particularly deep cut with his torch until it ended ten paces away in a rusted axe, still embedded in the wall.


    He stared at it, horrified. It looked like the scene of a terrible battle¡­ except that there were no bodies, just a few shattered bones and the occasional discarded weapon.


    In the silence, the draught blew stronger, stirring his torch. The darkness ahead seemed to be watching him.


    Crysk''s hand clutched the torch so tightly he heard it splinter. He remembered the echo that had bounced away down the corridor when he''d stepped on that skull. Something else besides the Griks might have heard it¡­


    He nearly ran. He turned to face the way he had come, but the image of Grogdish jeering at him froze his steps. The other Griks thought him a fool, a weak, useless idiot, something to shove around and make fun of. If he went back now, he''d only prove them right.


    He swallowed hard. He had to go back.


    With great reluctance, he turned and stared into the impenetrable blackness.


    The blackness stared back.


    Only someone incredibly brave or incredibly stupid would venture into a Muron''s eyrie.


    "Well," he said aloud, "as long as I''m stoopid, I might as well keep goin''."


    So he did.


    The corridor continued unchanging, dead straight with no adjoining halls or doorways. The world remained an invisible void save for the walls and floor revealed in the circle of torchlight. The ominous scratches remained as well, becoming less haphazard and more deliberate. Some of them might even have been some sort of writing; however, since Crysk could not read or write, he had no way of knowing if they were any sort of language used by Murons, Humans or otherwise. He had no desire to understand the markings in any case: his imagination was doing a remarkably good job of translation.


    The draught grew steadily stronger as he walked, and to his relief, the darkness gradually eased aside to reveal a hazy grey light. Encouraged by the prospect of a way out of the castle and possible escape from impending doom, he quickened his pace.


    Eventually the light brightened enough for Crysk to see that it spilled in a dusty band from a sharp turn to the left. He broke into a ponderous jog, and turned the corner.


    Before him, rising gently, was a series of broad, flat steps. The steps were rounded on their outward edges, giving the staircase the appearance of overlapping scales. At the head of the stairs was a tall arch. The light beyond the arch was hazy and dim, although compared to the blackness of the corridor he had just passed through, it could have been the midday sun.


    It was from here that the draught was blowing. Crysk once again proceeded with caution; the draught brought with it a sour, musty smell, like long-rotten meat. He noticed a faint noise as well, like the clink of something metallic.


    Not daring to hesitate too long in case the tenuous grip on his courage slipped, he ascended the stairs.


    What he saw at the top froze his steps with awe.


    An enormous circular chamber opened before him, the walls soaring upwards a couple of hundred feet to end in a bright opening, sunlight spilling down the walls like water. The disc of light far above was covered by some kind of huge, skeletal iron structure: from below it gave the extremely unsettling impression of a giant spider with its legs outstretched.


    Embedded all around the circumference of the chamber, too many to count, were arches. All of them were filled with the same velvety blackness that choked the entrance corridor. Extending from each arch was a narrow stone ledge, and beneath every ledge were stains: white streaks of mildew and something darker that Crysk desperately tried not to dwell on. Hanging from the monstrous iron structure that passed for the ceiling were several long, rusted chains with manacles and hooks attached to the ends. A few of the manacles still contained the remnants of Human or animal carcasses. It was these that Crysk had heard clinking as they swung slowly in the draught.


    However, the hanging corpses were not what held Crysk''s attention. Directly in front of him, filling the entire floor of the chamber and rising above his head in a ghastly white hill, were bones: thousands and thousands of them. Every one had been completely stripped of flesh.


    This was the Muron''s eyrie.


    Crysk gaped. The bones themselves did not frighten him: he had killed and eaten plenty of things in his time; he would eat anything he could stuff in his mouth, but the sheer number and variety of creatures that had met their death here was stunning.


    And some of them were Griks.


    Something nearby caught his eye. Crysk peered at it: one of the skulls was huge, grey and rock-like, its jaw affixed with a single big, false fang made from pearlescent Dragon bone. He recognised it as Gobbet, a Grik who had disappeared six months ago after wagering his famous Dragon bone tooth in a game of Rat Bones against Ungefot the Strange, and lost. Gobbet had viciously refused to give up his precious tooth, and thus no one had questioned his sudden disappearance, believing Ungefot had done away with him to claim his debt.


    Obviously, that had not been the case. Poor old Gobbet must have simply wandered into the wrong corridor.


    He prised the rare Dragon bone tooth from its socket, grinning in satisfaction, and was just turning to leave, when he remembered that he was supposed to return with a Muron fang, not a Dragon one.


    Grumbling, he peered at the mound. Here and there amongst the mass of white skeletons and grey, crumbled Grik remains, were bones so black they appeared to be made of obsidian. Those were Muron bones. All he had to do was find a skull or a loose tooth¨C


    Snap.


    Crysk jumped, startled, and took an involuntary step backwards. Yet another loud crunch rang throughout the chamber. He cringed, casting a fearful glance at the arches.


    Nothing was there.


    No sound or movement except for the slight swaying and clinking of the chains. He straightened carefully, remembering suddenly that the Murons were most likely out doing Lord Arzath''s bidding.


    The thought was comforting and he resumed his search with more confidence, pulling out bones, creating small, macabre landslides that rattled to the floor. He discovered some quite good rat bones amongst the debris, which he pocketed.


    It was then he heard the noise. It was not the crunch of bone this time, but a quiet, purposeful click. And it had come from somewhere above him.


    Crysk froze. He did not want to look up.


    But he did.


    The arches were no longer empty. Several dozen of them now contained little yellow pinpricks: all of them staring directly at him. The pinpricks came forward to stand on the ledges, weak sunlight glinting off hard black scales.


    Crysk made a small sound of terror in his throat, and ran.


    Or tried to. He had barely taken a step before one of the creatures dropped languidly from its perch and blocked the doorway. It hissed at him.


    Crysk turned and ran the other way instead. Fortunately for him, in his haste to get away he tripped and fell heavily, smashing into the bones, just as a second Muron landed on the pile and swiped at him. Missing its target put the creature off balance and it stumbled as well, giving Crysk a chance to get to his feet. He scrambled for the only direction left, and found himself against the wall.


    Crysk hunched into himself, desperately trying to think what to do. All over the chamber, Murons had launched themselves off their ledges. Some landed on the mound of bones: others circled above. Still others watched curiously from their arches.


    ¡­ the words raced frantically through his mind as though trying to flee. He looked around the chamber desperately.


    The walls were perfectly smooth and covered with black slime near their base, and the arches were much too high to reach. The only doorway at ground level was the one from which he had entered, and it was well guarded.


    The Muron that had swiped at him had regained its footing and was approaching him. He whimpered again. Not knowing what else to do, he began shuffling along the wall, away from the advancing Muron. The others on the mound followed him almost disinterestedly. They knew he was not going to escape and were enjoying this brief entertainment.


    he wailed silently.


    The inevitability of his fate dawned on him. When the Murons caught him, they would tear him apart, little piece by little piece. Their claws were sharp enough to pierce anything, even a Grik''s rock-armoured skin. He had nothing whatsoever to defend himself with. And even if he did¡­ the image of the axe embedded in the wall floated to the forefront of his mind. He had no chance either way. He was going to end up as just another scattering of bones on this hideous pile. No one would come looking for him. No one would care enough to.


    , he thought miserably.


    Suddenly he stumbled as his hand flailed into empty air. Puzzled, he turned to look.


    There was a gap in the wall here; a black pit of shadow. An alcove of some sort. It looked very narrow, perhaps too narrow to admit a Grik''s bulky body, but...


    He landed in a thunderous heap sideways on the floor. Directly behind him, the Muron that had been stalking him also threw itself violently into the gap, making Crysk jump. He struggled to get to his feet in the tiny space, but the Muron was having just as much difficulty: its wings were too massive to permit it to enter. Infuriated at the fact it could not reach its prey, it thrashed at Crysk with its talons and screamed, the sound sending pain lancing through the Grik''s head.


    Awkwardly, Crysk edged deeper into the alcove, his rocky shelled back scraping the wall, while the Muron continued to snarl and scream and claw at the walls. Saliva dripped from its jaws and its eyes were wild. There came a sudden, sickening crack, and Crysk realised with incredulous horror that the creature was breaking its own wings in an effort to get at him.


    Crysk continued to back away. It was only when the Muron became an indistinct shadow thrashing in the distance that he finally realised he was not in an alcove at all, but a passageway.

 Chapter Twenty Six

    Travelling in unwelcome lands


    A shattering truth is close at hand


    The last leg of their journey to Sunsee was a long and dismal one. Even though they were only two or three hours away from reaching their destination, Ferrian had the detached feeling they could walk this road for days and never get any closer. The landscape remained unchanged since that morning; the forest passed ghostly and still on the left and a deep fog clung stubbornly to the coastline, although the rain had dissolved into a fine, cool spray that stuck to their faces.


    Shortly after stumbling across Ardance in the forest, Commander Trice had led the party out onto the Great Ocean Road; while they were more exposed to anything that might be following, the visibility was slightly better, as was the footing. Several times during the afternoon unnerving shadows appeared in the mist ahead and behind, but were only merchant travellers or farmers going about their business. None spoke or spared more than a glance at Ferrian, Cimmeran or the Freeroamers as they passed, although the sight of Sergeant Aari caused a few raised eyebrows and second looks.


    No one offered assistance, however.


    Ferrian trudged gloomily beside Ardance. The mist seemed to be leaching the resolution and life out of everything it touched. A stubborn ache had settled into his calves and he had to concentrate hard to keep awake. He fought his weariness, trying to remain alert, frequently checking on Aari''s condition to keep his attention focused.


    The Angel was unconscious again, slumped over Ardance''s neck. Broken, muddied feathers trailed down her flanks. He had stirred half-awake a few times, only to mutter incomprehensibly, sometimes in Angelican, his native language. Often he shivered as though freezing, but his temperature, when Ferrian checked it, was dangerously high. Frustratingly, there was little any of them could do to help. Sirannor had given up what remained of his Freeroamer tunic to be torn into strips, soaked in cold seawater and wrapped around Aari''s forehead, but it didn''t seem to make much difference. At least Grisket had managed to make the Angel drink some of the rainwater he''d collected in his waterskin.


    A cold darkness filled Ferrian as he looked at his injured companion. He desperately hoped that the healers in Sunsee would be skilled enough to help.


    Ferrian''s throat tightened and he silenced the thought angrily, sensing the darkness and self-loathing that lurked just beneath the surface if he allowed himself to dwell on what he was feeling. He forced himself to study their new companion Cimmeran instead, speculating on the circumstances that had brought him here.


    The servant''s bony hand was wrapped firmly around Ardance''s rein. He kept very close to her, as though the horse''s presence brought him comfort. Gradually, Cimmeran had become less watchful and nervous as fatigue enveloped him, and now simply dragged himself along with the others, staring at the ground with a glazed expression.


    Ferrian wondered how he managed to walk at all. The poor man looked almost emaciated: his clothes ¨C or rags, for that was what they most resembled ¨C were literally hanging off him, his sunburnt skin was tight and shrunken around cheekbones that were disturbingly pronounced. Beneath a bedraggled mess of hair, strange golden eyes glimmered within dark hollows.


    After some deliberation with himself, Ferrian decided to attempt a conversation to break the monotony. He cleared his throat. "Your master must be pretty powerful to have sent Murons after you," he said. "I thought those creatures never take orders from anyone?"


    Ferrian nodded quickly and avoided his gaze. "Sorry," he apologised. After a moment he added, somewhat hesitantly: "It¡­ must have been difficult to escape¡­"


    Cimmeran stared at the road in front of him. "I thought he was dead," he said hoarsely.


    "But he''s still alive?"


    "He¡­he¡­" The servant''s face contorted and he put his free hand to his head as though the thoughts inside were causing him great pain.


    , Ferrian thought, taking a deep breath. "Do you have any family?" he tried, deciding to change the subject.


    The servant lifted his head and frowned at Ferrian in confusion, as though he had spoken in a foreign language.


    "Family?" Ferrian repeated. "You don''t have any parents or siblings? Relatives you could go to for help?"


    Cimmeran continued to frown at him. "No¡­ I¡­" He paused. "I don''t know. I don''t¡­ remember¡­"


    Ferrian nodded slowly in understanding. "I don''t remember my family either," he said quietly. "Not my real family, at least¡­"


    His voice trailed off until there was no sound save the crash of invisible waves in the fog, the splash of boots in the puddles and the clopping of Ardance''s hooves. His gaze wandered off into the mist and his thoughts drifted. Images appeared upon the swirling ether, mingled memories of the past and possible futures, among them the much-fantasised faces of his parents.


    As always, a great longing accompanied those faces, and a hundred thousand questions. So many questions; so many truths hidden. So much of himself that he did not understand, and perhaps never would¡­


    A sudden grunt from Grisket broke his daydream, the colourful silent pictures dissolving into the grey gloom. At the head of the party, the Commander straightened and adjusted his hat. "Here comes trouble," he growled.


    A group of bright shapes materialised out of the mist ahead, their silver armour and rich blue cloaks striking a resplendent vision upon the washed-out landscape. Their horses were immaculately groomed and decorated with ornate chamfrons and tasselled blankets bearing the royal arms. Affixed in saddle-holsters upon the left-hand flanks of each mount were long halberds with twin scythe-like blades at their ends, the metal so highly polished it flashed even in this dim light.


    "Blue Watch," Grisket muttered in explanation. "City soldiers. Probably on their way north to Sel Varence." He half-turned to Ferrian and Cimmeran, and said in a lowered voice: "Keep still and quiet, and don''t answer any questions. I''ll do the talking."


    Unlike most of the previous travellers they''d encountered, the Watchmen regarded their party with intense interest, even outright suspicion, as they approached.


    Cimmeran gave a jerk and shrank against Ardance as though trying to hide in her mane. Ferrian stared fixedly at the lichen-crusted stone in front of his feet, not daring to make eye contact with any of the Watchmen. He didn''t know if they were as superstitious as the Outlanders were, but he didn''t care to take any chances.


    The lead rider drew to a halt beside Grisket, lifting a gauntleted hand to signal his own party to stop. His midnight-blue gaze swept Ferrian''s group officiously, then settled on Commander Trice.


    "My, my, look what the storm dragged in," he said. "A little out of your jurisdiction, aren''t you Outlander?"


    Grisket stared at him in silence, and made no reply.


    The Watchman seemed to take his lack of response as an insult. He lifted his chin haughtily. "What business have you in the Coastlands?" he said.


    "Freeroamer business is none of your concern," Grisket replied with equal brusqueness.


    Their eyes locked like two hawks trying to stare each other down. Eventually Grisket nodded at Ardance, without breaking his gaze. "One of my colleagues is seriously injured. We''re escorting him to the nearest infirmary."


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    Grisket took the chance instead. "The Outlands are no less a part of this country than your blessed Coastlands, and its people deserve no less respect!"


    "Its people," the officer said contemptuously, "are vermin. The Outlands are a breeding ground for criminals and vagabonds. Be grateful for the King''s pity, for it''s more than you deserve."


    Ferrian was saved from uttering something he would have regretted by a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to see Captain Sirannor standing right behind him. He did not glance at Ferrian, which was just as well, for the gaze he was directing at the Watchmen was icy and fierce as a snowstorm. It was the same look he''d had during the battle with the demon-wraiths in the Barlakks¡­ if anything, it was even stonier.


    A chill passed up Ferrian''s spine, and he was suddenly glad that the Freeroamers had lost their weapons, though he would have given up his own knife again without hesitation if either of them had asked.


    Grisket''s expression flickered and changed as he fought to control his anger. To his credit, however, he merely replied in a tight voice: "If you''ve finished your interrogation, we need to be on our way."


    The Watchman regarded him in silence for a moment, as though expecting a scathing rebuttal. When one didn''t come, he gestured at his men to move on ahead of him. As they passed, he leaned down and spoke to Commander Trice in a very low voice. Ferrian could not make out the words through the clatter of hoofbeats and clank of armour, but judging from the expressions on both Commanders'' faces, they were not nice ones.


    Commander Tarrow straightened, and with a final look of unmasked hatred at their party, he spurred his horse after his men. He did not look back.


    As soon as the soldiers were out of earshot, Ferrian quickened his pace to catch up with Grisket, who was walking with renewed determination. "He can''t talk to you like that!" he exclaimed heatedly. "You¡¯re a fellow officer!"


    Grisket kept his gaze fixed ahead. "The Freeroamers have no authority in the Coastlands," he replied.


    "Assuredly so. But Siriaza is a separate country with its own, very well trained military. It bodes well for the King not to offend his neighbours."


    "Aye," Grisket replied, "and I call the Watch foul-beaked peacocks."


    Ferrian smirked. "You should have told him that to his face. Or better yet, punched him off his shiny horse."


    Despite himself, Grisket chuckled. "The thought wasn''t far from my mind, believe me!" Then his face once again became humourless, and he shook his head. "But that''s exactly what he was hoping for. He was itching for an excuse to arrest me."


    Ferrian sighed. "But¡­ why? Why do those Watchmen dislike you so much?"


    A strange silence fell. Ferrian listened to their footsteps, waiting for a response, but none came. Grisket seemed to be purposely avoiding looking at him. A heavy frown had settled on his face and there was a shadow in his eyes that Ferrian had never seen before. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Sirannor staring intently back. The Freeroamer said nothing, but he didn''t need to, his look spoke for him:


    it said.


    Uneasiness stirred within Ferrian. There was something wrong here, he could sense it. Whatever it was, it was important, and Grisket and Sirannor were keeping it from him.


    , he thought to himself. That meant they had met some time in the past. Had something happened between them that left the Watch with a permanent grudge against the Freeroamers?


    But it wasn''t enough. There were too many secrets.


    Ferrian stopped walking.


    Sirannor stopped as well, almost in unison, as though he had predicted what was about to happen. Cimmeran passed them leading Ardance, but a few steps on he hesitated, realising that Ferrian did not intend to follow. Hearing his companions'' footsteps halt behind him, Commander Trice turned.


    "I want to know what you''re keeping from me," Ferrian said.


    "No, you don''t," Sirannor murmured from behind him. There was an unmistakable warning tone to his voice.


    This, however, only annoyed Ferrian further. An angry glint sparked in his silver eyes and he whirled on the Captain, forcing himself to meet the other''s piercing gaze. "Yes," he said determinedly, "I do."


    Silence fell upon the party. The mist thickened and closed around them, deep and damp, sealing them away as though they were the only people left in the world. Cimmeran looked back and forth between them like a bewildered spectator.


    "You want to know why¡­ the Watch despise us?"


    Everyone turned in surprise. It was Aari who had spoken.


    The Angel had pushed himself into a half-sitting position. His face was pale and stark beneath his rain-dark hair, giving the impression of a ghost. Pain glazed his eyes, but he was fully conscious and coherent.


    "Sergeant!" Grisket growled, taking a step towards Ardance who lifted her head and eyed him warily.


    Aari looked at Commander Trice, his eyes fierce. "He¡­ has a right to know!" he insisted. "We should have tol¨C told¨C" He gasped and shuddered as fresh pain flowed through him. His hands clenched tightly in Ardance''s mane, causing her to shift restlessly until Cimmeran soothed her and stroked her nose.


    Ferrian''s heart was pounding now. His throat had gone dry. "Told me what?" he asked.


    Again, silence.


    "Aari?" Ferrian said desperately.


    But the Angel was on the verge of passing out again, and did not seem able to speak.


    Sirannor and Grisket exchanged glances.


    Tell me!"


    Finally, Grisket sighed, but still seemed unable or unwilling to meet the boy''s gaze. "The Freeroamers¡­ we''re not who you think we are," he replied quietly.


    Ferrian shook his head in confusion. "What do you mean?"


    It was Sirannor who answered: "The Freeroamers are not part of the Watch, nor are we officially endorsed by the King as law enforcement officers¡­


    "Because we are all criminals."


    It was as though the world had stopped.


    Ferrian''s life, the whole of time, seemed to grind to a halt in that instant. He could do nothing but stare at Captain Sirannor, speechless.


    Eventually, when no one seemed willing to move or speak, he found his voice. "What do you mean, you''re criminals? You''re¡­ you''re the Freeroamers! You protect the Outlands and uphold the law in a place forsaken by the King, a place no one else¡­" he stopped.


    "No one else is prepared to govern," Commander Trice finished quietly.


    "Why didn''t¡­ why didn''t the Watch arrest you?" Ferrian went on, desperation in his voice. He didn''t want to believe that this was true.


    Grisket sighed and shook his head. "We were given a reprieve." He looked up and met Ferrian''s eyes at last. "All of the Freeroamers have in some way broken the laws of their respective countries." He nodded at Aari. "Sergeant Aari is an exile, as are Cairan and Raemint. The others¡­ have taken actions they regret. And some have taken actions they do not regret, but we all have one thing in common: We should rightfully be locked in the King''s dungeons."


    He paused, giving Ferrian a chance to respond, but the boy was too stunned to speak.


    "We would be there now," Grisket went on, "if it weren''t for the King''s daughter, Princess Minoa, who penned an agreement in which we would have our convictions suspended on the condition we remained in the Outlands and scoured it of its ''undesirable occupants''. We were to use any means necessary to achieve this result.


    "Before the Freeroamers existed, the King sent many patrols beyond the mountains to establish a Watch and enforce the law, but all of them disappeared or fell to corruption. The Bladeshifters were running amok; the Outlands were falling into anarchy. The King was tired of wasting good soldiers. So he looked through his prisons instead, and found a solution that left everyone''s consciences intact."


    Grisket tapped the blue sleeve of his tunic. "It''s not often you get a second chance to make up for your mistakes, my boy," he said. "We are free, and will defend that freedom with our lives. And whatever you may think of us, we are not bad people."


    Ferrian stared at the Commander in silence for awhile, then turned to Sirannor. "You lied to me," he said quietly. "You told me that Grisket formed the Freeroamers after his family¨C" he caught himself. He had promised Sirannor he would not reveal that he knew of Grisket''s past¡­


    But Commander Trice looked neither angry nor surprised. "You told him?" he asked the Captain.


    Sirannor nodded. "I felt it was necessary for him to know," he replied.


    criminals?


    "Sirannor did not lie to you," Grisket said. "There is nothing false about my love for my country or my desire to protect it. But it''s true, yes, that he didn''t tell you the whole story."


    do to become a Freeroamer?"


    Grisket hesitated, but only for a moment. He looked away, and when he looked back, his gaze was firm. "A man died by my hands¡­"


    "You mean you murdered him?" Ferrian snapped.


    "No," Grisket replied, but a flicker of doubt passed across his face. "It was unintentional. I¡­ had just lost my family. I''d been at the tavern several hours¡­ he provoked me¡­"


    Ferrian closed his eyes and turned away, not needing or wanting to hear any more. He opened his eyes and stood with his back to the Freeroamers, staring into the mist as though trying to catch a glimpse of the sea beyond. He took a deep breath of misty air, letting all he had heard sink in to his mind. He couldn''t even begin to try and understand it, not yet, not while betrayal burnt so fiercely inside him.


    Without another word, he started walking along the highway; north, back the way they had come.


    "Ferrian!" Grisket cried, starting after him, but Sirannor''s calm voice stilled his steps.


    "Let him go, Commander," he said.


    They watched Ferrian in silence until he had vanished into the mist.

 Chapter Twenty Seven

    Choices made and now alone


    What secrets hold the singing stone?


    Ferrian thought bitterly.


    Mist curled around him, unnoticed. Glassy puddles shattered into liquid fragments with his passing. Exactly what he intended to do next, he did not know; had he stopped to consider the implications of his actions, he would have realised that his decision to leave the Freeroamers was a rash and foolhardy one, forged in anger, not reason.


    He was heading in entirely the wrong direction, for a start. Sunsee was only a short walk south, whereas he had no idea how far it was to the next town, if there were any between here and Sel Varence. The geography of the Coastlands was hopelessly unfamiliar. He had no guide to take him into the Barlakks, no possible way of finding the hidden valley of the sorcerers on his own. Nor had he any food or supplies for the journey, and little money to buy either. He had no possessions save his knife and the clothes he was wearing.


    All of these facts quivered somewhere at the back of his mind, cringing from the force of his scorching fury.


    His Freeroamer uniform ¨C the one that was meant to keep him safe but was in fact advertising him as a known criminal ¨C was plastered against his torso like a second skin, still soaked through with no sun or wind to dry it.


    A sudden thought flashed through his mind, sharp as a knife blade, so terrifying that it stopped him dead.


    What if that had been their intention?


    him to be arrested? It would solve everything, as far as they were concerned; he would be locked in prison, unable to cause further trouble, and he would be nowhere near the Outlands when the Winter took effect.


    And the Freeroamers weren''t exactly on pleasant terms with the Watch. Where better to deliver a cursed kid than the base of operations of one of their greatest enemies?


    Ferrian''s eyes widened. His heart and mind raced.


    It couldn''t be true¡­


    He turned and looked behind him, but nothing revealed itself in the drifting fog.


    But if that had been their true motive all along, why hadn''t they handed him over to Commander Tarrow when they had the chance? Or were they so outraged by the Watchman''s insulting comments that it momentarily slipped their minds?


    Overcome with grief, Ferrian turned and ran, a tear splashing across his cheek as he did so.


    He sprinted blindly through the mist, not thinking about what he was doing, not caring, needing only to escape. The damp air clogged his lungs like wet cotton wool, but still he ran, faster, faster¡­


    Or yourself?


    His panting turned to ragged sobs and he stumbled to a halt, struggling to hold the dam of despair that threatened to break him apart. His own fear and doubts were consuming him, clawing at the edges of his sanity¡­


    Ferrian closed his eyes and clenched his fists, trying to calm himself, to put his scattered senses back in order. Losing control was something he could not afford to do right now. The Freeroamers had betrayed him, but he would manage without them. Somehow, he would find another way. He had survived well enough before Commander Trice found him, he would do so again¡­


    It was then that an odd feeling enveloped him. An icy shiver passed through his body, starting deep within his chest and blooming outwards to the tips of his fingers and down to his toes. At the same time his skin was burning, as though he were standing too close to a very hot fire, and his head was strangely light¡­


    Some hidden instinct warned Ferrian to open his eyes, but his heart was already sinking, knowing exactly what he would see.


    This time the sight hardly evoked surprise at all, merely bitter resignation. Ferrian brought his glowing fists before him and glared at them, his anger returning in a rush.


    "Do your worst!" he growled.


    Though the blinding flare was expected, it still caused him to gasp and turn his head aside. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as possible and remained that way for several long seconds, waiting for the light to subside.


    It did not.


    Minutes passed. The glow remained: he could still see it through his eyelids. Puzzled and fearful, he cracked an eye open to see what was happening.


    He didn''t even have time to react. In an instant the light tore through his eye and deep into his mind, flooding his vision with an almost wrathful vengeance, and consumed him.


    Whiteness.


    Gradually, the pieces of Ferrian''s consciousness stirred and crept back together from where they had been flung to the far corners of his mind with the force of the explosion of light.


    He remained still for a while, gazing into the glare, not attempting to think lest his thoughts slip away again, letting his awareness return fully.


    When it had, he blinked, but no shadow passed across his eyes. He closed them, but it made no difference. The light remained, regardless.


    It occurred to him that he should feel afraid; he sensed that something terrible had happened, but he felt only¡­ curious, and vaguely confused. He thought he could hear rain but it was very faint, as though a long way off and he could see nothing but the white light, and felt nothing on his skin.


    His skin¡­he looked down.


    Nothing but the light. He could not see his body, no matter how hard he stared.


    Am I dead? he thought.


    Or am I blind? Is this some kind of reverse blindness? Were my corneas damaged with the blinding flash?


    And if so¡­ why don''t I care?


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    He knew he should feel something, some emotion other than what he was experiencing, but the thoughts evoked only indifference. He sensed that the answer to those questions didn''t matter¡­


    He lifted his gaze upwards, and to the sides and down and all around, studying the glare for anything that might give a clue as to what had happened to him, and what he should do next. There was nothing to see. The light looked exactly the same in every direction, if indeed directions still existed; he had no ability to judge spatial dimensions. He could not feel or see his body, could not determine if his head or eyes were moving at all, or if he was paralysed, staring at the same point in space.


    Frozen in time, perhaps?


    Then, over the quiet steady cadence of what he presumed to be rain, he heard something new. It was almost inaudible, a whispering murmur, barely more than a tingling on the edge of hearing.


    He focused his complete attention on the sound, for there was nothing else for him to do.


    As he listened carefully, the murmur became a voice and assumed a musical quality, as of a rhythmic chanting or singing. Slowly it increased in clarity and he discerned that it was a woman''s voice, divinely beautiful, but he could not understand her words: they were formed of a strange tongue that he had never heard before.


    Yet they were spoken with love, of that Ferrian had no doubt. They brought with them a gentle, yet powerful feeling of reassurance and peace. He wanted to listen to her forever. He wondered if it was some kind of lullaby.


    Who are you? he asked suddenly. His voice echoed both inside and outside his head, layered with resonance.


    The woman''s voice stopped.


    Ferrian waited expectantly, but no reply came. He was sure that she had heard him, had she not fallen silent because he had spoken?


    The singing resumed.


    Are you my mother? he tried again.


    Once more, the woman paused. After a few moments, she continued singing.


    Ferrian listened more intently, trying to extricate some sort of meaning from her words, thinking that perhaps the answer lay in her song.


    The lyrics slipped through his mind like water in a stream: he could grasp none of them.


    Then something caught his eye: an object, hazy and indistinct through the dazzling glare. Intrigued, he moved towards it.


    The object was a pedestal, tall and spindly, made of blue-grey stone and polished silver. Atop the pedestal were two curved prongs, looped and twisted together like vines, and balanced delicately between these prongs was a huge, perfectly spherical diamond, the diameter of both his fists placed side by side. White light passed through thousands of facets inside the gem, scattering tiny rainbows all across its surface.


    It was like a fallen star. Ferrian gazed at it, entranced. He did not know where it had come from or why it was here, only that it was the most astonishingly wondrous thing he had ever seen.


    It took him a while to realise that the woman''s voice was emanating from the diamond. The revelation surprised him, but only slightly. It seemed fitting, somehow.


    He stared deeper into its prismatic depths, longing to catch a glimpse of the source of the voice. The diamond caught his reflection and shattered it into infinite fragments.


    A strong desire to touch the stone overcame him. He moved closer, becoming aware as he did so that his body was now partially visible, though no more than an insubstantial grey shadow. Nevertheless, he reached out a hand and placed his fingers upon the exquisite gem¡­


    It cracked.


    Startled, he drew his hand quickly away. But the crack continued, leaping from one facet to another, splintering throughout the entire sphere. As it did so, the white light encompassing him began to dim and pull back from the edges of his vision, shrinking towards the diamond, whereas the light inside the stone grew brighter. The woman''s voice changed, becoming warped and out of tune, until it melded into one long, wavering eerily-pitched note that grated against his ears.


    Ferrian''s emotions began to return, fear and trepidation flooding back. What have I done?! he thought in panic. I only wanted to touch it, I didn''t know it would break!


    He took a step backwards. He was now surrounded by impenetrable darkness. Light filled the diamond, so bright now that he could no longer look at it. The wavering note strained painfully like an over-taught harp string, increasing in pitch¡­


    And then the diamond shattered.


    Trees thrashed in the gale, sending leaves, gumnuts and strings of bark across the road as they fought the fury of the sky. Clouds hunkered, low, blue-black and angry, plunging the highway into premature night. The mist had fled, torn away by the raging wind.


    The storm had returned.


    Just inside the fringe of trees bordering the road, a black shape lifted its ravaged head to taste the air. It had torn out what was left of its ruined eyes and eaten them. This had provided it with some sustenance, some strength to keep it alive a little longer, but it wouldn''t last. It knew that it did not have much time.


    The Muron emerged from the treeline, climbed a short embankment and stepped onto the ice-slicked road. Hail poured out of the sky, clattering off its obsidian scales.


    A body lay on the road, only a few yards away. Ice had collected around it in small mounds.


    The Muron could not see the body, but sensed its presence. The scent of it should have been scattered and barely detectable in a storm like this, but there it was, clear and sharp like frozen metal.


    Hunched and cautious, the Muron crept towards the body. Its skeletal wings rattled uselessly behind it, bits of charred membrane flapping in the wind.


    The one who tasted of magic.


    It prodded the body onto its back, but it made no movement. Yet, the Muron could feel a faint heat upon his skin; his life-force still radiated from him, though dimly. The boy was alive.


    It opened its jaws, mere inches above the boy''s chest, saliva splattering onto his dark, sodden shirt. It pawed at his clothes and skin with its huge talons. It was hungry, so painfully hungry. The thought of fresh warm blood trickling down its throat almost drove it into a frenzy, but it kept control of itself. There was one desire that overrode even its need to feed:


    Revenge.


    This piteous weakling and his party had crippled it beyond healing, killed its companion and stolen the servant that it had been sent to retrieve. These actions would not be forgotten.


    The Muron snarled in anger. The boy knew where the other Humans had gone. It would have gone after them itself, but it was weakening. It could not travel well on foot. The Humans would reach the city of Sunsee before it caught up to them, and once inside they would be difficult to track by scent alone.


    The Muron expected nothing in return, but it would die knowing its attackers'' deaths were assured.


    It raked the boy''s clothing blindly, searching for hidden weapons. It found only a single knife and tossed it away. Then it curled one clawed hand around the boy''s throat, another around his ankles, picked him up and shambled away into the forest.


    * * *


    Commander Trice paced impatiently.


    "He will return," Sirannor assured him.


    "He has no supplies. Sooner or later, he will realise that he must come back this way." The Captain was standing exactly where Ferrian had left him, arms folded, hair blowing crazily in the wind, staring fixedly down the road. Ardance stood under the trees, Cimmeran on the wet ground beside her, his head nodding as he began to doze off again.


    "He would not have trusted us," Sirannor replied levelly.


    "He doesn''t trust us now!"


    "We managed to get him this far, did we not?"


    Grisket scowled at him. "What''s the use of that if he gets himself killed out of stubborn-headedness?"


    "Ferrian will not get himself killed."


    The Commander huffed in exasperation and took to rubbing his beard in an agitated manner instead. After a while, he said: "What if he circles around¨C"


    "He won''t."


    "You''re damn sure of that?"


    This time Sirannor looked over his shoulder and gave Grisket a philosophical look. Then he returned his gaze to the road. "The boy is sensible and level-headed, for the most part. He has momentarily let his anger and pride get the better of him, but it will not last. He has survived for as long as he has by taking risks, perhaps, but not unnecessary ones. He will come to remember why he accepted our help in the first place."


    Grisket continued to scowl. He walked over to Ardance and checked on Aari, muttering under his breath. His frown deepened when he felt the Angel''s forehead. "Damn it," he cursed. His stomach tightened. The fear that had been nagging him ever since Aari had taken a turn for the worse could no longer be pushed aside. The hard fact was that Aari would not survive another night out here in the damp. He would be exceptionally blessed if he managed to make it through the night in a warm bed with medication.


    He took a sudden deep breath, blinking away his emotion. "His condition''s getting worse," he said when he had regained his composure. "We don''t have time to hang around here." He walked over to Sirannor. "Captain, you take Aari and Cimmeran on to Sunsee. I''ll wait for the boy."


    Sirannor regarded him in silence for a moment, then nodded. ¡°You will need these." Sirannor took the tiny lantern and a tin of matches from his belt. "It will be dark, soon."


    Grisket nodded and accepted the items gratefully. As Sirannor turned to leave, he put a hand suddenly on the other''s shoulder. They shared a look, and the Captain nodded, understanding his old friend''s unspoken words.


    Whatever happens, may luck be with you.

 Chapter Twenty Eight

    Knife and bolt, a deadly game


    Blood spilled always leaves a stain.


    It was another perfect morning. The new sun was still so low that it cast a beam of light from the front windows all the way across the room to rest upon Lord Requar''s table.


    The sorcerer sat with his hands clasped loosely around a glass of water, gazing at the finches playing in the purple fuchsia outside the window. One of them hopped along the sill and blinked at him curiously before darting off with the rest of its flock into the sunshine over the river.


    , he thought.


    He rubbed his eyes wearily with one hand. He hadn''t got much sleep last night, since he''d spent half the night waiting for Flint to appear and two or three hours after that pondering the whole incident. He supposed he should have let himself sleep in, but he had too much on his mind.


    Requar was alone in the common room save for two other guests eating breakfast in the far corner and a couple of young serving maids bustling quietly around. The beam of sunlight on his table was suddenly obscured with the approach of one of the girls. The smell of hot bread and wickerwork caused him to look up: she was carrying a huge basket full of baked goods.


    "Sorry t''bother you, sir!" the girl said shyly, curtsying hastily, and knocked the basket on the corner of the table as she did so, sending bread rolls bouncing in all directions.


    Requar got to his feet at once to help her pick them up. The other serving girl, who was wiping down a nearby table, giggled.


    Requar looked at the cob loaf he had just picked up off the floor, and declined as politely as possible.


    "But sir hasn''t had any breakfast yet, couldn''t help but notice, sir! ''Tis not t''do, goin'' all mornin'' till lunch wiv an empty stomach, sir!"


    "I''m¡­ really not a breakfast person¨C" Requar started.


    "But I ''ave nice sweet buns, sir!"


    A clatter of glasses came from somewhere across the room, and the girl who was carrying them put a hand to her mouth and had to sit down.


    The girl with the basket turned and glared at her, then took a fruit bun and placed it on the table in front of Requar. Before he could protest, she added another one. And another.


    He gave up, watching in faint exasperation as she began to unload the contents of her basket onto his table, chattering nervously all the while. "¡­ ''tis not good, a fine and noble man such as yourself not eatin'', sir!" We don''t get many nobles this far east these days, no sir, not fer many years, sir, can''t ''ave the ones that do visit our fair town wastin'' away, sir! Has sir come all the way from t''Crystal City, or Sel Varence? Or from across t''border? Though you don''t looks like a Sirinese, sir, if you won''t take offence. I ''eard tell that t''Sirinese peoples have skin like dusk an'' eyes blue as night an'' are t''handsomest men in all of Arvanor, but I''m sure that''s rubbish, sir, ''cause I can''t imagine a man handsomer than you, sir¨C" Her words cut off with a choked gasp.


    "Apologies, sir! Such words are meant for ladies much finer than myself, sir!"


    Requar was taken aback, so much so that he nearly blushed himself. He couldn''t remember the last time he had been given a compliment. He opened his mouth to reply and found himself lost for words, so settled for a polite smile in return.


    The serving girl''s downcast expression turned into a beam as bright as the morning sun. Over at the counter, her fellow worker sniffed disdainfully and tried to look nonchalant.


    The girl curtsied hurriedly, stammered her thanks and turned to leave, but Requar called her back. "If you wouldn''t mind, may I ask you a question?"


    "O'' course, sir!" she said, curtsying again.


    "Have you ever heard anything about a boy who brings winter wherever he goes?"


    A change came over the girl. Her eyes dazzled at the prospect of gossip and her self-consciousness dropped away like a curtain. She dumped her basket on an empty table and slid onto the bench opposite him, leaning forward conspiratorially.


    The girl looked delighted to be telling this to someone who would listen. "If you ask me, ''tis a good thing t''Freeroamers caught ''im when they did, sir!"


    "Freeroamers?" Requar said, staring at her intently.


    "Aye, sir, took ''im back t''Forthwhite. An'' told everyone that he was no sorcerer, but no one much believes ''em. We know vile magic when we sees it, sir!" Then her voice lowered even further. "There''s somethin'' fishy goin'' on, you mark my words. No disrespect t''the Freeroamers, but I always thought there was somethin'' odd about ''em."


    "In what way?" Requar asked.


    The girl shook her head, frowning anxiously. "Don''t know, sir, just a feelin''. Like they''re keepin'' secrets all t''time¡­"


    Requar frowned as well, and was silent for a few moments, thinking.


    Forthwhite.


    "Lenna! What''re you whisperin'' about over there? There''s work t''be done in t''kitchen!"


    The girl looked over her shoulder, and then gave Requar an apologetic look. "Sorry sir, ''ave to go! Pleasant day to you, sir!" She got up hurriedly and moved to fetch her basket.


    At that moment the bell over the door jingled, and a group of unfortunately familiar people entered the tavern. Catching sight of them, the serving girl froze.


    The Bladeshifters strolled casually through the middle of the room. A few perched themselves on tables. The guests in the corner put down their cutlery and stared, then quickly lowered their heads, hoping not to be noticed. A tall man with a limp and a helmet adorned with a long horsehair plume leered at the basket girl as he passed.


    She took a startled step backwards, stumbled against a bench, and would have fallen if it weren''t for the firm hands that caught her shoulders. She turned to thank the kind noble, but he was gone.


    Requar left the serving girl peering under the tables in puzzlement and slipped out the door before it closed behind the last Bladeshifter. He walked out of sight of the windows, then let his camouflage spell slip and paused, frowning back at the tavern.


    , he thought in a sudden flash of insight. . It made sense, in a strange sort of way. The Bladeshifter leader had given Flint the ludicrous mission of assassinating a sorcerer in order to get rid of him, and Flint was too gullible to realise what he was getting himself into. The reasons for this Requar could only guess at. Jealousy? Perhaps he was becoming a little too skilled with that giant crossbow, developing as a potential threat.


    It was an over-elaborate way of eliminating someone, but from what Requar had seen of Nightwalker, he appeared the kind of man who liked his sport...


    had


    , he told himself.


    Yet still, he hesitated. He had no real reason to go after Flint, but he could not bring himself to abandon the man to his fate. Starshadow Flint may have taken a dark and dubious path in life, but he was a good man at heart, of that Requar was sure. He didn''t deserve to be the victim of some kind of twisted game.


    The sorcerer opened his eyes and sighed. The mystery of the Winter boy would have to wait a little longer. He looked down at the dusty ground and snapped his fingers twice.


    The ghostly white footprints were fading in the bright morning sunlight, but were still identifiable. His moonlight spell had served its secondary purpose, though he hadn''t expected to need it, until now.


    He waved a hand theatrically at the prints. "Lead on, Master Flint!" he said, and began to follow the trail.


    * * *


    The shadows had grown deep in the secluded gully where Flint had finally collapsed out of sheer exhaustion; more mental and emotional than physical, as he had only walked about five miles from Hillbank. He slept for the remainder of the day lying exactly as he had fallen; flat on his face, possessions strewn on the ground and the Justifier still strapped to his back, and had awoken just as the last rays of the sun cast a fiery glow through the trees.


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    Pushing himself up groggily, he had eaten a little, cursed his waterskin for not containing whiskey but gulped nearly half of it down anyway, then slumped moodily against a tree and watched his tiny, half-hearted cooking fire dwindle to a dying flicker.


    Now he sat in the darkness, staring at the firelight glinting off the crossbow bolts in their quiver on the ground and wondering vaguely what the hell had happened.


    what Flint had been asked to do¡­


    To Flint''s mind, the fact that a sorcerer could be an honest, genuinely decent, well-meaning person was almost incomprehensible. He had prepared himself mentally to either succeed or die, but neither had happened and now he felt lost, like a ghost drifting aimlessly around, detached from the world and belonging nowhere.


    He didn''t know what to do.


    "Ah, there you are, Flint!" a voice spoke suddenly from behind him.


    Flint jumped, recognising it instantly. The voice was not the sorcerer''s: it was much more familiar than that.


    And in many ways far worse.


    He was on his feet, Justifier in hand in seconds. He grabbed his quiver, shoved a bolt into the slot and began cranking.


    "Now, now, is that any way to greet an old friend?" Eltorian Nightwalker said. He was standing a few yards away, his black garb rendering him almost invisible in the trees. Only the glitter of the metal objects adorning his jacket, his pale streak of hair and altogether too-bright eyes gave him away.


    "You''re not an old friend!" Flint growled, lifting the now loaded Justifier and pointing it squarely at his former leader''s chest.


    Nightwalker assumed a hurt expression, wandering into the firelight. "Oh, Flint," he said. "What can I possibly be, if not your dearest friend?"


    Flint followed the Bladeshifter''s every movement with his crossbow. "I can write you a list if you like, but it ain''t the sort you''d want to send home to your grandmother."


    Nightwalker laughed. "I don''t have a grandmother."


    "Nah, I don''t reckon you do."


    There was a brief silence as Flint continued to track Nightwalker as he wandered around, apparently unconcerned at the sight of the Justifier pointed at him. He stopped by the fire, picked up a discarded pot of soup, and tasted it.


    "What are you doing here, Eltorian?" Flint snapped, his patience already dangerously thin.


    "Oh, I just thought I''d stop by and see how you were getting on with that mission I gave you," he replied pleasantly.


    Flint hesitated. His heart was pounding very fast.


    He licked his lips. "I backed out," he answered frankly. Lying to Eltorian Nightwalker wasn''t worth the effort, he''d find out what had happened eventually. "I''m not as stupid as you think I am!"


    Nightwalker put the pot down carefully, and was silent for a moment before replying in a quiet voice: "I see. Well, that''s a shame. And where has your sorcerer friend gone?"


    "He''s not my friend either!" Flint said angrily, realising then that his hands were shaking. He tightened his grip on the Justifier to steady them, praying that Nightwalker would not notice. "And I don''t know where he is! Still in Hillbank, for all I care!"


    "That''s a shame, too. Something tells me you could use a little help right now."


    There was a knife in his hand. Flint hadn''t seen him reach for it; it must have been hidden up his sleeve. He was reminded with a flash of apprehension that despite his outward charm and nonchalance, Nightwalker was a very dangerous man.


    "So I failed your stupid mission, or test, or whatever the hell it was! What are you gonna do, kill me?"


    Nightwalker considered. "The thought occurs¡­"


    Flint pulled off the safety catch, lifted the Justifier a little higher and braced himself. Nightwalker''s knife twirled in his hand. "Now, Flint, let''s be rational about this. You''ve only got one shot."


    "I only need one shot!"


    "You underestimate my reflexes."


    "You underestimate mine!"


    "You won''t be so confident," Nightwalker said, eyes narrowing, "with several knives buried in your skull!"


    won''t be so confident with your guts scattered half a mile down this gully!"


    The night was perfectly still around them. No breeze stirred the leaves. The only sound was the chirrup of crickets in the undergrowth. They could barely see each other in the last glowing embers from the fire.


    Nightwalker''s smile was twisted. "It appears we have a stand off," he murmured. "One of us is going to die tonight, or both of us will.


    As he said the final word, the knife left his hand. It happened in the space between heartbeats, so fast that Flint barely caught the twitch of his arm. He didn''t have time to think: his instincts reacted for him.


    He pressed the trigger on the Justifier at the same moment something cold, sharp and lethal plunged into his throat.


    Staggering backwards in shock, he dropped the crossbow and fell to his knees. Pain lashed his senses, the worst pain he had ever felt. He tried to gasp, but could not breathe. He lifted his hands to the source of the pain and encountered the hard, cruel steel of Eltorian''s knife. Blood came away on his fingers, he could feel it filling his lacerated windpipe and trickling down his neck.


    Dimly, he remembered a bright flash of light upon impact and there seemed to be a strange blue afterglow in the air, but his eyesight was quickly failing, turning grey around the edges.


    was his final wish before slumping to the ground.


    As his life slipped away, he thought he could hear a faint voice telling him to hold on.


    "Hold on, Flint, you''re going to be all right!"


    Requar worked as quickly as possible: his magic was only effective while the patient was still alive. If Flint''s heart stopped beating for too long, the Sword would be useless.


    He pulled the knife out ¨C there was no time to be gentle ¨C and replaced it immediately with the Sword of Healing. Blood gushed over his hands and trickled from the corners of Flint''s mouth. The Bladeshifter convulsed. "Stay with me!" Requar shouted. He shoved his Sword as deep as the wound allowed and sent magic flooding down the blade.


    The night was silent as the seconds ticked away. Requar bent over the Sword, pouring all his willpower into it, and the Sword flared dazzling blue in response. When the wound had healed completely, he removed it but kept one hand on Flint''s throat, feeling for a pulse.


    It was there. The Bladeshifter was alive and remarkably still conscious, though barely. He patted the man''s cheek to rouse him. "Flint, you''re all right! The blade''s out, the wound is healed!" Not waiting to see Flint''s reaction, he leapt to his feet and hurried to the far side of the clearing.


    There lay Eltorian Nightwalker, sprawled beneath the tree he''d been thrown against with the force of Requar''s intervention spell. The one the sorcerer had cast a fraction of a second too late.


    "Ah, damn it," Requar muttered in dismay. Miraculously, the Bladeshifter leader was still in one piece, mostly; with the exception of his lower right arm, which had been torn completely off by Flint''s Justifier bolt.


    Normally, Requar could reattach severed limbs quite easily, but judging by the damage done to the rest of the arm, he doubted he''d be able to find a suitably intact piece to attach. Shattered bone and bloody flesh protruded from the place where his elbow had been, and the bones all the way up his arm were splintered and loose beneath his skin. His shoulder was dislocated from its socket.


    Requar wasted no more time. Flint''s injury had been urgent, but simple. This man was a mess.


    When his work was finished some time later, he added an extra spell to keep Nightwalker unconscious. It would do none of them any good for him to wake up just now.


    He looked up to see Flint crouched nearby, his eyes glitters of disbelief in the darkness. "You¡­ that sword¡­" he stammered. "You saved our lives!"


    "Yes," Requar sighed wearily, and leaned back against a tree.


    Flint simply stared at him in awe.


    The silver tip of the huge crossbow bolt glinted in the sunlight.


    Flint whistled. "Look at that!" he said, holding it proudly aloft. "Not so much as a crack! But you should see what it did to the tree back there!"


    Requar opened his eyes long enough to scowl at him. "I saw what it did to a man''s arm, and I don''t care to witness anything like that again, if you don''t mind."


    "Humph. He got lucky," Flint muttered, casting a dark glance at the still-unconscious form of Eltorian Nightwalker.


    "You both got lucky," Requar reminded him.


    Flint''s expression turned meek and he rubbed his throat self-consciously. Every time he touched it he expected to find a scar, at the very least, but nothing remained to indicate that the knife had ever been embedded there.


    Except for the memory. He would never, ever forget that.


    Suppressing a shudder, he cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh, thanks," he said gratefully. "Never thought I''d be in debt to a sorcerer¡­"


    Requar shook his head. "You owe me nothing, Flint. It is my duty as a practitioner of the healing arts to help those in need, regardless of race, age, personality or moral ambiguity. It is not my place to judge anyone for his or her crimes.


    "Although I must admit," he said, blue eyes hardening as they settled upon Nightwalker, "sometimes I am tempted."


    "Ain''t we all," Flint muttered, replacing the bolt in its quiver and checking the Justifier itself for signs of damage. As he had expected, it was still in perfect working order. "How''d you know Nightwalker would be here?" he asked.


    "Instinct, at first, then a Mind Sweep confirmed it."


    "Right," Flint replied, seating himself on a rock opposite where the sorcerer was laying, stretched out on his blue cloak with a now familiar contemplative expression on his fine features. Flint didn''t bother to ask how Requar had known where to find him. Nightwalker had sniffed him out easily even without the use of magic.


    Flint''s near brush with death had given him a completely new perspective on his life. Whether a residual effect of the magic or a good night of decent sleep, or both, he had woken this morning with a clear mind, and felt brighter than he had in a long time. He had a strange feeling that the Sword had healed more than his physical wound, that it had gone through his brain and put all his thoughts in order, sweeping away harmful ones of despair and self-pity as it did so.


    No longer did he fear or distrust Requar as he once had. Terror had given way to fascination. Here was living proof that the tales of his childhood had been wrong, that magic could be used for something other than hateful destruction.


    However, the magic had not completely eliminated the strong sense of satisfaction he felt that his former leader had come out of their encounter second best, though he was careful not to reveal the extent of this emotion to Requar. A dark, vengeful part of him wished his bolt had killed Eltorian, but another part was relieved that he didn''t have to bear the responsibility for his death.


    "I''ve been thinking about that," Requar replied, getting to his feet. He strode over to Eltorian Nightwalker and stopped, staring down at him, arms folded across his chest.


    Flint watched him. "And¡­?"


    Requar pursed his lips, but said nothing.


    "Gah, leave him here!" Flint said, waving a hand dismissively. "The other ''shifters''ll find him anyway, sooner or¨C"


    "No," Requar said, still staring at Nightwalker.


    "Huh?"


    "I am not going to leave him here. He deserves to know what has happened, and as I am the one who saved his life, I shall be the one to explain it to him. And I have a feeling he''s not going to be terribly forgiving about it, especially towards you. I don''t want him causing any more trouble."


    Flint raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What do you have in mind?"


    Requar glanced at him. "I''m travelling to Forthwhite to find out what has become of the Winter boy. I intend to take Master Nightwalker with me. There is a local Guard House there, I believe?"


    Flint stared at him, then all of a sudden burst into laughter.


    Requar raised an eyebrow quizzically. "You approve?"


    "Approve?" Flint said when he had regained his breath. "That''s the best damn idea I''ve heard all week! Haha! I can''t wait to see the look on Commander Trice''s face when he sees what we dump on his doorstep ¨C his arch-enemy, Eltorian Nightwalker, leader of the Bladeshifters!"


    This time, it was Requar''s turn to stare. "We?" he said.


    Flint fell silent, and looked suddenly embarrassed. He coughed. "Yeah, well, uh¡­ I kind of thought¡­ I''d tag along. You don''t think I''d miss a meeting like this, do you?"


    Requar regarded him in silence for a moment, then smiled. "Not at all," he replied.


    "But I''m only going with you as far as Forthwhite, mind," Flint added quickly. "After that we go our separate ways. No following me, right? My business is my business, an'' I''ll deal with the other ''shifters in my own way, right? I don''t need no one to protect me, even a sorcerer with a... er, healin'' sword. I mean, no offence, your Lordship, I appreciate you saving my life, but I can look after meself."


    '' but he nodded nevertheless. "You have my word," he said quietly, "that I will not interfere with your life again, unless it impacts my own quest."


    Flint nodded. "Okay, good." He stuck out his hand. "Do you wanna shake on that?"


    Requar stepped over to the Bladeshifter and clasped his hand. "Travelling companions until Forthwhite, then we both let destiny choose our paths. Deal."


    Then he turned back to Eltorian Nightwalker. "Now then," he said. "Shall we wake our friend Nightwalker and tell him the good news?"

 Chapter Twenty Nine

    A love too great and sadly broken


    The healer''s past at last is spoken.


    Beneath the drifting sun, the breeze raced across the far eastern Outland plains, whipping dust into strange dances as it went, curling around the legs of scrawny sheep scavenging for edible morsels of grass. Picking up speed over the long, empty miles, it was finally caught and slowed in a tangle of cool green hills and sleepy shadows. Here it dwindled to a sigh across the faces of three men whom Fate had thrown together.


    Lord Requar, Starshadow Flint and Eltorian Nightwalker made their way at an earnest pace along the winding, hawthorn-lined country roads, heading south-west for the Arlen Plains and the township of Forthwhite. Nightwalker''s good arm had been bound behind his back in a simple but effective restraint ¨C a length of rope looped around his neck, wrist and waist. He walked just ahead of Flint on a lead, one of his own knives giving him a warning jab every now and then.


    Nightwalker''s reaction when Requar had woken him had been predictable. Initial shock and horror at the loss of his arm and the fact that he was now the prisoner of a sorcerer and a traitor quickly dissolved into unrestrained screaming and cursing, and rather graphic death-vows. All pretence of self-importance disappeared.


    They let him have his tantrum until Requar eventually lost patience and took his voice out with a spell. Since he was also bound and unable to make rude gestures, he resorted to venomous glares instead.


    They searched and stripped him of all his weapons, of which there were many. They decided to confiscate his entire jacket as it contained so many blades secreted in every conceivable hem, pocket and fold that Flint was astonished that the man could sneak around so quietly without clanking like a suit of armour. Once satisfied that they had relieved Nightwalker of everything that could be used to harm them or himself, or free himself with, Requar reluctantly left Flint to guard his former leader while he went back to Hillbank for provisions. He left not-quite-joking instructions to find no further limbs missing when he returned.


    Nightwalker remained silent for the rest of the day and the one following, even after Requar had removed the spell. He simmered in his own dark, bitter world for much of the time, responding to questions only with a grunt or further savage looks. However, his dark eyes remained razor-edged, and he tried to escape or hurt Flint or Requar every time they were complacent enough to take their eyes off him. This forced them to watch every move he made in a tiring vigil. At night, Requar rendered him unconscious again to allow them all a peaceful sleep.


    So it came as something of a surprise when, on the third day close to noon, he spoke.


    "Why did you save my life?"


    Requar, walking beside him, did not reply.


    "Why did you save my life, you bastard?!" Nightwalker yelled.


    Flint struck him in the spine with the hilt of his knife, taking great satisfaction from Nightwalker''s stumble of pain. His own ribs ached badly from the Bladeshifter leader''s most recent attempt to escape as they were packing up after breakfast that morning.


    "Shut up!" he snapped.


    Requar glanced sidelong at Nightwalker. "Not because I find your life particularly worth saving," he replied. "I took a pledge as a healer to do everything in my power to help those in need of my services, without discrimination."


    "A pledge?" Nightwalker sneered. "Hah! That''s a laugh. If you''re such a great healer, where are all your buddies, huh? I haven''t noticed many other sorcerers around, except that stupid Winter kid. What happened to them? Why''d they all die out? Weren''t your powers great enough to save your own kind?"


    He looked at Requar to see his reaction, and was surprised to find that the sorcerer wasn''t there.


    A sharp jerk on the rope brought Nightwalker up short.


    Requar had stopped a few paces back, staring at the Bladeshifter leader.


    A slow grin appeared on Nightwalker''s face. "Ooooh, what''s wrong? Hit a nerve, have I? Heheheh¨C"


    !" he yelled, shoving Nightwalker hard in the back so that he fell to the ground. He was about to land a kick as well, but Requar''s voice stopped him.


    "Don''t, Flint. Don''t."


    The sorcerer walked slowly towards Nightwalker, and stood looking down at him. "Get to your feet," he ordered quietly.


    Nightwalker simply laughed into the dirt.


    ."


    There was an uncharacteristic icy coldness within his eyes that Flint had never seen before. A warning chill ran up his spine.


    In the blink of an eye, Requar''s hand was in front of his face. Nightwalker flinched instinctively, thinking the sorcerer intended to hit him, but what happened instead was in many ways far worse.


    The hand burst into white flame. Requar walked forward slowly, keeping his arm extended, forcing Nightwalker backwards until he stumbled and fell to his knees.


    Nightwalker''s mocking smile had vanished and his eyes were wide, but he managed a defiant sneer as the sorcerer loomed over him. "Y-you''re not going to k-kill me! Y-you don''t have the guts! You''re just like Flint, a w-weaselly coward!"


    The flames crackling around Requar''s hand suddenly spread up his arm in a roaring conflagration, and engulfed his entire body. Daylight fled from the world in a rush, plunging them into midnight darkness with Requar at its centre, a terrifying, flaming apparition. Strands of blue energy surrounded him like an aura, twisting and flicking like living things straining to break free of some invisible constraint. His cerulean eyes disappeared, replaced by twin holes of blazing white light. The glow was so intense that his skeleton was visible beneath his skin.


    Nightwalker had gone pale, and it was due to much more than the light shining on his face. He backed away, scrabbling on the ground, trying to get to his feet¡­


    His voice had changed, taking on a deep, resonant, echoing quality as though they had been transported inside an immense cavern. As he spoke, the words etched themselves in stark, glowing white inside Nightwalker''s and Flint''s minds.


    Fear and doubt crawled across Nightwalker''s face. He didn''t want to look at those horrifying, blazing eyes, but he had no choice. The sorcerer''s grip was so strong that he could not move his head. "I¡­ I d-don''t want to die!" he cried.


    No one wants to die, but death finds us all, eventually. Even sorcerers. Even you, Eltorian Nightwalker.


    His hand tightened around Nightwalker''s throat, constricting his windpipe painfully. "No!" Nightwalker tried to scream, but it came out as a strangled whimper. "N¡­ pl¡­ease¡­!" He began to choke.


    Requar released his grip, and Nightwalker fell into a heap on the ground. He stared down at the Bladeshifter as he coughed and gasped for breath.


    You take others'' lives and play with them like a cat with its prey, in order to avoid dealing with your own insecurities. That, Nightwalker, is cowardice.


    You are right, I do not intend to kill you. But to live alone, with nothing save your own mind as company, is the worst punishment possible. You will discover this, in time.


    The flames subsided and sunlight and birdsong returned, to Flint''s immense relief. For a few moments, the white glow lingered in Requar''s eyes. Then that, too, was gone, and they were once again depthless pools of sky framed by the long strands of his fringe. He turned and continued walking without waiting for the others.


    Nightwalker did not resist as Flint pulled him to his feet and set him moving again.


    No one talked for a long time afterwards.


    They made camp that night beside a wide, slow moving river, shadowed by huge redgums and willows that draped delicately into the water. They ate a silent, fireless meal, avoiding eye contact with each other and especially with Lord Requar. When they had finished, the sorcerer sent Nightwalker to sleep with his usual precautionary spell, and disappeared before Flint had a chance to ask him any questions.


    Flint sat in the darkness, staring at the unconscious form of Nightwalker, listening to those questions rolling uncomfortably around in his mind. He was still highly unnerved by what had happened earlier. Just when he thought he was becoming almost comfortable in Requar''s presence, the sorcerer had revealed a part of himself that Flint had never seen, but always suspected was there. It was a sharp reminder that Requar possessed an awesome power that was not limited to healing abilities, and that he was not a person to be taken lightly, despite his seemingly placid, kindly nature.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Flint thought the vision of him wreathed in flames, holding Nightwalker aloft like a damp black rag, would haunt him for a long time to come.


    Not yet ready to sleep, he got up and wandered over to the river''s edge. The sun was an hour below the horizon, leaving a brilliant aquamarine stain beyond the hills, fading to a deep, clear sapphire strewn with stars and silvery wisps of cloud. The water level was quite low, the banks exposed as small earthen cliffs tangled with giant redgum roots, pale and deformed in the darkness like the skeletons of huge, water-dwelling creatures.


    Requar sat on a mossy rock amidst the roots, water lapping at his boots, the Sword of Healing held loosely, unsheathed, before him.


    Flint hesitated, wondering whether it was a good idea to approach him or not. His haste in leaving immediately after dinner was a clear indication that he wanted to be alone. Flint had the distinct impression that something was troubling him; his demeanour had changed ever since the conversation with Nightwalker¡­


    The sorcerer did not look up as Flint picked his way down through the roots, trying not to overbalance with the Justifier still strapped to his back. He sat down cautiously on a root near Requar, ready to obey at once if he was ordered to go away.


    Requar said nothing. He sat as though frozen, his face expressionless, staring at his Sword.


    For an uncertain moment, Flint wondered if his mind was occupied elsewhere, as it had been that day in the pine forest when he''d been aware of someone tampering with the magic protecting his castle. He had a similar distant look in his eyes. Flint decided to speak, to voice what was on his mind. If the sorcerer did not respond, well, then he''d simply get up and leave him alone.


    "What Nightwalker said earlier," he said tentatively, "there was¡­ some truth in it, wasn''t there? Are you¡­ did you really become a healer out of a sense of guilt for what happened at that magic school? For being one of the only survivors? Is that why you''re so intent on helpin'' people now, ''cause you couldn''t save anyone back then?"


    Flint had a horrible feeling that he''d said too much and cringed, but Requar made no reaction. Eventually, after a long moment of silence, the sorcerer spoke.


    "I became a healer," he said quietly, "to save my mother." He paused, lifting his gaze from the blade to stare across the river. Then he went on: "Nightwalker was right, I do carry with me a sense of guilt for what happened. It eats away at me, every day of my life. But that is not the only reason I help people. I do it because it is my duty, but I chose that duty, because I want to create some good in the world. I do not want people to suffer needlessly."


    Flint nodded. "Nightwalker''s a jerk," he muttered. "Don''t let him get to you."


    To Flint''s surprise, Requar smiled faintly. "It is my own thoughts and memories that trouble me, Flint, not the words of our sharp-tongued Bladeshifter companion."


    They fell silent, watching the flicker of the stars reflected in the river. "So did you succeed?" Flint asked after a while. "Did you save your mother?"


    Requar''s gaze lowered again to his Sword. He let the blade roll slowly forwards over the edge of his lean hand before grabbing it and plunging it with a surprisingly violent motion into the water, causing Flint to jump.


    "No," Requar said softly as ripples slopped against the roots and the Sword wobbled slightly, stuck blade downward in the river.


    Flint went cold at the look on Requar''s face; a fierce look, fiercely sad and bitter. He was about to get up and call it a night before he said anything further that he''d regret, but Requar continued talking, his expression softening into a look of melancholy recollection. "Though not through lack of trying," the sorcerer murmured, almost to himself.


    "I was eleven years old, asleep in my bed, when it happened. A thief broke into our mansion in the middle of the night. My father was away on military duty on the Middle Isle, so my mother got out of bed to investigate the disturbance.


    "She encountered a small figure clad in black creeping out of the parlour; by its stature only a child, a street urchin perhaps, searching desperately for valuables. It carried a sack full of expensive crockery and other items that it had pilfered. The thief was startled by my mother''s sudden appearance and lashed out with a black dagger, catching her on the arm, then dropped its sack and fled from the house.


    "The thief was never seen or heard from again, but we found the dagger abandoned on the front lawn the next morning. It was a slim, sinister looking weapon of a design and material that I had never seen before, but I caught only a glimpse of it before it was locked away out of sight by one of the servants.


    "The wound on my mother''s arm was shallow, barely more than a scratch. She had it treated and bound and none of my family thought any more of the incident, until a month later, when she began to act strangely.


    "We would find her standing in odd places, rigid as a statue, expressionless, staring into space, and she became increasingly forgetful. One day I was helping her chop vegetables when her sleeve fell back and I saw her wound, the one I assumed had healed long ago.


    "It had not healed at all; in fact, it had become much worse, surrounded by a vicious dark bruise. When she caught me looking, she covered it over quickly, gave me a reassuring smile and told me that it was nothing to worry about.


    He paused for a moment, frowning at the sapphires glimmering on the hilt of his Sword, then went on. "Throughout the next few months, her condition gradually worsened. She became ill and frequently had to lie down, but continued to insist that there was nothing wrong with her, that she merely had insomnia and was therefore a little tired during the day. None of the servants believed her, however, and finally a message was sent to my father, Lord Brannon, informing him of his wife''s troubling affliction. He came back home immediately, and spared no expense searching out the best traditional healers from all over the country and abroad."


    He let out a long, resentful sigh. "Not one of the healers could even identify the disease, let alone treat it. None of their administrations made the slightest difference. If anything, she became sicker.


    "After many more months of failed attempts, disgraced medical practitioners, and my father''s ever-shortening temper, I could finally stand it no longer. I could not bear to watch my beautiful mother disintegrate before my eyes, so I approached my father with the thought that I had been dreading to speak.


    "I suggested seeking help from the teacher of healing at the School of Magical Studies.


    "As expected, my father angrily rejected this idea. His dislike and distrust of the SOMS and all things magical ran deep; he believed in good honest steel, he said, he thought that magic was for cowards and bred evil and arrogance.


    "I had never disobeyed my father''s orders before, nor blatantly gone against his wishes ¨C Brannon was a fearsome man when he was displeased ¨C but I could not accept his stubbornness. I could not believe that he would throw my suggestion aside so carelessly when his wife''s life was at risk.


    "I did not even bother to argue with him. I left the room silently, went to the SOMS and requested help myself.


    "My father was furious when the sorcerer turned up at our front door, and at first refused to let him in the house. Thankfully, Lord Etheron was very persuasive, and after an hour of heated discussion on the doorstep, my father finally, and with great resentment, conceded to let him examine Lady Fyona."


    Requar closed his eyes. "He asked to see the dagger that had cut her. I shall never forget the expression on his face when he laid eyes upon it, for it froze all the blood in my veins. He began to mutter in an agitated manner, running a hand through his hair.


    "Upon seeing the frightened looks on our faces, great sorrow crossed his own. He explained that Lady Fyona had been wounded with a trigonic blade. My father demanded to know what that meant. Etheron replied that trigon was a substance of pure evil, an evil that could not be destroyed. She had been infected with this evil and there was no known cure; any further attempts at healing would only inflame the disease. She would eventually die, he told us, and when she did, her soul would be transformed into a demon-wraith, a creature twisted by misery and fed by death.


    "The only way to spare her this fate was to release her soul before the disease became too far advanced.


    "To end her life.


    "I expected my father to start shouting again, or at least to say something, but his reaction was somehow worse: he fell completely silent. He looked shattered, as did the rest of my family, friends and servants gathered in that room. Even my brother Arzath said nothing, his face gone horrifyingly pale.


    "To everyone''s surprise, not the least my own, it was I who lost my temper. I refused to believe that there was a disease that could not be cured. I had seen sorcerers and their impressive displays of magic, surely power such as that could do anything, could cure anything! I was convinced that Lord Etheron was either an incompetent sorcerer, or had somehow missed a vital piece of information in his studies.


    "I was determined to find that piece.


    "Shortly after the healer''s visit, I quit my regular education and enrolled in the SOMS. In ordinary circumstances, gaining my father''s written permission to study as a sorcerer would have been impossible ¨C Arzath had tried this many times, to receive only angry rejection ¨C but father signed the papers without even reading them, too overcome with despair for Fyona to care. She had just recently forgotten his name.


    "Arzath seized the opportunity and did the same; father signed those papers as well, which was a sign of just how deeply the situation was affecting him. And so my brother and I both entered the long years of study that would lead each of us, eventually, to become powerful sorcerers, though for markedly different reasons; Arzath wanted power and recognition, I desperately wanted to discover a cure for trigonis to save my mother''s life."


    He took a deep breath and let it out carefully. "One day at school, five years of intense study later, I received a message that my mother was on the brink of death. I raced home through the streets to find her wasting away upon her bed.


    ¡°The arm that had been cut with the dagger had turned completely black and was beginning to putrefy. The disease was creeping insidiously up the side of her face. Her blue eyes were open and serene; long white hair spilling around her shoulders like a silken veil, a sharp contrast to the black shadow upon her skin.


    ¡°My heart felt as though it was being torn apart, seeing such evil consuming something so lovely and so dear to me.


    "I used what few skills I had learned at the school to try and slow the progress of the disease, but¡­ it was as Lord Etheron had described: the magic had no effect, it was simply enveloped by the trigon, sucked away like leaves in a whirlpool.


    "With my enhanced magical senses, I perceived her changing, could feel her soul writhing in torment within her body. She was dying, and I had not found a cure for trigonis.


    "I did what I knew I must, although it took all of my willpower and energy to carry out this last mercy. This was not because it was particularly physically demanding, but because I was taking my mother''s life with my own hands, and at the same time admitting that I had failed her.


    "But I could not let her become a demon-wraith," Requar said, almost in a whisper. "She did not deserve that fate.


    "When the task was finished, I was so weak that I could barely sit up. I was not prepared for my father''s reaction: realising that she was dead, he exploded. He shouted me from the room, denouncing me as his son and reaffirming his belief that magic brought nothing but evil, before finally dissolving into frantic sobs.


    "I did as I was told without a sound, though there were tears in my eyes.


    "Arzath was waiting in the hallway outside my mother''s bedroom. I did not notice him at first, hidden as he was in the shadows, and I was drowning in grief in any case. Then he spoke, demanding to know what had happened.


    "I looked up, unable to speak. But he must have read the answer in my face, because he took two steps forward and hit me.


    " ''You''re pathetic, Requar!'' " he shouted down at me. ''You''re a failure!'' Then he stalked away, leaving me lying on the floor in the light from my mother''s bedroom, with blood and tears running down my face."


    He fell silent at last. Flint glanced at his face. There was sadness there, but it was a weary kind of sadness, as though he had replayed those memories over in his mind so many times that he was tired of them.


    "I have been searching for a cure for trigonis ever since," Requar said. "It has been my life''s work. I am determined to fail no one ever again."


    "What happened to the dagger?" Flint asked quietly.


    Requar looked at him. "I took it and kept it in my possession. It could not be destroyed, and I did not dare to discard it lest someone find it and the misery be repeated. At this moment, it is stowed safely in a hidden room within my castle."


    They were silent for a moment further before Flint said: "So you feel guilt for your mother''s death, as well?"


    Requar nodded. "Yes, even though I know there was nothing I could have changed. I may have been able to forgive myself by now, if that was the least of my shortcomings."


    "What do you mean?" Flint asked.


    Requar stood up, and pulled his Sword out of the water. Mud and droplets slid off it like oil, leaving it perfectly clean and silver. "My past is long," he answered, "and I have many memories. That was but one of them."


    He turned to Flint. "Thank you," he said.


    "For what?" Flint replied, surprised.


    "Listening." Then he bid the ex-Bladeshifter goodnight and picked his way up the bank through the tangled roots.


    Flint watched him go, wondering.

 Chapter Thirty

    Sunset falls in the City of Light


    An Angel sleeps in the still, dark night.


    Sunsee was once a beautiful city: the most beautiful in the world, or so it was said. The Angels would perhaps disagree, preferring the soaring spires, ivy-covered walls and leaf-speckled walkways of Fleetfleer in their own land. The ruler of Daroria, King Neodine, certainly dismissed the idea with much arrogant scepticism. There existed no city, he declared, past, present, or indeed ever would be more breathtaking than Crystaltina, or the Crystal City as it was commonly known: a city constructed almost entirely of its namesake and dripping with gold, redstone, precious gems and other riches.


    No one argued the fact that Sunsee was the oldest, however. It was well told in every creation myth in every land that she was the First City, built by the Angels when they descended from the Heavenly Spire to settle on Arvanor and learn the ways of the Humans that they had once admired. How could a city built by servants of the Goddess not be marvellous?


    But few now remembered the wonder and splendour of Old Sunsee. Even fewer still cared. The destruction of the infamous learning place of the sorcerers, the School of Magical Studies, had scarred her lovely face irrevocably.


    The ruins of the School sat atop a high bluff on a rocky promontory that jutted out into a vast, sandy-bottomed, aquamarine bay. The bridge of rock that had once connected the promontory to the coastline had collapsed several decades ago, leaving the bluff with its broken buildings an island with sheer black walls, a lonely, impenetrable fortress that no one dared or desired to conquer.


    The residents of the city would have been happy to see the whole, ghastly thing collapse into the sea.


    As it was, they avoided the place as though it harboured some terrible disease, and in many respects, their attitude was quite justified. The area directly adjacent to the ruins, and in a half-mile radius around it, was haunted.


    A wall had been built, closing off this section from the rest of the city, at its citizens'' demand. For a while, slums had flourished there, the impoverished, the outlawed and corrupt dregs of society claiming the empty ancient buildings as their own, living and conducting their business where those who led more comfortable and innocent lives feared to tread.


    Then these people began to disappear. Most were not missed, and their numbers steadily dwindled until finally those that were left realised that there was something very, very wrong with the Old Quarter, and quickly crawled back across the wall to the clean, brightly lit streets that they had scorned. Some were caught and questioned, but remained silent, pale-faced and wide-eyed, refusing to reveal what they had seen or knew, even on threat of death. Others had been driven mad with fear.


    Now nothing lived in the Old Quarter of Sunsee. Nature itself had shunned it; nothing would grow there, not even weeds. Rats and feral cats scavenged elsewhere. Birds diverted out of their way to avoid flying over it. Magnificent architecture that was once the envy of the world slowly crumbled, and nothing stirred but the dust. And¡­ something else.


    Nothing lived in the Old Quarter, but something dwelt there.


    Something terrible.


    Those were the stories.


    Cimmeran knew all the tales, had heard all the rumours that thrived about the haunted city. He had experienced them first hand. Once, many years ago, shortly after he had been forced into his long and hateful service with Arzath, the sorcerer had taken him along with a small party of Griks and two Murons through the tomblike streets, searching for relics.


    One by one, all of the Griks had vanished, with no trace or sound. Then the Murons went as well. None of Arzath''s attempts to find them using magic succeeded, and he and Cimmeran had been the only members of the party to walk out of the Old Quarter alive. Cimmeran was sure that Arzath had saved his life that day only because he was too useful to lose.


    The expedition had been unprofitable, and Lord Arzath, as far as Cimmeran knew, had never returned to Sunsee.


    Neither had Cimmeran, until now.


    The servant shivered at the unpleasant memory, just one of many horrors he had endured in the name of his old master. He trailed after Captain Sirannor through the sunset-gilded, sandswept streets of the newer section of the city, shoving the fearful images aside and concentrating instead on lifting one leaden foot after the other.


    His shabby clothes were still damp, though more now from sweat. The rain had thankfully stopped and the mist dissipated, though shreds of it still lurked in shady side alleys where the sun''s burning fingers could not grasp it. The sky was clear apart from a curtain of cloud to the west, a blazing pink and grey veil screening away the last moments of the dying sun. A few small stars blinked sleepily on the fringes of the glow.


    Cimmeran wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The air was thick, warm and sticky, the breeze had not yet turned from the east. Ardance''s head was bowed, a sheen of moisture on her ebony coat. The winged passenger she carried remained limp and unmoving.


    Cimmeran glanced at him in irritation. He had been forced to give up his seat for that Angel. Blisters stabbed painfully at his feet with every step, just because he had been made to walk beside his own horse. How had the stupid kid managed to smash his wings up like that, anyway? He looked as though he''d been beaten with a sledgehammer, or perhaps taken a tumble off some high cliff. In either case, why hadn''t he simply flown away?


    If I had wings, Cimmeran thought fiercely, I would fly away. I would fly so high that everyone would disappear from sight, and I would never come back down again. Ever.


    His eyes narrowed unsympathetically. He didn''t quite know why he had agreed to help the Freeroamers in the first place.


    Oh, yes, he reminded himself sulkily, they saved my life.


    Although, he was beginning to doubt their motives for that. That odd silver-eyed boy had done the right thing in walking away. It was exactly what Cimmeran would have done in his place. Friends were useless. No one could be trusted.


    He stared resentfully at Sirannor''s back, though not too hard in case the Captain sensed his gaze. Cimmeran could not care less what the Freeroamers had done to become criminals, nor was he concerned whether the Angel lived or died, but the man walking just a few paces ahead scared him. He would never forget how Sirannor had picked him up and thrown him at the Muron''s feet as though his life was meaningless, a thing to be bargained with and nothing more. He had then attacked the Murons and killed one of them, but Cimmeran was certain he had done that only to protect his own friends. Why would he care what happened to a scrawny stranger?


    Cimmeran looked away bitterly. The Freeroamers thought that they had tricked him into coming to Sunsee, but Cimmeran had been travelling here anyway. And he had no intention of leading them back into that hell-plagued valley, not for any reason. He would rather die.


    All he had to do now was find a way to slip away from the Captain.


    They reached the infirmary just as the last rays of the sun faded from the streets, and the characteristic domed roofs of the buildings of Sunsee turned to silhouettes against the skyline. The infirmary was ancient, one of the few original Angel-designed structures that had remained standing through the ravages of time, weather and various disasters. Not one of these had managed to diminish its beauty in the slightest. Its design was deceptively simple, but to create such perfect curves and invisible joints from stone would have required extraordinary skill and artistic vision. There were no sharp edges; every angle produced a vision of perfect aesthetic harmony. The building made even the most well-designed and ornate Human dwellings look almost crude in comparison ¨C a stunning white seashell in a bag full of pretty, but uninspiring pebbles.


    Cimmeran and Sirannor could not help but be awed, momentarily forgetting their weariness, hunger and gloomy thoughts at the sight of the building. Welcoming orange light glimmered from crescent-moon windows on all three tiers ¨C here and there the light glowed blue through sapphire-stained glass ¨C and spilled in a bright wash from the wide open doorway.


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    They walked from the main street up a white stone path, leading Ardance directly into the spacious foyer. Upon hearing hoofbeats on the stone floor, a nurse hurried out of a nearby archway. Sirannor''s conversation with her was brief; his young companion had fallen from a cliff, he explained, and was in desperate need of help. The nurse looked astonished at the sight of an injured Angel in her infirmary, but was wise enough to understand the seriousness of the situation and withheld her questions. She ducked quickly back through the arch, calling for assistance, and in moments the foyer was bustling with blue and white uniforms, and echoing with urgent shouts and exclamations of surprise.


    Two nurses helped Aari carefully off Ardance''s back, transferred him to a linen stretcher and escorted him through another arch at the far end of the hall. The Captain strode after them without so much as a glance at Cimmeran, until he was accosted by more nurses who had noticed his own injury and demanded immediate treatment, ignoring his impatient insistence that he was fine and anxious glances in the direction Aari had been taken.


    Cimmeran was left standing alone with Ardance, forgotten in the excitement save by a few patients who had wandered out to see what the fuss was about and were now staring at him.


    He glared back at them and led Ardance outside to look for the stables.


    Sirannor sat in the dim room with his arms resting on his knees and his weathered hands clasped so tightly before him that the knuckles were pale. His wound had been cleaned and dressed beneath his long brown overcoat (he had refused to let the nurses take it away for cleaning, despite the fact that it was splattered with grime and dried blood). He had, however, accepted the free meal offered to himself and Cimmeran. He had eaten it quickly and mechanically, and then gone immediately to the room where Aari rested.


    The Angel had been given a small, private ward on the top floor. The head healer of the infirmary seemed to have taken a personal interest in Aari''s condition, and a swarm of nurses and assistants had administered to him for three hours, before finally allowing him to rest.


    Sirannor had asked the head healer bluntly of Aari''s chances of surviving his injuries.


    The expression on the healer''s face had told him all he needed to know before a word had left his mouth. The healer had shaken his head and told the Captain quietly that everything that could possibly have been done to save the Angel''s life had been tried¡­ all except one last thing.


    He had not spelt out what that last thing was, but he did not need to. It was as Sirannor had predicted but silently prayed against ever since Aari had collapsed in the forest. He was now faced with a horrific decision that he had no right to make.


    Should he permit the healers to remove Aari''s wings to stop the spread of the infection and save his life?


    Sirannor had taken this news in silence, and had been sitting by Aari''s bedside ever since. A single oil lamp on a tiny table in a corner lighted the room. Cimmeran sat beside it, hunched on a chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, his expression as dark as the shadows that crowded the edges of the room. The servant had been sullen and grudgingly communicative ever since they had rescued him, and even more so after encountering the Watch. He seemed preoccupied and haunted by his own thoughts. Sirannor had seen such unguarded expressions before, and it usually meant trouble. He was fairly certain the servant was planning on running off at the first opportunity.


    He decided to keep Cimmeran within close sight, but right now he had not the energy nor inclination to worry about what the servant was or was not thinking. All his thoughts were focused on Aari.


    He gazed down at the young Angel lying face down on the bed before him. No nightgown would fit him, so his torso remained bare, bound only in the bandages that held his shattered wings in place. He had stopped shivering and muttering, but his skin was still sickly pale. Dark copper hair fell into the shadowed hollows around his closed eyes.


    Sirannor sighed, softly and brokenly. A dull ache pounded in his shoulder from the gash left by the Muron''s claws, but it was nothing compared to the agony clenching his heart. He did not have much time left to make his decision, but he already knew what it would be. It was the same one that Aari himself would have made had he been conscious to make it.


    Aari''Zan was an Angel, and always would be.


    Tears blurred Sirannor''s vision, and he turned his gaze away to look at something else. It fell upon Aari''s silver Sergeant''s badge, sitting on the bedside table next to a basin of water.


    Sirannor took it in his fingers and stared at it for a moment. It depicted a chained sword imposed over a stylised half-sun. He unpinned his own badge from his sleeve and compared the two. The Captain''s badge was identical, except that his sun was three-quarters full. He pictured Grisket''s badge in his mind ¨C a full sun and one extra element: a Dragon in flight.


    Dragons, Sirannor thought. The Commander of the Freeroamers was the only person who dared use a Dragon as a mascot. Images of the creatures had been banned in all forms, even art, due to the hatred they evoked. Much like sorcerers, they were feared because they were misunderstood. Grisket disliked Dragons as much as the next person did, but in a strange way, he also admired and respected them. Those creatures, too, were prisoners, bound by chains that they could never break, but they never let those chains crush them. They never gave up fighting for freedom, even knowing that freedom was an illusion.


    Sirannor returned the badges to their places, took Aari''s hand in his own, and squeezed it hard. His gaze turned hard and fierce. "Don''t give up, Aari!" he whispered. "You haven''t seen the Dragons, yet¡­"


    * * *


    Grisket wondered how long he should stand around waiting for Ferrian. He had been forced to light the lantern; the mist now turned dark grey with the approaching night, soaking up the shadows like ink. The lantern was more for mental comfort than a source of light, as it was barely bright enough to light the stones at his feet, and certainly not warm enough to dry him out. He felt as though no amount of blazing fires or dry clothes would ever get the water out of him again.


    He shifted uncomfortably in the clinging drizzle, staring at the drops of moisture glittering on the sides of the lantern. He did not expect Sirannor to return before sunrise. He would want to stay with Aari and see him through the night.


    Grisket sighed, and stared out into the gently swirling darkness, his emotions torn between concern for Ferrian, anxiety for Aari, and frustration at the fact that at this moment, he seemed incapable of helping either of them.


    He tried to put his thoughts of Aari aside. The Angel was strong; he was a fighter. He had survived the flood, and the cliffs and the demons, and a lot of other things besides.


    He tried to ignore the voice whispering that perhaps Aari had used up all his chances.


    Grisket took a deep breath to steady himself. Sirannor is with him, he thought. He couldn''t think of anyone he would rather have by Aari''s bedside.


    However, he did not share the Captain''s confidence that Ferrian was level-headed enough to return. Even if he was regretting his decision right now, to return would mean forgiveness, and forgiveness would mean an apology, and that would mean admitting he was wrong. Grisket doubted he''d be willing to do that, especially considering the Freeroamers were the ones who had deceived him.


    And Commander Trice had only done that because he''d known exactly what Ferrian''s reaction would be, and the blasted stubborn boy had proved him right!


    Grisket scowled in frustration. It was a painfully awkward situation for everyone. But it seemed almost trivial now, when laid against the possibility that Ferrian had gotten himself into serious trouble because of it.


    Ever since the boy had stormed off, heavy claws of dread had slowly tightened around Grisket''s stomach. He could not explain the source of this feeling. It was natural to be worried after everything that had happened, but this was somehow much deeper. His instincts were telling him that something very bad was going to happen this night.


    Or had already happened.


    Unsettled and unable to keep still any longer, Grisket started walking, if for no other reason than to convince himself he was actually doing something productive, not just standing around waiting for whatever terrible event was coming to crash over him.


    Lantern held high, he peered into the soggy gloom, searching for any sign of movement. Once or twice, he thought he saw dark shapes materialise ahead, but they turned out to be trees. He glanced dubiously at the forest on his right, unable to banish the vision of the wounded Muron from his mind. They had never found the body of that one. And who was to say there weren''t more of the damned creatures out there? They were after the servant, true, but they would have anything but mercy on their minds if a wandering boy stumbled into their path¡­


    Muttering to himself, Grisket turned his attention to the road, trying to make out a hint of Ferrian''s tracks. It was a near impossible task on the dark, rain-slicked stones. His tracking skills were adequate, but he was no expert. Sirannor would probably have fared better. Once again, he regretted sending the Captain on ahead. He had done so because Sirannor was injured as well, and the last thing he needed was anyone else getting sick.


    He went on, slowly, searching the ground and the mist as best he could, shivering as the mist dispersed and a chill, clear night breeze blew over him. He followed the highway for three-quarters of an hour before it occurred to him just how freezing that wind had become.


    He stopped and straightened abruptly in shocking realisation. Gods, he thought. Of course!


    He quickened his pace, and the temperature plummeted. Debris from the forest littered the road, and the puddles were iced over. The wind picked up dramatically, until it was so strong that Grisket nearly dropped the lantern. He clutched at his hat to keep it on his head.


    "Ferrian!" he called out into the wind.


    There was no reply.


    He shouted Ferrian''s name several times, waiting desperately for a response, but none came.


    But there was no mistake about it. Ferrian was close by ¨C he had to be.


    Grisket looked around himself, and then a glint of light caught his eye. He almost dismissed it as moonlight glinting off a puddle or chip of ice, but something made him take a closer look.


    It was Ferrian''s knife. He recognised it instantly: the charred hilt and black stains from the Muron battle the previous night.


    He crouched down slowly and picked it up, his heart falling and the claws of dread threatening to squeeze him to death.


    Ferrian would never leave his knife behind, nor would he be so careless as to drop it accidentally. It was the only weapon he possessed.


    That left only one possible explanation¡­


    He had been disarmed.


    But by who¡­ or what?


    Grisket cursed, and stood up. He began to scrutinise the surrounding area, his lantern held close to the ground.


    He finally found what he was looking for in the mud by the side of the road; a clear set of tracks leading out of the forest, and another set leading back in.


    Muron tracks.


    Grisket hesitated for a moment, looking back towards Sunsee, then pulled his badge off his sleeve, pressed it into one of the prints, and set off after the trail.

 Chapter Thirty One

    Times entwined and threats unheeded


    One distraction''s all that''s needed.


    There was a knock on the door, and it creaked open tentatively. "Lieutenant Vandaris?" a voice inquired.


    "I go by the name Sirannor, now," Sirannor replied quietly, not looking up from Aari''s bedside. "And it''s Captain."


    "Oh, right. My apologies, Captain, sir."


    Sirannor glanced up at the scruffy man standing rather uncertainly in the half-open doorway. His leather-and-steel armour was dusty and battered; his sandy-brown hair simultaneously flopped about and stuck out in all directions like a wild, windblown nest. Some of the curly strands were plastered with sweat to his lean, tanned face. Sirannor managed a thin smile, and extended a hand to the man. "Nice to see you again, Hawk."


    The man grinned broadly in response, and came fully into the room, dropping his helmet on the bedpost, taking Sirannor''s hand in both of his gauntleted own and shaking it as though attempting to dislocate it from the Captain''s shoulder. "Likewise, sir! It''s been years!"


    "Indeed," Sirannor murmured. It had been almost fifteen years, in fact, since he had last seen Devandar Hawk. "You may stop shaking my hand, now." He was glad it wasn''t his bad arm that Hawk was massacring.


    "Yes, sir!" Hawk said quickly, releasing Sirannor''s hand and saluting.


    Sirannor restrained himself from sighing with an effort. "You do not need to salute me, Hawk. I am no longer your lieutenant."


    "Yes, sir!" Hawk replied, saluting again.


    , Sirannor thought. Hawk was one of the best men he had ever known, but he could be very exasperating at times. Still, it was inspiring to see a man that fifteen years of military service had not turned hard, cynical and lonely.


    The same couldn''t be said of himself.


    He nodded at the insignia on Hawk''s sleeve. "Only Sergeant Major? I thought you would have made General by now."


    Hawk laughed. It was one of the things Sirannor liked most about him. No matter how dark and cruel the world seemed, it always became a little brighter when Hawk laughed.


    "Nah," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I was never cut out to be a leader."


    ?!"


    Sirannor''s face shifted into its usual rocky, implacable expression. "Sergeant Aari''Zan," he said.


    "Geez, man¡­" Hawk said quietly, wide-eyed as he stared at the figure on the bed. "What happened to him?"


    It took a long moment for Sirannor to reply, and when he finally did, the words came with great effort. "Lack of judgement on my part."


    To his grateful relief, Hawk did not ask him to elaborate. The two men fell silent, staring at the stricken Angel.


    "Is he¡­ gonna be alright?" Hawk asked after awhile. He sounded genuinely concerned about Aari''s welfare, as though any close personal friend of Sirannor''s was a close personal friend of his as well. It was another of his admirable qualities.


    This time, Sirannor could not bring himself to speak. He simply shook his head.


    Hawk took a deep breath. "Aw, geez," he muttered. "I''m such a jerk, barging in here¡­"


    Sirannor shook his head again. "No. I''m glad of the company," he said.


    Hawk let his brown gaze wander around the room, and it came to rest, inevitably, on the thin, hunched figure in the corner. "Who''s that guy?"


    Sirannor did not turn around. "Cimmeran," he answered. "Ex-servant to Lord Arzath, the sorcerer."


    Hawk''s eyes widened again. He looked at Captain Sirannor as though disbelieving what he had just heard, then back at Cimmeran, then folded his arms across his breastplate. "No kidding?" he exclaimed.


    The servant glared at him, but Hawk returned his gaze unflinchingly until he looked away again.


    "Anyway," Hawk said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, as there were no spare chairs, "talking of strange people showing up ¨C" here Cimmeran gave Hawk an extremely unfriendly look ¨C "have you heard about the ambassador from Arkana?"


    ?"


    "Yep," Hawk replied, nodding. "He arrived in Sel Varence five days ago."


    ? Do you have any idea why?"


    Hawk hesitated. "He''s demanded to speak to the King. Apparently, it''s an incredibly urgent matter, and he refuses to speak with the Darorian ambassador or the Princess. Only the King himself."


    ?"


    "Yeah," Hawk said, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "And he won''t go to the Crystal City, either, he wants a meeting in Selvar, or not at all. I guess he doesn''t want to wander too far from his own land."


    "And King Neodine agreed to this?"


    Hawk nodded, his expression mirroring Sirannor''s incredulity. "The royal entourage should be arriving any day now."


    The Captain fell silent, letting these thoughts sift through his mind. This was momentous news. No Angel had been seen outside of Arkana since their ''no trade, no foreigners'' law was passed nearly a hundred years ago, apart from the occasional exile like Aari. Only something of unprecedented importance could have convinced them to send an ambassador across the Tentaryl Ranges.


    Apparently, the King thought so, too. His arrogance was such that he wouldn''t get out of his extravagant throne to greet his own daughter.


    A deep frown creased Sirannor''s face.


    Hawk appeared to share Sirannor''s thoughts. "No one knows what this ''urgent matter'' could be," he went on, "but there''s a lot of speculation, naturally. Popular opinion at the moment seems to be that the Angels are finally prepared to negotiate their closed borders law."


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    Sirannor was unconvinced. "If that was the case," he said quietly, "then why the need for secrecy? Why the haste? Why is the ambassador being allowed to dictate all the terms?"


    Hawk shook his scruffy head, frowning anxiously. "Yeah, you''re right, it doesn''t make sense. Which is why I sent a message to Carmine in Selvar this morning, to find out if she knows anything more about this business."


    He paused, allowing Sirannor a chance to respond. Sirannor stared down at Aari, letting the silence lengthen to uncomfortable proportions, before finally saying: "So, you keep in regular contact with Carmine, I presume?"


    Hawk lifted a hand and rubbed his neck self-consciously, suddenly a little too aware of Sirannor''s piercing grey gaze. "Uh, yeah, oc-occasionally," he stammered. Had his cheeks coloured a shade, or was it a trick of the lamplight? "B-but, it''s not what you think! Uh¡­ well, actually, it is what you think, but¨C"


    "It is none of my business," Sirannor said, turning away.


    Hawk was taken aback, this was obviously not the response he had been expecting. "But¡­ she''s your daughter!"


    "Carmine is a grown woman with the right to make her own decisions, and those decisions have nothing to do with me. But¡­" he hesitated. "For the record, I¡­ approve of her choice."


    Hawk was now clearly embarrassed. He had to clear his throat quite a few times before he found his voice. "You do?" he finally managed, and grinned as though Sirannor had just crowned him King. "Uh, thanks! I mean, thank you, sir!" he straightened and saluted again.


    "Hawk¡­" Sirannor sighed.


    "Sorry, sir!" Hawk apologised, and put his hand down quickly. "So, uh, a-anyway," he went on, stumbling over his words in his hasty attempt to change the subject, "I don''t think the army suspects that I''m working as a secret informant for the Freeroamers, but to be honest, I don''t reckon they care much either way. I doubt anyone would bother to turn me in if they found out. There''s a lot of resentment and anger for the King at the moment¡­"


    "Isn''t there always?" Sirannor murmured. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, only half-listening to Hawk''s chatter. He was very tired. He''d had no sleep the previous night and was unlikely to get any this night, either. Nor would he dare allow himself such an indulgence, not while young Aari''s life slowly slipped away¡­


    "Yeah, but now there''s unrest even among the King''s loyalists," Hawk continued. "Everyone agrees that something must be done about General Dreikan, but the King won''t listen."


    "Dreikan," Sirannor muttered darkly. "What has that man done now?"


    "Well, it''s not what he''s done, but what he''s planning to do that''s the problem," Hawk said anxiously. He took a slow, deep breath before saying: "He wants to attack the Dragons."


    Sirannor straightened. Even Cimmeran, who had been staring resolutely out of the window, looked over in surprise.


    ?"


    "He cancelled the offerings a while ago, saying they were wasting too much money¨C" he paused as Sirannor snorted ironically, and went on "¨C and surprise, surprise, the Dragons went back to attacking the miners. The General wants to exterminate them for good. I think he''s getting a bit testy with this deadlocked war with the Enopians, he''s eager for a big, exciting battle."


    "He''ll get a big, exciting massacre if he continues with that course of action," Sirannor said angrily. "Many generals have attempted to wipe out the Dragons over the years, and have succeeded only in wiping out their own troops!"


    "Tell me about it," Hawk said gloomily. "The King doesn''t care about sacrificing lives, he thinks Dreikan''s plan is a great one. He sees nothing but the profits involved if the extraction of redstone ore can continue unhindered."


    "The King is a fool," Sirannor growled.


    "Yeah, but a powerful fool," Hawk pointed out. "And there is no worse kind."


    They fell silent for awhile, each man lost in his own bleak contemplation. Finally, Hawk stirred and said quietly: "There''s one more thing I need to discuss with you, sir¡­" His eyes flicked briefly to Cimmeran in the corner. "In private."


    Sirannor glanced at the servant as well. He hesitated, and looked back down at Aari.


    "It will only take a few minutes," Hawk assured him. "It''s important."


    Sirannor considered his sombre face for a moment, then slowly stood up. "Very well," he replied. He turned to the corner. "Cimmeran."


    The servant jumped at the sound of his name.


    Sirannor pointed to the bed. "Watch him."


    Cimmeran nodded fearfully, and Sirannor followed Hawk out the door. They walked a short way up the darkened, white-walled corridor, and then Hawk pushed through a door on the right.


    They emerged on a small, round, low-railed balcony. Faint smells of sand and salt reached Sirannor, but there was still no breeze to blow away the heavy air. Hawk, in his dark reddish-brown armour, was a vague shape against the backdrop of the city. He closed the door softly behind them, and peered carefully over the rail and at the nearby windows to make sure they would not be overheard. He wasted no time getting to the point.


    "We found a seal in the moltmetal mine," he said in a low voice.


    "A seal?"


    Hawk nodded. "Big round thing, covered in creepy-looking runes. We hadn''t noticed it before now, because it was hidden behind stalactites and a slide of rocks. Some miners discovered it when they were attempting to widen one of the tunnels. No one knows what its purpose is, whether it''s still active or the dead remains of some ancient spell. Could it somehow be connected to the Aegis?"


    Sirannor could not make out his face well in the dark, but pictured it wearing a worried expression. "It was always my understanding," he replied, "that the Aegis is generated by ten stones¡­"


    "¡­ sunk into the sea bed surrounding the island," Hawk finished, nodding. "Yeah, that''s common knowledge. We''ve never come across any other spells or runes on the Isle, certainly nothing as huge and intimidating as this. But that''s not the worst of it."


    He paused, running a hand nervously through his hair. "People have been getting sick. Mostly the miners digging the moltmetal out and the blacksmiths who have been working with the stuff. They''ve been acting really strange."


    Sirannor frowned slowly. "What are their symptoms?"


    "Hallucinations, amnesia, nausea¡­ it varies," Hawk replied, shrugging.


    Sirannor remained silent for a time. "This is worrying," he said at last.


    "Yeah," Hawk whispered, glancing unconsciously in the direction of the Old Quarter. "It sure is."


    But finally, he was alone. Alone, save for the mortally sick Angel.


    He uncurled his stiff legs and stood up, the chair creaking loudly in the silence as he did so. He walked over to the bed. His shadow rose to meet him on the wall, his dark opposite, with the Angel lying between them.


    Cimmeran envied his shadow.


    Something dropped from his long, ragged sleeve into his hand ¨C something that glinted in the soft lamplight.


    Slowly, Cimmeran lifted the knife and looked at it. The knife that he had stolen from the table at dinner, that he had kept hidden inside his sleeve, pressed against his arm the entire time Sirannor and Hawk were talking, and nearly stabbed himself with when Sirannor made him jump.


    This knife was the only way out. The only way to be free.


    He blinked his eyes to clear them, and whispered down at Aari: "Please¡­ please u-understand, I¡­ I don''t want to do this, but I have no ch-choice¡­"


    He closed his eyes, swallowing back his sobs. "I''m sorry¡­"


    When he opened them again, his eyes were strangely clear and focused. As if in a dream, he placed the knife at the Angel''s throat.


    Sirannor knew that something was wrong the moment he saw the door to Aari''s room standing open.


    Suddenly gripped with terrifying, unexplainable panic, he broke into a run.


    When he entered, time froze.


    The shadowy room was empty, except for¡­


    "No!" he cried. "Gods, NO!" He ran to Aari''s side.


    The Angel was lying exactly how Sirannor had left him, eyes peacefully closed, wings folded and bound, but now there was a dark stain of blood splashed across the sheets and pooling beneath his head.


    His throat had been cut.


    Hawk had gone almost as white as Aari. "The servant''s gone," he said shakily.


    The words slashed through Sirannor''s consciousness like claws.


    Staggering to his feet, Aari''s blood on his hands, he croaked: "Give me your sword, Hawk."


    Hawk looked frightened. "C-Captain, I don''t think that''s a good¨C"


    "GIVE IT TO ME!" Sirannor screamed.


    Hawk jumped. His sword had barely left its sheath before Sirannor snatched it and raced out the door.


    Hawk stood for a moment in the sudden silence, taking deep breaths to dispel the shock and nausea he was feeling. He had seen men die before, but not like this¡­ The Captain was right ¨C why would anyone murder a dying man? What possible purpose could it serve? Was it just random insanity?


    He swallowed, and shook his head. "Dammit, Captain," he whispered, and ran after Sirannor in case he did something he''d regret.

 Chapter Thirty Two

    Moonlight falls in the City of Death


    As three men face their greatest test.


    Hawk burst out into the moonlit stableyard in time to see Captain Sirannor leap astride a horse and charge out into the street. He sprinted over to the stablehand, who had run out into the yard and was shouting angrily after the departing horse, and shouted breathlessly: "Have you got any other¡­ horses saddled?"


    The stablehand turned and gave him a confused look.


    Hawk grabbed him fiercely by the shirt. "Answer me, man! This is important!" He wished fleetingly that he possessed Sirannor''s commanding tone, but fortunately, his uniform was just as effective. Catching sight of the insignia on his sleeve, the stablehand nodded quickly.


    Hawk released him at once, and the two of them ran to the stables.


    Hoofbeats echoed loudly off the white stone buildings as the horses pounded through the silent, shadowy streets. Lights came on in windows and Watchmen jerked awake as first one ¨C then several minutes later, two more ¨C dark shapes thundered past.


    He had just been betrayed, his Freeroamer companion murdered in cold blood. Hawk could not help but picture what he himself would do if he found Carmine''s throat slashed.


    He decided that he would want a friend nearby who could still think and act rationally.


    Rounding a corner onto the main thoroughfare, he saw Sirannor''s horse come to a rearing halt at the closed main gates. The Captain shouted something at the guards on duty. One of them gave a short reply and pointed north-east. Sirannor tore off before the guard had finished speaking, his sword glinting sharply in the moonlight.


    Hawk took a sudden detour through a side alley, swearing out loud. He knew exactly what the guard had pointed to, and wondered if this night could get any worse.


    There was only one way out of the city in that direction ¨C and it led straight through the Old Quarter.


    The gate was wide open. There were no guards patrolling here: there was no need. Not even criminals dared venture into the Old Quarter, unless they were desperate, or insane.


    Hawk thought bitterly,


    Sirannor spurred his horse through the arch without a moment''s hesitation. Hawk ¨C now right on Sirannor''s tail thanks to several shortcuts ¨C felt a wall of terror so solid it was almost tangible crash over him as he passed the threshold.


    It took all his willpower not to turn his horse around and gallop straight back out. Instead, he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the mind-numbing fear.


    It was as though they had passed into another world: a world created by magic and death. Everything was ancient and decayed. Moonlight streamed through gaping holes in the buildings. White sand, as fine as dust, blanketed the streets, sat in drifts against the ruins, and puffed up in glittering clouds at the horses'' feet. The air was dry and stale, neither warm nor cold, though the sweat on Hawk''s skin was sending shivers down his spine. There was no sign of the puddles and dampness that lingered in the rest of the city from the previous night''s storm, as though even the weather had forgone this eerie place.


    The tracks of Cimmeran''s horse stood out clearly, chips of grey shadow on the pristine white sand, disappearing into the broken city.


    Sirannor and Hawk followed them for endless minutes, leaping over fallen masonry and through shattered walls, the panting of the horses and their muffled footsteps the only sounds to break the strange serenity. Deeper and deeper into the city they galloped. If it weren''t for the reassuring position of the moon to the west, Hawk would surely have lost all sense of direction.


    The trail turned suddenly to the left, and Sirannor went with it. Hawk rounded the corner, a few paces behind, only to find that the Captain had vanished. The trail continued down the street, a single line of hoofprints.


    Hawk skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. He looked around, listening for the sounds of a racing horse. Perhaps Sirannor had veered off down a side street?


    Silence.


    The sand was undisturbed, save for Cimmeran''s trail.


    Panic flooded through Hawk. He turned to look behind him and saw, with disbelief, that the sand had blown over the trail, obliterating all evidence of their passing.


    Erasing the way back.


    "What the hell?" he said aloud. Heart pounding, he tried calling out Sirannor''s name, but he already knew, with a terrible feeling of dread, what the response would be.


    Nothing.


    He looked back at Cimmeran''s tracks. Having no better option, and after much cursing, he followed them.


    Sirannor''s horse pounded the sand mercilessly.


    Vaguely, he was aware that Hawk was no longer following him. Perhaps the soldier had given up, decided to let him be. Sirannor did not care.


    He rode one-handed, Hawk''s sword gripped tightly in his right hand. The pain burning in his chest and shoulder from his wound did not concern him. In fact, he welcomed it, relished it. He focused on that pain because it was far more bearable than the grief that had split a yawning chasm in his soul. He let the pain fuel his anger, forging all his thoughts into one single, white-hot spear:


    Find Cimmeran.


    he had done it, what had possessed him to kill Aari.


    Something appeared on the road ahead. Sirannor caught his breath in shock, and pulled his horse to a jerky halt.


    It was Aari.


    He stood in the middle of the road, barefoot, bare-chested, wings bound at his back, bright orange tips trailing in the sand. Blood shimmered on his throat and trickled down his chest, staining the bandages around his waist. His dark eyes were sad as he looked up at the Captain.


    "You killed me, Sirannor," he said.


    Sirannor could not move, could not speak. He just stared.


    were going to let me die, too, weren''t you? You preferred to sit and watch my life fade away than let the healers save me!"


    "I¡­" Sirannor''s grey eyes glimmered. He felt pieces of his heart falling away with every word. "You would¡­ not have wanted to live without your wings," he whispered. "You would have lost your identity as an Angel. You would have resented me for the rest of your life¨C"


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    !"


    Sirannor closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He was shaking. "You are dead, Aari," he said. "You cannot be here. You are some kind of deception."


    He opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn''t. The look of hurt on Aari''s face shattered him. "A deception?" Aari said in a small voice. "Is that how little you think of me? You never cared about me, did you? Commander Trice thought of me as a son¨C"


    "ENOUGH!" Sirannor thundered, his voice echoing off the ruins. "YOU CANNOT BE HERE!" Filled with anger once more, Sirannor spurred his horse towards the Angel.


    Aari stood where he was, crying, his face in his hands.


    Almost, Sirannor turned aside. Almost, he let his doubts decide his actions. Then his horse plunged into Aari¡­


    ¡­ and the Angel disappeared.


    Relieved, but shaken, Sirannor continued after Cimmeran.


    However, the shards of Aari''s words remained lodged in him, as though he had thrown a handful of glass.


    But that was a falsehood, Cimmeran knew in his innermost heart. He would never be truly free again. He had killed someone; deliberately. The knife, the symbol of his freedom but also his damnation, was stuck in his belt, still smeared with blood. The Angel had not stirred, not made a sound as Cimmeran had drawn it across his neck. It had been so easy to take his life.


    But he could never give it back. He had stepped down a black path, the same path that his hated master had followed¡­


    He felt numb.


    Then he rounded a corner, and fear returned in a painful jolt.


    He screamed.


    A Muron sat atop a fallen pillar directly in his path.


    Waiting for him.


    Ardance skidded on the sand as Cimmeran jerked on the reins, trying desperately to turn her in the narrow alley. He galloped back the way he had come, but¡­


    ¡­ a second Muron dropped lazily onto the road, blocking his escape.


    he thought deliriously.


    It was too much.


    Ardance was jumping around, skittish with fear. Cimmeran could not control her, and was thrown to the ground. The horse turned and ran down the alley, towards the first Muron.


    ¡­!"


    One slash of the Muron''s claws was all it took. The spray of blood seemed to hang horribly in the air, before Ardance fell heavily to the ground.


    Cimmeran collapsed into the sand, curled into a ball and sobbed uncontrollably, overcome with despair.


    The trail seemed endless, twisting and turning, though remaining on a steady north-eastern course. But the dusty buildings around Hawk appeared unchanged; he swore that tower on his right had not moved since he had started out, nor had the jagged silhouette of the SOMS, hazy in the moonlight, off to his left.


    There was still no sign of Sirannor or Cimmeran, and the trail continued to disappear mysteriously behind him, as though neither he nor the servant nor the Captain had ever passed this way.


    Beneath his armour, his tunic was damp with sweat, and his nerves were becoming increasingly strained the further he rode. "This is crazy," he muttered to himself. This place was surreal and unnatural, no place for the living or sane. And it was playing with him, he was sure. It was testing him, to see how long he could follow Cimmeran''s never-ending tracks until his mind broke¡­


    He had almost convinced himself to give up the trail completely and strike out in a different direction, when he passed beneath an overhanging arch and emerged into a wide, circular open space.


    Hawk slowed his horse to a stop, gazing in awe at the scene before him.


    He was standing at the edge of an immense plaza; perhaps it had once been the city green, although the grass had long ago withered and turned to dust. The plaza was empty and barren, a striking contrast of white moonlight and black shadow. But what caught his gaze and pinned it in place was the gigantic thing that stood in the very centre of the space, upon a weathered stone dais.


    It was a life-sized statue of a Dragon.


    Frozen in bronze, it crouched upon its platform, wings half-spread, hindquarters bunched, sinuous neck extended, great blank eyes focused forward as though poised to lunge at Hawk. Each of its claws was as long as Hawk''s horse.


    Fear crawled over his skin. It was only a statue, but a terrifyingly realistic one. He could not conceive how, or why, anyone would create a monument to a Dragon in the middle of Sunsee.


    He turned his attention to the ground instead, to see where the tracks led.


    He groaned.


    He hesitated, debating his next course of action. The tracks carried on until they were lost from sight in the statue''s inky shadow. Neither the servant nor his horse was anywhere to be seen. Every grain of common sense in his soul was warning him not to approach the statue any closer.


    There was something not right about it¡­


    A flicker of movement on the right edge of his vision caused him to turn his head.


    Someone else had just emerged into the courtyard.


    For a moment, Hawk was so surprised to see another living person that he just stared. The figure was too slight of build to be Sirannor, and not lanky enough to be the servant. Then he gave a sudden start of recognition. His eyes widened.


    He scrambled off his horse and ran forward to get a better look.


    ?!" he said incredulously.


    "Devan?" the young woman called across the open space, sounding just as surprised as he. "What are you doing in here?!"


    "I have some important news to tell you!" she shouted.


    Hawk frowned. "Well, why didn''t you send a courier?"


    !" she replied, hurrying around the circumference of the courtyard. "And I couldn''t take the chance that it would be intercepted! And besides, you wouldn''t have believed me in writing!"


    Hawk watched her approach with confusion on his face. He felt as though reality had galloped off while he wasn''t looking and left him behind. He shook his head to clear it. "Why did you come through the Old Quarter?" he said.


    "The main gates are closed!" she answered in annoyance, as though the answer was obvious. Then, suddenly, her face broke into a beautiful smile, and she threw her arms around his neck. "I missed you!" she said.


    Hawk felt a little of the trepidation trickle away as the warmth of her body seeped into him. He hugged her back. "I missed you, too," he replied softly. Her blood-red hair shimmered in the moonlight, beneath the hood of her cloak. An image of the murdered Angel appeared with unpleasant clarity in his mind. He felt queasy.


    Carmine pulled back, took his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. Then she stopped and stared at him, frowning slightly. "Is something wrong?


    Hawk''s heart was pounding again, though he didn''t quite know why. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, everything is wrong¡­" He stared at her. "Carmine¡­ why didn''t you wait until morning?"


    She rolled her eyes, and sighed. "I told you¡ªHAWK!"


    Hawk whirled at her scream, and gasped. He leapt backwards so fast that he knocked her over.


    The Dragon ¨C the statue ¨C had come alive. Like a snake in slow motion, its enormous head lunged towards him and snatched his horse up in its jaws. The sound of crushing bones filled the silence.


    The Dragon swallowed the horse whole, and then turned to stare at the two Humans.


    Hawk and Carmine froze.


    For long heartbeats, neither of them moved nor spoke. The Dragon watched them. Then Hawk said quietly: "Car, did you bring any weapons with you?"


    "Only a knife," she replied. Hawk was amazed, and slightly envious, of the calmness in her voice. Occasionally, she sounded just like her father.


    "No good, no good," Hawk muttered. A knife was laughable against something that huge. He might as well throw sand at it.


    He licked his lips nervously. "Maybe I could¡­ reason with it?" he voiced his thoughts aloud.


    "Yeah¡­" Sirannor had talked to one, once, before he''d slain it. He was the only person known to have killed a Dragon and escaped with his life, and all body parts, intact. But as much as Hawk aspired to be, he was not Sirannor. Not even close. And he didn''t have a handy quarter-ton ballista with him.


    He had nothing.


    Hawk was silent for a moment. "Uh¡­ yeah¡­ that''s a good point¡­"


    "We''ll have to split up."


    "No way," Hawk said at once.


    Carmine turned her head slightly and glared at him out of the corner of her eyes. "It might hesitate!" she hissed. "It''s our best chance of getting away! Its reflexes are slow¡­"


    Hawk thought unhappily.


    He took a deep, steadying breath. "Alright," he conceded. "On the count of three, okay?"


    Carmine nodded.


    The Dragon continued to stare at them, looming against the night sky, as motionless as it had been when they had first entered the plaza.


    "One," Hawk said, "t¨C"


    Carmine broke away from him and sprinted off to the right.


    "CARMINE!" Hawk screamed.


    The world seemed to turn into a dream. He watched Carmine running, her brilliant red hair flying behind her, a splash of colour on a landscape of light and darkness. Then the Dragon was moving, almost effortlessly, shifting its weight, its massive head swinging across the courtyard, jaws opening¡­


    .


    Then Carmine turned, knife in hand, to face the Dragon, a cloud of ghostly sand drifting up as she skidded to a halt. She looked at Hawk, racing to reach her, and there was terror on her face.


    "Dev¨C" she started to cry¡­ and then she was gone.


    The sound of crunching bones knocked Hawk to the ground.

 Chapter Thirty Three

    Threads are slipping, one by one


    Grand plans soon may come undone.


    Arzath stood at his chamber window, shaking. He was always shaking, these days. No matter how hard he concentrated, no matter how stony his determination, he could not seem to calm the involuntary twitching of his muscles. It was as though they had developed a will of their own. His head hurt so often that he had almost become accustomed to it, but the trembling he could not ignore.


    Nor could he ignore the nightmares, though he desperately tried. All of them involved Requar, in some form or another, returning to the valley and finding Arzath weak and vulnerable.


    And then destroying him.


    Arzath had confined himself to his tower room, allowing no one save his one remaining Human servant to attend to his needs. He could not afford to let the rest of his minions catch sight of him in this pathetic state; they would lose all respect for him, and worse, the smarter ones might even begin to suspect the truth. The Murons worried him, especially; they were extremely shrewd creatures, it would not take them long to work out the real reason behind their master''s reclusiveness and odd behaviour.


    If they hadn''t deduced it already.


    He glared at his brother''s castle across the river, letting the image of it burn into his eyes, fuelling his hate and anger, filling the empty, hollow space that the loss of his magic had gouged out of his soul. He began to laugh suddenly, not quite knowing why. Perhaps at the irony that his eventual downfall might come at the hands of his own minions. Or perhaps simply to keep the fear at bay.


    had overlooked.


    ? Just how deep did the old foundations go?


    He closed his eyes and searched his mind for memories of any such tunnels, but found nothing. There were still a few parts of his memory that were incomplete, never recovered after the accident, locked doors for which he had lost the keys¡­


    !" he wailed. He was pleased to hear the patter of footsteps as the servant hurried away.


    exist beneath the river. If he knew of it, then his brother undoubtedly knew of it as well. And Requar would have either destroyed it or blocked it with heavy defensive spells; otherwise, Arzath would have conquered his castle years ago.


    , Arzath thought.  He stopped pacing. At least, he could only assume that Requar thought him dead, could only hope that his accidental tap on the shield had not alerted his brother to the truth¡­


    , he regained his train of thought fiercely, resuming his pacing. And assuming that the tunnel was still accessible in some way, there was a chance, albeit a small one, that Requar had forgotten about it, and hadn''t bothered to maintain a shield there after he left. After all, who could possibly know of its existence save himself, Requar and Cimmeran?


    Arzath leaped towards his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out pieces of parchment, studying them in shaking hands before discarding them on the floor. He had plenty of maps of his castle and the valley, but none indicated the presence of a river tunnel. Nor the room that housed his secret weapon, but that was as expected. He would never have marked something that important on a map. He hadn''t anticipated being thrown off a cliff and losing his memory and magic, after all.


    He rummaged through several more drawers and chests but found no further plans of the castle''s foundations. Refusing to be disheartened, he strode across the room to the stand of servant''s torches near the door and seized one. He didn''t care that his hunch was based on a lot of vague assumptions, if there was the slightest chink in that bloody shield, he was going to find it!


    He pulled open the door and swept out, descending the stairwell like a quivering black wraith.


    Thumping footsteps boomed in the quiet corridor, shuddering the hanging tapestries. Kyosk wandered along his patrol route with monotonous steps, yawning frequently and blinking sleepily. His halberd rested on his shoulder, one huge, chunky arm draped over the handle. His enormous red spikes rose behind him, gleaming in dusty shafts of sunlight as he passed a window now and then.


    How maddeningly boring his life had become in this castle, he mused, how he yearned for the smell of fresh blood on steel¡­


    A servant came running around the corner and seeing the huge Grik in his way, edged along the wall to pass him, eyes fixed firmly on the floor in front of him.


    Kyosk turned lazily to watch him, and then barked: "Oi!"


    The young boy jumped in fright and tripped on his black robes, the neatly folded, gold-embroidered clothes in his arms tumbling to the floor.


    Finally, something to amuse himself with for the rest of the afternoon.


    "Where ''o you been?" the Grik demanded, though one glance at the fallen garments the servant was now hurriedly scooping up answered his question.


    "M-master''s ch-chambers!" the servant stammered, his eyes so wide they were in danger of falling out of his head. "He t-told me to go away!"


    Kyosk swung the halberd off his shoulder and stretched his arms, listening to the joints click. "Don''t blame ''im," he growled. "Who would wanna see a liddle snot like you?"


    The servant looked as though he wanted to flee for his life, but couldn''t seem to take his eyes off the huge blade in the Grik''s hands. Clutching Arzath''s clean robes to his chest, he backed away until he came up against a plinth supporting a large, black porcelain amphora. Realising that he was about to be trapped if he didn''t move quickly, the boy darted along the wall to Kyosk''s right, trying to slip past.


    Kyosk lunged with the spike-tipped halberd and pinned the servant''s robes to the wall. The boy gave a terrified yelp and struggled so frantically that he managed to tear himself free and flee back down the corridor and around the corner.


    Kyosk sniggered. He liked a good game of Chase the Servant.


    Yawning widely and raising the halberd to his shoulder once more, he trudged unhurriedly after the boy. He had just reached the corner when, to his surprise, the servant came racing back, so fast that he collided with Kyosk and bounced into the opposite wall. Growling, Kyosk snatched him by the throat as he tried to find his feet. "What are you doin'', runnin'' aroun'' like a liddle rat?"


    This time, there was an entirely new level of fear on the boy''s pale face. He gasped a single word: "Master!"


    Reluctantly, Kyosk dropped him, and the boy disappeared in seconds. The big Grik remained where he was, listening. From the adjacent corridor came a hollow tapping sound, and the faint swish of cloth. Quietly, he edged towards the wall and peered around the corner.


    Lord Arzath emerged from a stairwell a short way down the hall. He was carrying a long-handled torch, leaning on it heavily and panting as though the walk down the stairs had taken a supreme effort. Kyosk''s brows raised in surprise. The sorcerer looked incredibly ill, much as he had directly following the cliff accident. Obviously, his condition had not improved as much as he had led his Griks to believe it had.


    Arzath leaned on the wall and fumbled in his pocket for something. Kyosk''s brows lifted further. It was a tin of matches.


    The sorcerer''s hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped the tin, but he managed to strike a flame and light the torch. He cast a wary eye down the corridor. Kyosk ducked hurriedly out of sight as the green gaze swept his way. He kept very still, holding his breath, but there was no incriminating shout.


    Orange torchlight flickered on the wall to his left, then suddenly diminished in a rush of shifting shadows. Kyosk waited until it had faded completely before hazarding another glance into the hall.


    He caught the tail end of the glow as it disappeared around a bend in the stairwell. Arzath had continued descending into the depths of the keep. Kyosk crept over to the stairs as quietly as a Grik could manage and looked down. He was tempted to follow Arzath ¨C he even took one step down ¨C but then hesitated. His master wasn''t stupid, he would realise someone was following him very quickly. Kyosk decided that his life wasn''t worth risking simply in order to satisfy his curiosity.


    His crimson eyes narrowed. Besides, he now had all the evidence he needed to support the suspicion that had been slowly growing over the past couple of weeks. There was something intriguingly wrong with Arzath, something that he was trying to hide.


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    And Kyosk thought he had finally figured out what it was.


    Loathing his decision, but convincing himself that it was necessary, Kyosk turned away from the stairwell and went to find Varshax.


    * * *


    Crysk groped blindly in the blackness. All light had vanished, and all sounds evaporated into cold, empty silence. He could hear nothing save his own laboured breathing and scrape of his shell against the wall. The passageway was so narrow that he was forced to edge through it sideways. As well as that, it had begun to spiral steeply upwards in a set of tightly curled stone steps. More than once, he had feared he''d wedged himself immovably into a corner, but each time had managed to struggle onwards.


    He pressed on determinedly, mostly because he had no choice. The Murons were waiting if he dared to turn back. He was thankful that he could no longer hear their horrifying screams.


    He tried not to think about what he would do if they ended up on the roof.


    He whimpered pitifully in the darkness, wishing he were back in the smoky, oily mess room, munching on a nice, burnt leg of mutton¡­


    His hand landed on something that scuttled away. Crysk scrabbled for it eagerly, found the creature, and ate it. Whatever it was, it was crunchy, but not very satisfying.


    Time slid endlessly on, locking the Grik away in a black world devoid of everything but himself and the stairs, which seemed ever increasingly to be taunting him. The grating of his body on the walls mocked his escape, making him rue his decision to venture into the eyrie, causing him to crumple under the weight of his own stupidity. These stairs had no end; he might well have been better off if the Murons had caught him. Perhaps this was his true punishment, to skulk here in the walls of the castle, forever, like the spider he had just eaten¡­


    With a sudden jerk, he realised that he could see his stubby hand on the wall in front of him. There was a definite brightness emanating from above. Relief flooding through him, he struggled onwards, ignoring the cobwebs that stuck to his face and caught on the chunks of gold ore protruding from his shell. A short time later, the stairs finally ended and he stopped, squinting in the bright sunlight.


    He had emerged, not on the roof as was his first heart-stopping thought, but into a small circular chamber. Six narrow windows ringed its black stone walls, filled with iron grates punctured with round holes. Hundreds of strands of hazy white light filtered through the holes, crossing the room, giving it the look of a gigantic, ethereal spider''s web.


    One of the shutters was open, letting in a thick beam of sunlight, which fell blindingly on a shining object in the middle of the room. Crysk blinked his eyes to clear the coloured spots from his vision.


    It was a sword, balanced delicately on a metal tripod, pointing towards the open window like a compass needle. There, Lord Requar''s castle was perfectly framed, like a painting on the wall.


    Crysk looked around warily. It was a peculiar room: more than anything it resembled a cross between a metalworker''s shop and an alchemist''s study. A rack of weapons stood beside the stairwell on his left, rusted and draped with cobwebs. To his right was a wooden bench crammed with all sorts of miscellaneous debris: broken crystals, bits of metal, vials containing unguessable liquids and powders, pieces of parchment covered with notes, a quill pen, ink bottles, strange tools, and books: lots and lots of books. More books were stuffed into a thin bookcase wedged between the bench and the doorway, and yet more crowded in ungainly piles on the floor.


    The ceiling was low and tapered, supported by iron struts. A single candle, half-drowned in wax, sat in a holder hanging by a chain from the centre strut. It swayed gently in a draught from the open window, making the strands of light flicker.


    The room seemed harmless, but Crysk was nevertheless filled with an awkward sense of unease, as though he had stumbled onto something private. And worse than that¡­ a single glance told him that there were no other exits, entrances or stairwells in the chamber. The windows were much too narrow to squeeze through. It was a dead end.


    Crysk''s shoulders slumped in despair and defeat. He moved forward into the room, wondering what to do next. Gloomily, he stared down at the sword in front of him, his attention momentarily riveted by its exquisite workmanship and beauty.


    The sword was longer, leaner and more elegant than anything he had ever seen before. Certainly, it resembled nothing in the castle''s armoury. The blade was polished to a flawless silver finish; he could see his reflection in it like a mirror. Two snakes ¨C one black, one white ¨C curled upwards from the hilt, entwined with each other and the blade in an everlasting embrace. The crosspiece and hilt were silver as well, and the pommel stone was round and gold. There was something curious about the hilt, however: there appeared to be a piece missing. At the junction of blade and handle was a cross-shaped depression, as though a small, bladed object such as a dagger might fit inside.


    Crysk picked up the sword and turned it over in his hand. It was a pretty-looking thing, although far too light for his liking. It felt as though it might shatter like glass if he struck something with it. Definitely not made for Griks.


    He wondered if it was Angel-made. It reminded him of the wondrous blades said to have been wielded by the fabled Sky Legion, an elite army of Angelical warriors that lived now only in stories of ages past. One such popular tale told of the last great battle between the Sky Legion and the Griks, whose chief ultimately slew the Angel leader and fashioned his gold feathers into a glorious cloak.


    Crysk grinned and lifted the sword. He took up a fighting stance, adopted a menacing scowl, and thrust the sword at the air, imagining that he was Great Chief Dukogeg killing an Angel Legionary. The sword sparkled as though infused with mysterious power as he swished it through the beams of sunlight, pretending to parry and dodge invisible blows. Inevitably, a careless swing sent the blade smashing into the lamp hanging in the middle of the room. The candleholder broke off its chain and crashed onto the bench, scattering objects everywhere. A jar containing blue powder fell to the floor and shattered.


    Wincing, Crysk waited until the tinkle of glass had died away, then hurriedly replaced the sword on its holder, taking several attempts to get it to balance properly. He tried to brush the spilled powder and glass under the bench with his foot, but stopped when the sole began to smoulder. He backed away to the doorway, his tiny black eyes growing wide.


    "I never touched nuffin''!" he said defensively to the silent room, as though the grate-holes were hundreds of eyes glaring at him in accusation. He began to wedge himself back down the stairway, then froze suddenly in realisation.


    There was nowhere to go.


    "Blackwings!" he whimpered. "Blackwings waitin'' fer me!"


    He was trapped. He would never make it back through the eyrie, he would be slaughtered without some sort of weapon to fight the Murons off with, and he had nothing at all. Except¡­


    He looked back at the sword.


    he told himself fiercely. All he needed to do was hold them off long enough to make the cover of the hallway: there at least he could run.


    Eerily, the sword was emitting a faint silver luminescence, as though a bit of sunlight had remained trapped on the blade. This observation sent a dark shiver of warning through Crysk, but at the moment, he was too frightened to care.


    He reached the end of the secret passage sooner than he expected, perhaps because he was so distracted by the terror of what he was about to do that time ceased to have meaning. Dust and cobwebs had collected on him, stuck in every crevice of his body. His heart was pounding rapidly. He paused uncertainly, staring at the narrow oblong of light and the grisly mound of bones beyond.


    There were no Murons to be seen.


    He listened, but heard no sound save the familiar gentle clink of the hanging chains. The echo they created was unnerving.


    Swallowing thickly, he tightened his grip on the flimsy sword and stepped towards the opening.


    There was a large black shape to one side, stark against the bones.


    Crysk shoved himself back into the shadows, catching his breath. He braced himself for an attack, but the Muron did not move. He waited for several seconds, heart racing, then peered fearfully out.


    The creature was dead. Its huge wings were splayed out at awkward angles, and its neck was broken. Its body was badly lacerated; flesh and scales had been torn off it in strips. Its yellow eyes were dim and lifeless. Crysk realised it was the same one that had broken its wings trying to get at him. He looked at the shredded wings and quickly turned away again, shivering.


    Apart from the dead Muron and himself, the eyrie was deserted. The sun had shifted, leaving long, curved streaks of light high on the opposite wall and the rest of the chamber in cool shadow. Nothing moved within the inky darkness of the arches above him.


    Crysk took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. He looked out across the bone-scattered floor. The only other exit was about ten yards away to his left. He wondered how to cross the bones without making too much noise, and quickly decided it was impossible.


    So, taking another breath and a firm grip on his sword, he ran for it.


    Almost instantly, the air was filled with fluttering black shapes, materialising out of nowhere as though the shadows themselves had come to life. Crysk stumbled in panic as one of them swooped at him from behind. He swung the sword with a cry, and was astonished to see black blood spray through the air and the Muron''s arm fly across the room.


    The Muron''s scream nearly split the Grik''s head apart. Crysk didn''t bother to wonder about the unbelievable sharpness of the sword, he merely got up and kept running.


    Another Muron landed on the bones in front of him, sending them tumbling, and leapt at him. Crysk thrust the sword in front of him, cringing, waiting for the inevitable, but the blade went right through the creature all the way to the hilt.


    The Muron hardly seemed aware of its injury, if anything, it only seemed more enraged. It slashed and snapped at him viciously. Crysk threw himself to the ground, but not before catching a few sharp blows to the head and back. There was movement in the corner of his eye. Ignoring the pain and acting on instinct, he grabbed the handle of the sword in both hands and swung the Muron, still pinned to the blade, to shield himself against the one-armed Muron who had just lunged at him from behind.


    The resulting blow caught the pinned Muron directly in the head, which shrieked and lashed out at its fellow. Crysk pulled the sword free and scrambled away as the two Murons snarled and hissed and attacked each other, momentarily forgetting the Grik.


    Crysk ran for the hallway entrance, Murons all around him now. However, they seemed more cautious than before, hanging back, stalking him, waiting for the best moment to attack. Crysk, despite his terror, was filled with a thrilling surge of confidence at the stunning efficiency of his newfound weapon. He had the ability to hurt the Murons, to incapacitate them badly, maybe even kill them and they knew it.


    "Hyah!" Crysk yelled fiercely, feinting at the nearest one, but to his disappointment, it did not leap away. It merely glared at him and snapped its jaws.


    "Ssstupid little Grik!" a Muron perched atop the pile of bones hissed. "You do not know what you possesss!"


    "Y-yeah I do!" Crysk stammered defiantly. "A sword!"


    A few of the Murons laughed. It was a chilling sound.


    "You hold your own death in your handsss," the first Muron whispered.


    Crysk glanced nervously at the Murons on either side. They were hunched over, sharp teeth bared, eyes narrowed, ready to pounce. He wanted to shrink into himself, to disappear, anything to avoid those terrible hungry gazes. But he held his ground, tightening his grip on the sword as though his very existence was bound to it.


    , Crysk told himself.


    "No," he replied, and his voice came out stronger than he expected. He gave it power until it rang out through the chamber: "I ''old yours!"


    Hissing and snarling in anger, the Murons attacked.


    They came at him in a rush of slashing claws and teeth. Crysk backed away, swinging the sword wildly in all directions. Blood and screams filled the air, but somehow the small Grik remained alive in the midst of the lethal whirlwind. Murons fell at his feet, cut down like firewood. Those that were wounded were torn and shoved aside with frenetic rage by their fellows, but despite the Grik''s amateurish, clumsy swings, none could withstand the flashing silver blade. Scales that would have blunted or bent any other weapon cleaved like butter in the sword''s breath.


    There was a brief pause in the fighting as the last of the first wave was decimated. Crysk''s escape route was unguarded, and he seized his chance.


    At last, he felt the smooth, reassuring stone of the hallway beneath his feet. A Muron made one final lunge to stop him, and lost its head for the effort. Crysk fled down the broad steps, disappeared into the passageway and did not look back.


    The Grik mess hall was crowded; some hundred and fifty boulder-like bodies crammed into the cavernous, windowless room for the evening meal. Stone benches were barely enough to carry the weight. The sounds of harsh laughter, grunts, growls, the ripping of flesh from bones and occasional crunching bang of a fistfight filled the air in a cacophony of noise. Torches spluttered and choked in their own smoke on the scorched walls.


    No one looked up as the door creaked quietly open and a lone Grik lumbered through the room, heading for the long table where Grogdish sat with some of the guards.


    Grogdish wiped bone fragments from his mouth with the back of his hand and was about to take a swig of dark, viscous Grik-brewed ale, when something large and black thumped onto the table amidst the half-eaten chickens. Despite himself, he jumped, slopping ale all over himself.


    One startling yellow eye stared directly at him.


    The entire table fell silent. The Griks, as one, turned and stared.


    Crysk, the squat, immensely stupid Grik that they had teased and shoved into the Muron''s eyrie earlier that morning, stood at the end of the table. He was covered in black blood, dust, cobwebs and his skin was chipped and gashed, but his tiny eyes were fiercely bright. He drew himself up as though he were the tallest Grik in the room.

 Chapter Thirty Four

    Awake to darkness and to fear


    Awake to self and friendship dear.


    And then the diamond shattered. Pieces of it flew everywhere, into his body, into his throat, cutting off his scream¡­


    Ferrian jolted awake in panic, scrabbling at his throat. He could not breathe, there was pain splintering down his neck. It felt as though it had been crushed.


    It took him a moment to realise that he had regained consciousness, that the crystal and the white light and the unearthly woman''s voice had been nothing more than a dream. There were no shards embedded in him.


    Blinking into the darkness to dispel the remnants of his disconcerting dream, he raised a hand tentatively. His fingers encountered something hard, smooth, and scaly¡­


    It felt like a claw.


    Then a sound came from frighteningly close by: a slow, grating, whispering wheeze. It was terrible, like the death gasps of a giant snake.


    Ferrian felt all the blood drain out of his veins. Something was carrying him.


    Something that wasn''t Human.


    His breathing quickened and his throat constricted, causing it to ache further. He fought the massive wave of panic rising in his chest. An awful picture formed in his mind of the Muron that the Freeroamers had crippled and left for dead. They had stabbed out its eyes and burned it to the bone and murdered its companion, and somehow, doggedly, the abominable creature had managed to track their party through the mist and rain. It must have discovered Ferrian helpless and unconscious on the road¡­


    Easy prey.


    Ferrian tried to remain calm, to put his thoughts into some sort of rational order. But he was still shaken from the dream and the stench of charred flesh and blood on the creature was causing him to gag¡­ and his mind simply snapped. He screamed, although his throat was so dry and cramped that it came out as little more than a whispered wail. He tore at the claw with both hands, struggling violently, frantic to get free, maddened with terror¡­


    The Muron snapped at the boy''s face, its jaws passing so close that Ferrian felt its fangs brush his nose.


    Instantly, he went still as though paralysed.


    For a long time afterwards, Ferrian did not dare to move or make a sound. He hung limp and passive in the creature''s grasp, arms dangling loosely by his sides. Only his heart continued to race inside his chest like a frightened animal seeking a way to escape.


    Ferrian was cold. His clothes had not dried in the slightest, and the wind passing through them froze his skin; the curse of his Winter lingered chilly in the air, but at least the rain had stopped and the stormy gusts were dying down. He had not stopped shivering since he had awoken, and wished frequently that he hadn''t, that he was still trapped in a terrifying nightmare.


    But no matter how hard he wished it to be true, the Muron would not shatter into fragmented recollections along with the crystal.


    On the inside, he felt even worse. The pain of his cramps he could deal with, ignore, even, but despair and loneliness were chiselling away at his soul as though he were a statue made of ice.


    Staring listlessly into a blank, starless sky, he wondered why the thing hadn''t eaten him yet. What could it possibly want? Had it mistaken him for the servant it had come to capture? He thought it unlikely that the Muron couldn''t tell the difference, especially considering it had navigated the forest perfectly proficiently with its remaining senses.


    Every now and then, the creature would pause to sniff the air, or perhaps it was listening to some far-off noise beyond the boy''s hearing. Ferrian could do nothing but wait and stare at its indistinct shadow, listen to its horrible breathing and the snap of twigs beneath its feet, and hope dimly that an opportunity to escape might eventually present itself.


    Though he tried to prevent it, his thoughts kept slipping back to the Freeroamers.


    For a time, he was haunted by the possibility that the Muron had found his companions, as well, and hurt them¡­ or worse. But eventually he reassured himself that Captain Sirannor would never have let the Muron get away a second time, he would have found a way to kill it once and for all, even if he had to stab it in the head with sticks.


    So there was a high probability, then, that the Freeroamers had no idea of the predicament that Ferrian had got himself into.


    Ferrian sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if they had even bothered to come looking for him after he stormed off, leaving them in the middle of the highway. He wouldn''t blame them if they hadn''t, especially after the way he had spoken to them. Aari was desperately ill, they needed to get him to Sunsee as quickly as possible, they didn''t have time to waste wandering off after a fool temperamental boy.


    He fought back tears. He was still angry with the Freeroamers, still torn that they had misled him about something so important, but nevertheless, he was missing them badly.


    They had all risked their lives and fought so hard for him. Ferrian had never asked for their help, they had offered it freely. In Aari''s case, eagerly.


    Aari.


    No one had sacrificed more in the course of this increasingly ill-fated journey than the Angel had. He had faced his greatest fear and paid a horrendous price for it, and yet he never complained. Always, he remained outwardly positive, even though he must have felt as though the world was crashing down on him. Even with crippled wings he had been determined to keep going.


    Could Ferrian really be so selfish as to throw that sacrifice away?


    Commander Trice and Sirannor, too, they had done everything in their power to protect him. He recalled his bitter suspicion that they were trying to get rid of him, to land him in prison: that they had escorted him on this journey only to see him gone from the Outlands.


    complete this quest on his own. He had not the strength nor courage nor intelligence, nor indeed, any


    He had underestimated the value of friendship.


    "I''m¡­ sorry," Ferrian whispered so that only the wind heard his words. "Grisket, Sirannor¡­ help me. Please."


    He must have dozed off for awhile, for when Ferrian opened his eyes again, he could see clearly. The sun spilled over the mountains directly ahead of them, burning through a still-hazy sky. The air was warmer, too, he had stopped shivering and his clothes were finally beginning to dry out where beams of light fell upon them. Ferrian craned his head back as far as the Muron''s grip would allow, seeking a reprieve from the stink of it, trying to inhale the fresher, eucalyptus-scented air. He tried to avoid looking at the Muron. In the light of day, every sickening detail of the black creature that carried him was revealed, and it made him queasy. Flies buzzed around its ruined eye sockets. Its jaws were half-open, panting.


    The Muron walked relentlessly onwards, though its feet were beginning to drag in the leaf litter.


    This gave Ferrian a small measure of hope. It was weakening. If luck were with him, it would collapse before it reached its destination, and then he might be able to pry himself free. But for the moment, he found himself faced with a more immediate problem: he was desperately thirsty, and hungry. The lack of nourishment and bright light on his face was making him light-headed.


    Eventually, after swallowing back his fear several times, he resolved to try speaking with the creature.


    "Where¡­ where are you¡­ taking me?" he said hoarsely, wincing; talking was painful.


    To his relief, the Muron did not snap at him again. In fact, it ignored him completely.


    "I need¡­" Ferrian tried again.


    "You will¡­ tell¡­ them¡­" the Muron rasped suddenly.


    "W-what?" Ferrian stammered. "Who?"


    The Muron''s jaws worked up and down as though it, too, was having difficulty speaking. "My kindred."


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    Ferrian''s spine turned to ice again, despite the sun. "T-tell them what?" Ferrian replied. "I don''t know anything¡­"


    The Muron''s talons tightened around his throat, squeezing the breath from him as though it had a mind to snap his neck in two. Ferrian choked in fear, scrabbling futilely at the iron-like claws.


    It let him panic for a few moments, then loosened its grip, just enough to allow him to gasp for air. "You will tell them¡­ everything!" it hissed maliciously. "I will be¡­ avenged!"


    "I will never," he panted, "tell you or your foul kind anything!"


    Again, it squeezed his throat, so hard that he nearly blacked out. It rasped something in what Ferrian assumed was its own vile language, or it could have been clearing its throat for all he knew.


    But the sound it made after was unmistakably laughter.


    The sun drifted slowly higher overhead, brightening the world. The dampness of the land evaporated in ghostly wisps, like the souls of the earth coming out to play. The heavy fog that had stifled the coast the previous day was gone, blown away by the breeze. Only a few ragged clouds lingered, brooding watchfully over the sea to the west, as though waiting for the mysterious white light to call them back.


    Ferrian was beginning to feel ill. His hunger and thirst increased until they consumed his thoughts. His vision was blurry and he was having trouble staying conscious. Remembering how easily Aari had fallen sick and afraid of developing a fever, he forced himself to converse with the Muron again.


    "I¡­ need water," he croaked.


    The Muron ignored him.


    "Please¡­" He broke into a fit of coughing that was only partly faked. "I won''t¡­ survive for long without¡­ water and food. I''ll be of no use to you."


    The Muron made an unpleasant noise in its throat that Ferrian took to be a growl of disgust. It seemed to recognise the truth of his words, however, for it stopped and lifted its head, turning it slowly from side to side, apparently trying to locate something.


    Insects hummed in the warm silence. A few flies landed on Ferrian''s face and he brushed them away, thankful that at least his hands were free.


    Finally, the Muron turned slightly to the north and resumed walking.


    About a hundred yards farther on it stopped again and abruptly released Ferrian''s feet, dropping him to the ground. Its other hand remained firmly in place around his neck.


    In front of Ferrian was a tiny rain-gully filled with silty water and weeds. The Muron shoved his head into the water, forcing him to drink, but his face was completely submerged, he could not drink and breathe at the same time. He began to choke.


    Hearing the boy''s distress, the Muron lifted its arm a little, so that his head was just above the water. Still coughing and gasping, Ferrian scooped up the brown water in shaking hands, drinking as much as he was able. It was gritty and unpleasant, but he was so parched that he would have drunk anything.


    The Muron knelt by the gully and drank as well, lapping water in great gulps. It seemed just as dehydrated as he was. When it had finished, it did not get back up straight away. Instead, it rested on its haunches, panting, listening.


    Ferrian took the opportunity to rub his aching legs, cringing at the bruises left by the Muron''s claws. He pulled a handful of gum leaves off a branch hanging by his shoulder and crushed them in his hands. They would have made a good tea if he''d had the means to do so, but otherwise they were not particularly edible. He held them to his face and breathed deeply, their aroma helped to ease his dizziness a little.


    He glanced up at the Muron, his eyes wary silver glimmers beneath his dripping hair, wondering once again where it was taking him. Cimmeran had said that Lord Arzath had sent the Murons. Did it intend to cart him all the way back to its master''s castle on foot? He swallowed against his scratchy throat and decided to risk speaking again.


    "If you''re taking me back into the mountains, you''ll never make it," he told the Muron. "You''ll have to go through the Break, and there''s no forests to hide in there. Humans are passing through all the time and someone will see you. They''ll see you and kill you."


    The Muron turned its head towards him and Ferrian cringed, preparing himself to be throttled yet again. But the creature just regarded him silently with its empty black eye sockets.


    "I am not going to the mountainsss," it whispered.


    Ferrian watched the flies swarming over its face and looked away with a shudder. Uncertainty, like the insects, crawled through his mind. "Wh-where then?" he asked.


    The Muron''s lips curled back in a frightening sneer. "Wait and sssee!"


    Abruptly, it stood up, pulling the boy with it. As it made to grab his legs, Ferrian tried to squirm away, although his movements were severely limited by the Muron''s grasp. "I can walk on my own!" he insisted. "Unlike you, I''m not a cripple!"


    With a rapid movement, the Muron''s hand went to his face, instead. Ferrian gasped and shrank in terror as it positioned its vicious talons directly above his eyes, poised to pluck them out. "That can be changed ssso easssily¡­"


    It moved its grotesque face a breath from Ferrian''s. "Would you like to sssee what I sssee?" it whispered.


    Ferrian could not speak. He could not tear his gaze from the talons. The tips were so close to his irises that he dared not even blink.


    The Muron flexed its claws and caressed Ferrian''s face. He was forced to endure its chilling touch; he could not turn his head aside. "Sssuch falsse bravado is amusssing," the creature mused, "but will gain you nothing."


    With a sudden lurch, Ferrian was thrust ahead as the Muron started walking. He had no choice but to walk with it.


    Immediately, he regretted his decision: his legs were badly cramped and every step was agony. Inwardly, he cursed his pride. He was struggling to keep up with the Muron''s loping strides, but he knew that if he stumbled and fell, the creature would not stop to help him up.


    He was determined not to give it the pleasure of proving it was right.


    Ferrian wondered, as he was half-dragged, half-jogged at the Muron''s side, what would happen if the Winter showed itself again at this very moment. He wondered if, for once, there was actually a way to use it to his advantage.


    Specifically, he began to contemplate if he should try to summon it.


    intentionally


    It had not, of course. In spite of his efforts, it only seemed to be getting worse.


    He glanced down at his hands, picturing the moment he had first discovered the white light, nearly two weeks ago; such a short time, yet so distant. It had terrified him then; it still did, the cold bright glow that emanated from somewhere within his body¡­


    Was the Muron afraid of magic?


    There was no reason to believe the creature knew anything about his curse. He couldn''t remember having discussed it in any detail with anyone since they had encountered the Murons in the forest. He had not even told Cimmeran. If he could call forth a blinding flash of light unexpectedly¡­


    And then he remembered that the Muron was blind.


    He slumped, his hand dropping despondently to his side. Any thoughts of startling the Muron or distracting it with magic evaporated.


    He stared at the ground, so consumed with his thoughts that he nearly tripped over a tangle of roots. Still, he continued to puzzle over the idea, trying to think of any other way the Winter might be useful. Perhaps, he mused, he could take the summoning further and call back the storm? It might slow the Muron''s progress, buy him some time.


    But was it worth the effort?


    What was the price of attempting something so potentially dangerous?


    He sighed. He didn''t know if such a thing were possible, anyway, or how he would go about doing it even if it were. Best not to meddle with magic ¨C especially curses ¨C without being certain of the consequences.


    For a time, he let his thoughts wander to the sorcerer¡­ what had Cimmeran called him? Lord Requar. This man was the sole reason for Ferrian''s journey: to find a cure for the Winter. If he could just meet this sorcerer, everything would be all right.


    The reasonable part of his mind told him that such a hope was na?ve, but he refused to release his grip on it. Lord Requar was his only light in the darkness.


    He was still thinking about the likelihood of actually meeting him when the Muron collapsed.


    It happened completely without warning; they had just emerged from the forest and passed through a sunburnt field into a cool, dark stand of ti-trees, when the Muron buckled, releasing its grip on him and sending them both tumbling to the ground.


    Ferrian was so taken aback that for a moment he just lay where he had fallen, rubbing at his throat, gulping deep breaths of air, relieved that he was able to breathe properly for the first time in hours.


    Then it occurred to him that there was nothing preventing his escape. The Muron lay sprawled beside him on the bark-strewn ground, panting heavily, apparently too weak to get to its feet. Seizing the chance, Ferrian scrambled to his feet and turned to run¡­


    ¡­only to skid to a dead halt.


    Ferrian froze where he stood, eyes wide.


    The Muron on the ground did not get up to greet its fellows, or acknowledged them in any way. It continued to labour painfully for breath, its chest heaving, drooling weakly.


    The Muron closest to it looked down and growled something in its own language. When the crippled creature did not respond, it repeated the words in the common Human dialect. "Your call wasss weak," it hissed. "You are¡­ weak."


    "Brought¡­ him¡­" the crippled Muron whispered, its voice trailing off into an agonised whine.


    The Muron who had first spoken looked up at the boy, staring at him intently. Ferrian gasped and jumped as one of the others grabbed his tunic from behind. The first Muron glanced back at its wounded cousin and sneered. It reached down and picked the creature up by the neck, exactly the same way that Ferrian had been restrained.


    "A-avenge¡­ me¡­" the blind Muron whispered.


    The Muron appraised its injuries coldly. "You allowed Humansss to do thisss to you?" it said. "You are worsse than a weakling! You do not desserve vengeance! Did the boy tell you anything of value?"


    "No¡­"


    "That iss fortunate." Without another word, it took hold of the Muron''s upper jaw in one taloned hand, its lower jaw in the other, and twisted sharply.


    Ferrian looked quickly away, but could not avoid hearing the bones crack. He fought to keep from being sick.


    The Muron tossed the limp body aside and turned its attention back to the Human. It began to stalk towards him.


    Ferrian struggled, trying to rip out of his captor''s hold, but its talons were curled in his clothing too tightly. He tried not to glance at the advancing Muron''s claws, which glistened darkly.


    It paused before him and grabbed his arm, growled briefly at the others, then began walking again, pulling him after it so forcefully that he tripped and fell over. Terrifying snarling and crunching sounds erupted behind him as he was dragged out of the grove into the hot sunlight.


    The Muron dropped Ferrian in the dust and stood over him, a huge, imposing shadow against the blue sky. He tried to get up, but it stood on his hand. "Where iss the ssservant?" it demanded quietly.


    Ferrian closed his eyes and said nothing.


    The Muron shifted its weight and Ferrian cried out as pain lashed up his arm. "Cimmeran," the Muron said. "You know where he isss, don''t you? Tell me."


    Swallowing heavily and blinking back the tears in his eyes, Ferrian stammered: "N-no."


    Again, the Muron crushed his hand, this time so hard that Ferrian felt something break. "Tell me," it repeated.


    ! I don''t¡­ know any servant, I don''t know what y¨C"


    The Muron backhanded him across the face, slamming him to the ground. "Your liesss are worth lesss than your life, you wretched weakling fool!" it hissed. "You will tell me what I wisssh to know, or you will tell my massster!"


    Ferrian did not respond, so flooded with pain he could barely hear the creature''s words.


    The Muron snarled and spat in irritation. "Pitiful Human!" It snatched him up and tucked him under its arm. "Grayshak!" it barked at the grove. One of the Murons skulked out of the trees, licking its jaws.


    "I am returning to the casstle with the boy," the first Muron declared. "When you have finisshed feeding, continue the sssearch. Cimmeran iss closse now, very clossse, sssomewhere to the wesst. Kill whomever you pleasse, but be ssure the ssservant comess to no harm."


    When Grayshak had ducked his head in compliance, the Muron took at once to the sky.

 Chapter Thirty Five

    Eyes of stone and golden haunted


    Truth and terror now are cornered.


    The lantern flickered one final time¡­ and went out. Grisket cursed in the darkness. It was only a small emergency lamp, not designed for extended periods of use. The candle wick had burnt itself out.


    He straightened, buffeted by the wind, which was slowly dwindling into erratic bursts. Freezing showers of droplets rained down on him from the trees above. He squinted around himself. There was no hope in trying to strike a flame to any of the loose sticks or drenched foliage; he''d be there all night.


    He had lost his only source of light.


    Essentially, he had lost the trail.


    !" He peered into the darkness, watching, listening for anything that might give him a clue as to where the Muron might be, but could make out only vague, shifting shadows.


    Any of them could have been the black beast.


    "Ferrian!" he called again.


    No response.


    Grisket stood for a long moment, considering what to do. With a light to see by, he had been tracking the Muron easily, its prints were clear and the crushed undergrowth left a conspicuous trail. It wound about avoiding trees, but was heading generally eastwards, away from the highway. He wondered if he should continue in that direction, trusting that the Muron would keep on its selected course, but then quickly dismissed the idea. Without stars or moon to navigate and barely able to see his hand in front of his face, he would almost certainly lose his bearings. Worse, it was entirely possible the Muron might stop to rest and he could stumble right past it in the darkness, oblivious.


    He sighed in frustration. His only other choices then were to wait the night out here, or turn around and retrace his steps. At least then he would be certain he would eventually come out on the main road. Dawn was still several hours away. He could go back to the city and fetch some supplies, weapons and help, and return as quickly as possible to continue the search.


    The latter option seemed the most practical one but somehow, Grisket could not bring himself to abandon Ferrian to his fate, even for a short while.


    Their last conversation replayed itself painfully in his mind. Aari had of course been right: an annoying but heartening trait of his. Grisket should have been completely open with Ferrian from the beginning, should have told him the truth while they were back in Forthwhite in comfortable surroundings, when he was in a more reasonable state of mind. Instead, he had waited until the boy was cold, tired, wet and hungry, uncertain about his past and even less of his future. Any wonder he had reacted the way he did.


    Staring into the restless shadows, eyes hard and dark as the night, he decided that he would rescue Ferrian if he had to follow the blasted Muron to the door of the Dark World. He owed the boy that much, at least.


    I will not lose him.


    * * *


    Although it had been only an illusion, the memory of it flew after Sirannor like a murderous bird, attacking his skull until he thought it would shatter. Pain built inside him until it finally broke free of his body in a wrenching cry of anguish.


    Reining in his horse sharply, he dropped from the saddle, staggered a few steps and came up against the remains of a building; one hand resting on the wall, the other still clutching Hawk''s sword. He sagged back against the dusty stone, panting with the weight of his grief.


    Closing his eyes, he sank within himself, deeper and deeper until he wavered on the very edge of consciousness, where no intruding senses could reach him. He found there the still, silent place that he had trained himself to retreat to before entering any battle.


    There was a magnolia tree, huge and quiet, powerful and beautiful. The perfume of its giant blossoms soothed his chaotic emotions, roots spread down through his limbs, twining around his bones, lending him its strength. A child''s voice, sweet and sad, singing through the ancient grey branches washed Aari''s blood away and the Angel''s accusatory voice diminished into the silence of the sun.


    When Sirannor opened his eyes again, his thoughts were focused once more, clear and sharp as his blade. He returned to his horse, leapt astride and continued on.


    No wings, real or imaginary, followed after.


    A short while later, he rounded a corner, passed beneath a broken arch and found himself in a large, circular open space, filled with bright moonlight. A figure lay slumped on the white carpet of sand a dozen yards away.


    It was Hawk.


    Sirannor stopped and stared at the body for a moment, then dismounted cautiously, wary of further tricks. He walked towards Hawk slowly.


    Upon drawing closer, he saw that his friend was not injured or dead, as he had feared; but crying, sobbing his heart out into the sand.


    At once, the Captain knew, though he couldn''t explain why, that this was not an illusion.


    Quickly, he went to Hawk''s side and shook him. "Hawk!" he said.


    The soldier did not respond.


    "Hawk, get up!" he ordered.


    "C-Carmine¡­" Hawk wept.


    "She is not here!" Sirannor replied. "She was never here! Whatever you think you have experienced, it is not real! Look up."


    Hawk lifted his head, sand stuck to his face with tears, and looked hesitantly over his shoulder.


    The courtyard was empty, save for the Captain and himself.


    He pushed himself up into a sitting position. "W-what?" he stammered in bewilderment. He pointed to the bare stone dais in the centre of the courtyard. "There was¡­ there was¡­" He swallowed, decided that finishing the sentence was pointless and said instead: "She was here, she was real¡­ she kissed me! I felt her!"


    Sirannor shook his head. "You felt her because you wanted to," he explained softly. "Let me guess: you saw her die?"


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Oh¡­ Gods¡­" Hawk dropped his head into his gauntleted hands, shuddering. Sirannor placed a hand gently on his friend''s shoulder. "Carmine is safe," he reassured him.


    "What... what the hell is going on here?" Hawk asked when he finally lifted his head.


    The Captain stood up, his grey eyes slowly scanning their surroundings. "Something is playing with our minds," he replied quietly. "It reaches into our souls, tears out the darkest thoughts it can find and attacks us with them."


    "Why would¡­" Hawk began, then stopped as yet another figure came running frantically into the courtyard. It tripped and fell over in the sand, scrambled to its feet, then caught sight of Hawk and Sirannor and froze.


    Cimmeran.


    There was a split second in which the Captain and the servant''s eyes met, and then¡­


    Hawk leapt to his feet as quickly as he could, but the old man was frighteningly fast. Cimmeran let out a shrieking wail and tore off across the courtyard, but Sirannor was on him in seconds.


    !" Hawk cried desperately, running after them, but to his stunned relief, the servant was not yet dead. Sirannor had pinned him to the ground with his blade pressed hard against his throat.


    "Why?" Sirannor hissed. "WHY?!" His scream echoed off the silent shattered buildings.


    Hawk stopped and kept his distance, a chill passing through him at the sound.


    Cimmeran began to cry.


    "ANSWER ME!"


    "He¡­" Cimmeran choked, "he was d-dying a-any-way¡­"


    Blood appeared on Cimmeran''s neck as Sirannor''s sword cut into him. "You expect me to believe it was a mercy killing?" he spat. "Is that how you are justifying it to yourself, YOU PATHETIC LITTLE¡­?"


    "I¡­ no!" Cimmeran cried, tears streaming down his face. "I just¡­ I j-just wanted to be f-free!"


    "I thought¡­ I thought," Cimmeran sobbed, "that you w-wouldn''t need me any more if the Angel was g-gone¡­"


    "What are you talking about?"


    "What has the sorcerer got to do with¡­" Sirannor stopped suddenly, staring at the scrawny, frightened little man before him. Then, slowly, his expression began to change. The energy and rage seemed to drain out of him. He sank back on his haunches and his sword arm slackened, the blade slipping from the servant''s throat.


    "No¡­" he whispered in disbelief.


    Hawk watched them, puzzled. "I don''t understand¡­" he said.


    Sirannor seemed oblivious of his presence. He was still staring at Cimmeran, albeit now with a haunted expression. "The other sorcerer you told us of," he said slowly in a quiet, dark voice. "Lord Requar. He is a healer?"


    Cimmeran nodded his head jerkily.


    When Sirannor opened his eyes, they were cold steel. "We are looking for Lord Requar to help Ferrian, for he is cursed. You killed the wrong person, servant."


    Horror filled Cimmeran''s eyes. "No!" he wailed. "You didn''t tell me the truth!"


    ¡°


    Hawk gasped and Cimmeran screamed, but the blade stuck in the sand, an inch from his pale face. Still holding onto the sword, Sirannor leaned over until the servant was staring directly up into his eyes and could not fail to see the hatred glimmering there. "You killed one of my dearest friends, you bastard," he whispered. "But your death will not come by my hands." He straightened, reached into the pocket of his long coat and pulled out a length of cord. Then he kicked Cimmeran onto his stomach, yanked his hands behind his back and bound them.


    "W-what are you going to do with me?" Cimmeran whimpered.


    "I''m sure your master will be pleased to see you," Sirannor replied icily, tightening the cords with a vicious jerk.


    Immediately, Cimmeran began to struggle and scream, and when that proved ineffective, dissolved into pleading sobs. Sirannor ignored him, dragged him to his feet and retrieved Hawk''s sword, which he handed back to its owner.


    Hawk took it with a sombre nod of thanks. "Any idea how to get out of this bloody place?" he asked, re-sheathing the weapon at his side. "I rode for ages and couldn''t get anywhere. Except¡­ here, of course." Despite the Captain''s reassurance, he cast another anxious glance at the dais.


    "It should only be a matter of¡­"


    Hawk turned back. "Only a matter of what?"


    Sirannor did not reply.


    "Captain?"


    The Captain held his hand up quickly for silence, and hissed at Cimmeran to shut up. They all went still, listening.


    There was a sound, distant but unsettling, a strange crashing, clinking roar, like an avalanche of shattering glassware. It was continuous and getting steadily louder.


    Hawk spun, scything the courtyard with his gaze, but it was a frozen panorama. Nothing moved except Sirannor''s horse, which bolted into the ruins, spooked by the sound.


    Hawk fought a strong desire to do the same. "What the hell is that?" he said fearfully.


    Sirannor frowned, seemingly undecided, but said nothing. Cimmeran hung his head with a defeated look on his face, as though he didn''t care what was approaching, as long as it wasn''t a green-eyed, black-clad sorcerer.


    Then Hawk caught a glimpse of movement on the edge of the plaza. Something odd was happening to the ground. It was changing, becoming reflective ¨C the sand was melting into a solid, smooth surface, like a mirror¡­


    "Uh," Hawk said, taking an uneasy step backwards as the glassy stain flowed around the buildings and began to spread towards them, accompanied by the bizarre and now very loud shattering sound, "is this a good thing or a bad thing?"


    Sweeping around, he strode quickly towards the centre of the plaza, pulling an unresisting Cimmeran with him. Hawk hesitated, still rattled by the memory of the Dragon, but after taking another glance at the advancing mirror-stain, he swallowed back his fear and hurried after. "But¡­ it''s just an illusion, right?" he said as he caught up to Sirannor, trying to ignore his thundering heart. "It can''t hurt us, right? Y-you said nothing was real¡­"


    "That was what I believed, up until this point," Sirannor replied. "Now, I am not so certain¡­"


    "


    "This does not appear to be a direct manifestation of our fears, as the previous visions were," Sirannor explained, raising his voice slightly over the crashing sound, "unless any of us have a particular fear of mirrors?"


    When no one responded to that, he shook his head. "This is something different," he said darkly.


    "Thanks," Hawk said loudly. "That''s extremely reassuring, I''m glad I asked!" He glanced nervously over his shoulder, then quickened his pace to a jog. "It''s catching up!" he cried.


    The strange sound increased to a deafening roar, the glassy stain sweeping towards their feet like an incoming tide¡­


    ... the sound passed over them in a crash, and the glass slid beneath them¡­


    ¡­ and the mirror-stain continued towards the dais, eating up every last grain of white sand until the entire floor of the courtyard had been transformed into a great silver plain.


    The roar faded gradually and the Old Quarter once again watched and waited in deep silence.


    Sirannor, Hawk and Cimmeran had stopped, finding themselves seemingly suspended in the middle of an infinite starry expanse.


    "Well," Hawk said hesitantly as they all stared down at their reflections, "that¡­ that wasn''t so bad¡­"


    Sirannor''s expression, however, remained troubled. "Hmm¡­"


    The effect of the mirrored ground, if not outright terrifying, was certainly disconcerting. Hawk found that he was beginning to experience vertigo and looked up quickly, taking deep breaths. Cimmeran gazed at it deploringly as though hoping they would all fall into the heavens.


    "Alright," Hawk said after a moment, mentally steadying himself. "Let''s go. It''s only glass." He set out determinedly.


    Crack.


    He froze, and looked down.


    A thin, dark line was creeping outwards from his boot, cutting a jagged mark across his reflection. As he watched, more splinters appeared, branching out with small snapping sounds.


    ."


    No one needed any encouragement. Slowly and carefully, trying to tread as lightly as possible, they resumed walking towards the dais. The glass creaked ominously, each step sending a spider web of cracks crawling across the smooth mirrored surface.


    Then suddenly there came another distant roar, deeper pitched than the first and advancing much more quickly. The ground quivered with its approach, quickening the spread of the cracks.


    "Oh no¡­ " Hawk moaned. "I can''t handle any more of¨C"


    CRASH.


    One of the buildings on the perimeter of the plaza simply exploded. Bits of masonry flew outwards in all directions, smashing into the glass, glittering shards raining everywhere. Something massive came hurtling out of the dust cloud, bowling across the courtyard towards the three men, crushing the mirror to pieces in its wake.


    It was a gigantic stone ball.

 Chapter Thirty Six

    Winter, it seems, has come and passed


    Ride good sorcerer; ride fast!


    "Pleasant afternoon," a voice greeted amiably.


    Dogwyn turned a page in the book one-handedly, ignoring it.


    !"


    The Freeroamer glanced up, only to find himself staring down the bolt of the biggest crossbow he had ever seen.


    "Don''t¡­ move," Flint warned, watching him intently.


    Dogwyn had no intention of doing anything so foolish with such a fearsome weapon pointed directly at his face. He stared back at the stocky black-clad man, motionless.


    Then a fly took off from the top of his head and the crossbow turned quickly to follow it.


    Requar scowled at Flint. "Put that thing away before I confiscate it!" he said in annoyance. Flint glanced at him, saw from his expression that he meant every word, and lowered the Justifier sulkily, but his eyes continued to track the fly around the room.


    Dogwyn''s eyes travelled over the visitors. The one with the large hat and even larger crossbow was dressed in typical Bladeshifter fashion: worn black leathers with random bits of metal stitched inexpertly onto his jacket. The tall, graceful white-haired man beside him looked almost his exact opposite: finely dressed and extremely good-looking. It was difficult to determine his age; his features were youngish, but his transfixing blue eyes were like the midday sky hiding an infinite expanse of dark knowledge. They sent a faint chill through him and he quickly shifted his gaze. A long sword of exquisite craftsmanship was strapped to his back, over his beautiful but dusty blue cloak.


    Then the Freeroamer''s eyes found the third man.


    The book slipped out of his lap and fell to the floor, forgotten. His eyes widened, and for the first time, Dogwyn made a sound, albeit little more than a strained gasp.


    Nightwalker''s dark eyes narrowed beneath his fringe. "Freeroamer scum!" He spat on the desk.


    !"


    There came the unhurried clatter of hooves from the back corridor, and the door behind the desk opened. "What is¡­?"


    Lieutenant-Commander Cairan never finished his sentence. He halted, frozen on the threshold as though encountering an invisible barrier that he could not pass.


    actual  of the actual ! Can you believe that?!"


    Cairan did not respond. He was still standing with his hand on the doorknob, staring at the visitors. His eyes, however, were not fixed on Nightwalker.


    On both sides of the desk, Dogwyn and Flint looked between the Centaur and the sorcerer in confusion. The two looked as though they were daring each other not to blink.


    "Uh¡­ do you know this guy?" Dogwyn asked Cairan.


    he is."


    Flint sighed and rolled his eyes. "Here we go again," he muttered.


    "A sorcerer," Cairan elaborated darkly at Dogwyn''s quizzical look.


    The room fell completely silent, save for the drone of the insects outside and the sudden hiss of metal as the Constable''s blade slid free of its sheath. His expression had turned to anger and mistrust.


    "It''s a trap," he declared, taking a few steps backwards. "That''s not Nightwalker, he''s an imposter or an illusion!"


    "Oh, I''m real," Nightwalker sneered. "Why don''t you come a little closer and I''ll prove it to you?"


    Even Dogwyn, to his own surprise, dropped his sword with a clatter.


    "What is your name, sorcerer, and why have you come here?" Cairan demanded. He still would not move into the room.


    "My name is Lord Requar," Requar answered with a small bow. "As for what brings me here¡­" he gestured at Eltorian Nightwalker, "to deliver a much sought after criminal for safekeeping." He paused. "It is also my understanding that you have apprehended a mysterious young man said to bring Winter wherever he goes. Is this correct?"


    Cairan and Dogwyn looked stunned. They exchanged glances. "You are looking for¡­ Ferrian?" the Centaur asked.


    "I do not know what name he goes by. I have heard only of his unfortunate activities. He is thought, erroneously, to be a sorcerer¡­"


    "That''s him," Dogwyn said, going slightly pale. "He''s, uh¡­ he''s not here¡­"


    At Requar''s questioning look, Cairan continued: "He was here, but he left a little under a fortnight ago with Commander Trice and two other Freeroamers¡­" he hesitated. "To look for... you."


    This time, it was Flint and Requar''s turn to look astonished.


    ?"


    ?"


    Both Cairan and Dogwyn nodded.


    "Where," Requar inquired, apparently struggling to gather his thoughts, "have they gone?"


    Dogwyn swallowed, then replied: "They had no idea where to find a sorcerer, so they''ve gone to Crystaltina. Apparently, some scholar there knew where to find¡­ er, you.¡±


    Requar stared at him. "Crystaltina? You said they left almost two weeks ago?"


    "That is correct," Cairan replied.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Requar took a deep, steadying breath. "I must leave as soon as possible. Sir," he said, addressing the Centaur, "may I borrow a horse?"


    Cairan nodded anxiously. "Dogwyn, see to it."


    "Yes, sir." The Constable raced around the desk and disappeared out the front door into the blazing sun.


    Requar took a money pouch from inside his brocaded jacket, fished in it and placed a coin on the desk. "Insurance for the mount," he said.


    Cairan shook his head. "That is not necessary." His expression had softened significantly now that he had affirmed the sorcerer presented no threat. "You are helping my fellow Freeroamers, therefore we require no payment."


    "Consider it a donation to your cause, then," Requar replied.


    Cairan hesitated for a moment. Then, finally, he stepped forward and took the coin from the table. It was large and triangular, made of polished red stone with orange facets within that glittered like dying sunlight. A star-shaped hole was cut in the centre.


    He caught his breath. "This is¡­"


    Requar shook his head. "It is nothing."


    , Lord Requar. Thank you. Your generosity will not be forgotten."


    The basement of the Guard House had once been used as a wine cellar, but the Freeroamers had converted it into a small but sturdy prison. Six cells lined the north and south walls, each enclosed on three sides by solid stone and on the fourth by a row of heavy iron bars. Two narrow grated horizontal slits in the east wall let in a trickle of sunlight, but a single oil lantern hanging from the low, white stone ceiling provided most of the light.


    Beneath the light was a tiny rickety table, at which sat a young woman in Freeroamer garb, playing cards contentedly with herself. Her glossy blue-black hair was tied in stubby pigtails at the back of her neck and her features were beautifully Sirinese: large, slightly slanted, deep-sapphire eyes, a round, pixie-like face and smooth, dusky skin. The only other occupant of the prison, a grubby teenager, was snoring softly at the back of his cell.


    The Freeroamer looked up as the door opened and Lieutenant-Commander Cairan descended the stairs, which had been modified with wooden ramps to allow easier access for four-legged visitors.


    "Hey, LC," she greeted cheerfully.


    "Afternoon, Teska," the Centaur returned the welcome.


    "Who is it this time?" she sighed as the rest of the group entered behind him. "I''ve already got one of Middry''s sons in here on theft charges, I don''t need the other... oh my." Teska''s eyes widened as the prisoner was led into the light.


    Nightwalker grinned at her. "Are you my gaoler?" he asked. "This day just got a whole lot better."


    "It''ll get a whole lot worse if you don''t shut it," Flint growled, giving him a warning shove in the back.


    "That''s¡­" Teska began, staring at Nightwalker.


    "Yes," Cairan replied. "The keys, if you will."


    "Oh. Yes, of course," she apologised, tearing her eyes away from the leader of the Bladeshifters. Taking a ring of keys from her belt, she hurried over to a cell in the far corner. Nightwalker''s eyes never left her as he was herded into the cell.


    Cairan closed the door with a metallic squeal and waited until Teska had locked it before ordering the Bladeshifter to turn his back to the bars.


    He took a knife from his belt and cut Nightwalker''s bonds. Quick as a viper, the man''s arm whipped around and lunged at Cairan through the bars, but the Centaur dodged away. Giving Nightwalker a dark look, he backed away and re-sheathed his knife.


    "Be careful of him," he said quietly to Teska without taking his eyes off the Bladeshifter. "Do not come within arm''s length of his cell, for any reason. I shall deliver his meals myself. No visitors are permitted; no one is to enter this room save for you and I, and prisoners. This is how it will be until I can arrange transport for him to the royal prisons.


    "In the meanwhile, no doubt his gang will attempt a break-out when they have discovered where he is being held. I will post sentries around the Guard House and the town to watch for them." He glanced suspiciously at Flint.


    Flint spread his arms. "Don''t look at me, I''ve got nothin'' to do with those rotten dogs any more."


    Cairan looked at Requar for confirmation and the sorcerer hesitated before replying, slowly: "I would not go so far as to say Flint can be trusted, but he will not betray you on this matter. You have my personal assurance."


    The Centaur studied them for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. "I take it you divested him of all injurious belongings?"


    Requar nodded. "We searched him thoroughly."


    Requar raised an eyebrow. "Of course, carrying a siege weapon around on one''s back is completely different."


    Flint looked offended. "Completely!"


    "Hmm," Cairan murmured, rubbing his beard and scrutinising Nightwalker, who was leaning against the bars looking amused at the conversation. "Remove your boots," he ordered.


    Nightwalker gave him a withering look. "You''re not serious?"


    "Do it!"


    He rolled his eyes, sighing, but did as he was told, placing his boots neatly just outside his cell.


    "And your glove," Cairan added.


    Nightwalker reached his arm out of the cell. "Kinda hard with one hand," he said, smiling. "Someone wanna help me out?"


    Requar stepped forward. "Certainly," he offered, returning the Bladeshifter''s smile. Nightwalker withdrew his hand hastily, his smirk vanishing. "Never mind," he muttered. He manoeuvred his fingerless glove off with his teeth and tossed it through the bars. "Anything else?" he asked dryly.


    "Yes. Your shirt, please."


    Staring at Cairan, he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, exposing a lean, sleekly muscled torso. His right arm ended in a smooth stump just below the elbow, the flesh and skin healed over it so perfectly it was as though his lower arm had never existed. He dropped the shirt beside his boots.


    "I can keep going, if you like," he suggested, eyes glittering as he smirked at Teska, who simply stared back at him dispassionately.


    "That will do," Cairan growled.


    Nightwalker shrugged. "Suit yourselves," he yawned, retreating to the bench at the back of his cell and lying down with his hand behind his head.


    "I trust you," Cairan said apologetically to Requar and Flint, "but when dealing with one such as Eltorian Nightwalker, it is wise not to take any chances."


    The door at the top of the stairs opened. "Lord sorcerer, your horse is ready," Constable Dogwyn announced.


    Requar gave him a nod. "Thank you," he replied. He turned back to Cairan. "I am extremely grateful for your help, Lieutenant-Commander. I regret that my magic causes you distress¡­"


    But the Centaur had already extended his hand. Requar clasped it briefly, noticing the flinch that passed across the other''s features as he did so. Centaurs were exceptionally sensitive to magic; it must have taken a lot of willpower for Cairan to touch him.


    "I would like to apologise for everything you have ever heard about sorcerers," Requar told him. "Unfortunately, much of it is true..." He paused and closed his eyes for a moment. "But you needn''t worry. To my knowledge, there are no other sorcerers left alive save for myself."


    Cairan nodded slowly. "Understood," he replied. "May your journey be swift and safe."


    Requar nodded his thanks and turned to find Flint. The ex-Bladeshifter was standing by the table, chatting with Teska. The Justifier sat between them, gleaming in the lantern-light.


    The young woman was examining it in awed fascination. "What''s the draw weight?" she asked. "Six, seven hundred pounds?"


    "One thousand," Flint replied.


    ?! Wow!"


    ¡°Oh dear," Requar sighed, "don''t encourage him¡­"


    "I want one!"


    Flint laughed. "I bet you couldn''t even draw it!"


    Teska gave him a fiercely defiant look. She straightened, putting her hands on her hips. "How much, ''shifter boy?"


    Flint coughed. "Get real."


    "Six javens."


    "Three."


    "Four."


    "Deal!"


    Flint took a bolt from his quiver and set it in position. Teska pushed her sleeves up her slender arms and took a firm hold of the winch handle. Flint stepped back, folded his arms and watched in amusement.


    Teska pulled with all her might. Requar made a small, circular gesture with his hand, concealing the movement by pretending to lift his arm to scratch his chin. The winch mechanism turned over smoothly and the huge bolt slid easily back in its groove, clicking neatly into place against the pin.


    Teska released the handle, beaming. She stuck out her hand and wiggled her fingers.


    Flint gaped. "No way!" He peered at the perfectly-loaded Justifier and the table incredulously, trying to discern if it had been some sort of trick. Then he paused and looked up at Lord Requar, his eyes narrowing.


    The sorcerer was examining the lantern hanging over the table with intense interest.


    Scowling, Flint pulled out his money pouch and slapped four green coins in the Freeroamer''s waiting palm. Teska gave him a bright smile and a small dance, and went to talk to Cairan, who was checking Nightwalker''s belongings for weapons and lockpicking devices.


    without help.


    Flint looked startled, as though he had completely forgotten their agreement. "Oh," he said. "Er¡­ right." He took the hand quickly and shook it.


    For a moment, they both fell into an awkward silence, neither quite knowing what to say. All thanks and apologies had already been spoken. Finally, Requar placed a hand on Flint''s shoulder, nodded at the Justifier and said: "Be good."


    Then he turned, strode quickly up the ramp and was gone.


    Staring at the open doorway, Starshadow Flint couldn''t explain the heavy feeling in his heart.


    The Freeroamers had provided Requar with a good horse. She was swift as sunlight as she tore down the steep, leaf-dappled streets of Forthwhite, startling many of its residents along the way. Finally, the white mare galloped out onto the vast, shimmering Arlen Plains and her strides lengthened. Her rider''s blue cloak and white hair billowed out behind him.


    The sound of distant thunder caused the sorcerer to glance over his shoulder, then rein in his horse in a swirl of dust.


    Another rider pounded across the plain, flying to catch up. It drew to a halt beside him.


    "Decided to head west for awhile," Flint said gruffly. "Y''know, check out the Coastlands. Never been to Sunsee. I''ve heard that it''s¡­ I''ve heard, um¡­ I''ve heard of it!"


    Requar grinned.


    "So, let''s get goin''!" Flint yelled, spurring on his horse. "Winter waits for no man!"


    "Neither," Requar called back as his own mount charged past in a snowy streak, "do I!"

 Chapter Thirty Seven

    Tunnel straight, tunnel long


    Touch a dream and all goes wrong.


    Nothing with less than six legs had walked down here for a very, very long time.


    It was the tunnel beneath the river ¨C the one that connected the bluffs and hence, Arzath''s castle to Requar''s.


    Arzath checked his bearings on a small golden compass. He had brought a map with him as well, but this tunnel was not marked on it. He had discovered it by pure luck: searching one of the dusty, little-used passageways near the dungeons, he noticed a broken flagstone in the middle of the floor, caving slightly downwards like a shallow bowl. He almost dismissed it as movement of the keep''s foundations, except that none of the other stones were damaged and the odd formation of the crack seemed to suggest a hollow space beneath. Further investigation (a violent jab with the butt of his torch) confirmed his suspicions.


    When he saw what lay below, he was thankful he hadn''t stepped on it and broken his neck as well: a set of very steep, almost ladder-like stone steps plunging down a narrow slanted shaft of indeterminate depth. Deep enough to be filled to the brim with blackness, thick and suffocating.


    It had taken him quite a while to descend the stairs, taking extra care due to his fragile condition. He needed both hands to brace himself on the walls, so he threw his torch down to the bottom, where it sent up a dim glow to light his way. Hope and exhilaration lent him strength.


    He knew at once that the passage he had uncovered was not part of his own construction. The rock here was too old and rough-hewn, not the smooth obsidian that he favoured. The tunnel at the bottom of the stairs was wrapped in cobwebs thick as veils, but his torch made short work of them. As he wound steadily downward, the tunnel grew damper and cooler and the cobwebs changed into green and sickly yellow moss, until it finally levelled out to his current location.


    The passage he faced now, despite its decay, was straight and flat, leading directly eastwards. There could be no doubt as to its purpose.


    Exceedingly pleased with himself, Arzath stuffed the compass and map back in his pocket and set out, leaning on his torch, picking his way carefully over the slime-slick stones. Somewhere ahead, he could hear the regular thudding footsteps of the Grik minion he had ordered along to use as trap bait. So far, no bloodcurdling shrieks had come echoing back. Nor had he experienced any uncanny sounds or blinding visions. All were promising signs.


    Nevertheless, he fastidiously scanned the tunnel walls, floor and ceiling: squinting through moss, gently rolling stones aside with his boot, alert for any hidden runes or odd markings that might indicate spells. He did encounter a few of these, as it happened. Each time, he froze for long minutes, studying them suspiciously, before finally recognising them (with great relief) as his own. All were inactive, of course, having died along with his castle-shield and the rest of his magic.


    Ironically, a part of him was grateful for this small detail. Without magic, such spells ¨C even his own ¨C would not have been easy or pleasant to negotiate.


    , he was about to invade it for the first time, break it open, free to roam its corridors, uncover its secrets¡­ and destroy it.


    Destroying Requar''s castle would almost be as satisfying as destroying the man himself. Perhaps even more so, Arzath mused. The expression on his face would be priceless¡­


    He stopped abruptly. The Grik was sprawled on the floor in front of him, as though it had tripped over backwards: either that or it was attempting to take a quick nap. The creature did not appear to be injured. It blinked up at him dumbly.


    Arzath glared back, about to try some torch-based persuasion when the Grik rolled over and got to its feet. It stood staring away from him, into the darkness of the corridor. Then it began jogging ponderously forward.


    Arzath watched it in annoyance, eyes narrowed; he was in no mood for nonsense, and then something in his brain clicked in recognition¡­


    "No!" he cried.


    Too late.


    The Grik encountered an invisible barrier and was flung back to the ground with a tremendous shudder, cracking the flagstones where it impacted. In the middle of the corridor, the air shimmered like water.


    Arzath stood transfixed with horror.


    Unfazed by the obstruction, the Grik laboured to its feet again and, with mindless stupidity, repeated its action. Again, it was thrown back, ripples spreading through the air, lapping the against the walls of the corridor.


    Every single blow was making a dent in Requar''s consciousness. The Grik was practically banging on his skull¡­


    Requar was too resourceful, too astute.


    no way in!


    Requar inhaled a sharp breath, grabbing his head as though something had struck it.


    Flint sat up in alarm, Justifier in hand, glancing around. "What?! What''s happened?"


    He got no response. The sorcerer''s head was lowered, hands pressed against his temples. His eyes were open, though empty of life, and he had gone very still.


    Flint slowly relaxed, chucking his crossbow back on the grass. "Oh," he mumbled. "That again."


    He watched curiously for awhile, snapped his fingers in front of Requar''s eyes to make sure, then finally shrugged. With great care, he eased the sorcerer''s satchel out of his lap. Rummaging around in it, he found some dried apricots. As he pulled them out, his fingers brushed against something hard and smooth. Looking more closely, he saw that it glinted dully in the depths of the satchel.


    With a quick glance at Requar to be certain he was still entranced, he pulled it out.


    It was a round pocket case or large locket on a gold chain, hinged on one side. The edges were decorated with gold and the lid was inlaid beautifully with three precious materials: mother of pearl, onyx and silver. They were cut into curled slivers that fit together into a spiral.


    Flint ran his thumb over the case, mesmerised by its beauty, then carefully opened it. Inside were two portraits, the parchment yellowed and the ink brown with age. He recognised the first one instantly from Requar''s description and had to suppress a gasp: she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. She had Requar''s eyes and long white hair, but she looked happier and more carefree than her son ever had, and she was smiling. Flint could only imagine what she might have been like in real life. Then he remembered what had become of her, and he shivered inwardly and swallowed.


    The second portrait depicted a brooding young man. His features also bore a resemblance to Requar''s, except sharper, eyebrows slanted in a look of disdain, and hair black as the chip of onyx on the lid. He was attractive, too, in a dark, dangerous sort of way.


    Whatever the reason, Flint slipped it back in the satchel, though not without regret. "So, what... what was that about?" he inquired, trying not to think about how much the portrait case would fetch at the markets.


    Requar looked up and frowned, his eyes still a little distant.


    Flint stuffed an apricot into his mouth. ¡°Something wrong?¡±


    Requar''s look of anxiety deepened. "It was just a Grik, making a concerted effort to break through my castle-shield. But¡­ something seemed wrong. For a moment, I thought¡­ I was sure I could see¡­" he trailed off, seemingly lost for words. Then he shook his head dismissively, his expression clearing. "No¡­ no, it doesn''t matter."


    But a tiny flicker of doubt remained deep in his eyes.


    * * *


    Hawk''s curse was drowned out by the bone-jarring thunder of the ball''s approach. Disregarding the cracking glass, all three of them sprinted for the dais.


    The ball bore down on them, unstoppable.


    Five yards from the dais, the glass gave way beneath Hawk''s steel-plated boot and he stumbled, falling to one knee, cursing again.


    Sirannor abandoned Cimmeran and lunged back at Hawk, grabbing his arm and yanking him to his feet. "I''m right!" Hawk yelled, half in protest, half in panic. "Go, go!"


    Sirannor ignored him, practically dragging the younger man after him. The mirrored ground splintered beneath both their feet, making their footing difficult and deadly. Stumbling and staggering on the razor shards, trying not to fall, knowing that one more hesitation would be fatal, they charged towards the dais.


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    It occurred to Hawk, fleetingly through his terror, that the worn old stone platform didn''t offer much protection from anything, but it was too late to wonder whether they had made the right decision. All he could do was follow Sirannor and trust his instincts blindly.


    But the glass was crunching behind them like bones, the ball was coming too fast¡­


    We''re going to be flattened!


    And then they threw themselves onto the dais, a bare second before the speeding mass of stone crashed into the platform behind them.


    Then, suddenly, there was silence.


    After a few seconds, they lifted their heads tentatively. The ball had come to rest in the great crumpled dent it had smashed into the dais. It loomed over them, smooth and pitted and dark grey like ancient granite. It was at least twenty feet in diameter.


    "Hellfire," Hawk gasped when he could breathe again. He felt as though every bone in his body was still reverberating with the impact.


    Beside him, Captain Sirannor climbed slowly to his feet and looked up at the ball.


    "Is that¡­ an illusion?" Hawk asked weakly, after a few moments.


    Sirannor did not reply, just studied the ball as though it were a fascinating exhibit in a museum. Without taking his eyes off it, the Captain held out his hand and snapped his fingers, indicating that he wished to borrow Hawk''s sword again.


    The soldier got to his feet and handed it over obediently, so shaken he nearly dropped it. Sirannor stepped up to the curved wall of stone and tapped it firmly with the blade.


    It made a ringing sound: apparently quite solid.


    "Hmm," Sirannor murmured.


    " ''Hmm'' is not a good answer when you might be about to die."


    "Few answers are," Sirannor commented. "But we are not about to die. At least," he added, "not if we keep our heads together." He handed Hawk back his sword, glancing darkly at Cimmeran as he said this. The servant was curled up in the middle of the dais, whispering to himself. The words were indistinguishable. Hawk was sure he would have had his arms wrapped over his head if they hadn''t been bound behind his back.


    "So, uh," Hawk said quickly, to keep the older man''s mind off the servant. "So, this ball¡­ is it real, or isn''t it? And what about all that¨C" he gestured at the cracking mirror.


    As though his gesture had been a catalyst, the mirror shattered.


    It happened so suddenly that both Hawk and Sirannor ducked instinctively then stared in shock at what was occurring.


    It was as though the whole huge courtyard had been picked up and dropped; plates of glass, thousands of them, some big as roofs, some small as fingernails, flung skywards in a spectacular, sparkling, razor-edged reverse rain.


    Then every single piece crashed back down to the ground.


    Hawk waited until the glass had finally settled and the last chinking echoes had died away. Then he took his hands from his head and said to Sirannor, angrily: "Why is this city trying to kill us?!"


    Sirannor, still unfazed, picked up a piece of glass from the dais, examined it and tapped it experimentally on the floor. "I don''t believe it is trying to kill us," he replied. "It is trying to scare us. At least," he added, "for the moment."


    "Well, it''s working!" Hawk snapped, frustrated by the oddness and his own fear and Sirannor''s ineffable patience. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then continued, more levelly: "But why?"


    "It is feeding on our fear. The more fear it can generate, the more powerful it grows and hence, the more real and dangerous its illusions become."


    They fell silent, mulling the idea over. "Are you saying," Hawk surmised, "that these... visions, manifestations, will only hurt us if we''re afraid of them?"


    Sirannor remained silent for a moment before replying: "That is¡­ my theory, yes."


    Hawk gave him an apprehensive look. "You don''t sound very certain."


    Sirannor''s smile was thin. "One can never be both certain and right," he replied.


    "Odd," Sirannor murmured.


    Hawk looked up. "What is?" he asked, glancing around. "Um, apart from the obvious¡­"


    The Captain pointed at the sky.


    Hawk peered upwards, somewhat anxiously, in case something was about to drop on his head. All he saw, however, was a vast wash of glittering stars and the moon, low on the horizon almost exactly opposite them, just left of the old magic school. "Er," he said uncertainly. "What am I looking for?"


    "The stars," Sirannor replied. "And the moon. They have changed position."


    "Isn''t that what they''re supposed to do?"


    "Exactly." At Hawk''s uncomprehending frown, Sirannor explained: "When we first came into the Old Quarter, while we were gallivanting around chasing each other, the sky was static. Now, it appears to have returned to normal."


    "What does that mean?"


    "That the sun will come up in an hour or so."


    Hawk brightened. "Do you think this nightmare will fade with the dawn?" He vaguely recalled something about monsters dying in daylight, trying to ignore the sneaking suspicion that he''d read this in a storybook as a young child.


    "A nice thought," Sirannor replied, but didn''t elaborate.


    A few feet away, Cimmeran had not moved from his curled position, his back and bound hands facing them. His mutterings had turned into quiet sobs for awhile, and then he had fallen silent, probably sensing Sirannor''s deadly stare on his back. He had made no attempt to escape since his capture. Apparently, he had resigned himself to his fate.


    Hawk felt a curious, morbid pity for the servant. Anyone who thought they could set themselves free by murdering someone couldn''t be quite right in the head.


    He stared at the man, musing for awhile, then got up, tossed his piece of glass back onto the shattered field, moved over to Cimmeran and sat down beside him. He was silent for a few moments more, then asked, quietly: "Why''d you kill the Angel?"


    Cimmeran remained motionless, staring at nothing. "I''ve already told you," he whispered.


    Hawk gave him a hard look. "You must have known that Sirannor would come after you. How far did you think you were going to get? Did you honestly think that murder would solve anything? Are you really that stupid?"


    The servant''s eyes shimmered. "He would have come after me anyway," he replied. "Someone is always after me. Always chasing me, always trying to hurt me. It makes no difference."


    "It makes a difference when you kill somebody!" Hawk said angrily.


    Cimmeran''s lip quivered. "I d-didn''t want to kill him¡­"


    "Then what made you do it? What did Aari''Zan ever do to you?"


    !" He began to sob again.


    Hawk glared at him in disgust. "Your master really messed with your head, didn''t he?"


    "He¡­ " Cimmeran choked on his sobs, "he tortured me. He stole my memories and¡­ something else¡­"


    "What else?" Hawk asked.


    "I don''t remember! I only remember the pain and the f-fear and the hate!"


    Hawk quit his interrogation, chilled by the servant''s words. Cimmeran continued to cry, his tears dripping onto the stone dais.


    "I can''t stop Captain Sirannor from taking you back to your master," he said eventually, "and frankly I wouldn''t try even if I could." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, pinning the servant with his sharp brown eyes, and lowered his voice. "But if you want to stay alive, if you want any chance, ever again, of convincing anyone that you''re more than a piece of filth to be kicked into the gutter and trodden on, you''ll not cause trouble. The Captain has fought a lot of battles and been cut by many blades, but none of them ever deeper than your knife. I''ve never seen him more angry or grief-stricken than what you''ve done to him this night. If he''s forced to kill you, that''s a little more blood on his hands. A little more blood that he doesn''t need."


    He held his stare until satisfied that Cimmeran had got the message, then stood and returned to the stone ball, shaking his head at nothing in particular. He clasped his hands on top of his head and cricked his neck back to look at the stars.


    "You are a good man, Devandar Hawk," Sirannor said quietly. "I could not have wished for a better husband for my daughter."


    Hawk nearly fell over. His hand shot out to steady himself on the ball. He gaped at Sirannor in astonishment. "Wh-what? You, how, what?" he spluttered.


    "Carmine told me," Sirannor replied without glancing at him.


    "She¡­ what?" Hawk let himself sink into a crouch, not trusting his legs. "But¡­ but, I thought¡­I thought you never read her letters? I would''ve... I would''ve told y-you," his speech dissolved into a stammer, becoming awkward as he always did when talking about personal matters. "But, she, um, she wanted to t-tell you herself¡­"


    Sirannor nodded. "I understand."


    Hawk continued to stare at his former lieutenant as though not quite believing that he had taken the news so well. "You don''t mind that she''s marrying a soldier?" he pressed, slightly warily. "One that trained under your command?"


    "You are a better man than I," was Sirannor''s simple reply.


    Hawk didn''t know what to say. He slumped back against the ball. "You really read her letters?" he asked after a long pause.


    "Every one."


    Another pause.


    "But you never reply? Car thinks you''re deliberately ignoring her."


    "I am. Yet, she continues to send them. And I continue to read."


    The young soldier stared down at his gauntlets. The silence between the two had suddenly become tense, stretched out like a slingshot poised to flick back on Hawk. The unasked question hung in its midst. He took a slow, deep breath and threw caution to the night sky. "I know it''s¡­ eh, none of my business, but¡­ why? Did you two have some kind of falling out?"


    To his surprise, there was a glint in Sirannor''s eyes, like the beginning of tears. He turned aside from Hawk, very subtly, just enough so that his eyes were shadowed by the fall of his hair. "No." His voice was barely a whisper. "Not exactly. I have not spoken to my daughter since she was a young child."


    Hawk noticed the muscles of Sirannor''s right bicep shift beneath his coat, his lean, weathered hand clenching and unclenching. Hawk sensed he was wandering into dark, uncharted territory, possibly about to stumble onto something very unpleasant with what he was about to say, but he forged ahead anyway.


    "I think I know why," he said quietly. "You have regrets. You''ve done things you''re not proud of and you don''t want your daughter following your example lest she become haunted by the same self-condemnation.


    ¡°


    ¡°Instead of being proud that your daughter has inherited your incredible determination and spirit and skill, you deny her her right to fulfil her dream of becoming a soldier. In fact, you don''t want her to have anything to do with the Middle Isle at all: that''s why I was so surprised that you gave me your blessing.


    "Is it the obvious dangers you''re worried about: war, Dragons? Military secrets? Or is it something else, something from your own past that you''re keeping from her, afraid she''ll find out?"


    Hawk took a courageous breath. "I think," he said finally, "that you avoid Carmine because you''re ashamed to be her role-model ¨C maybe even her father."


    Sirannor''s eyes were like slate: expression inscrutable. He said nothing in response, however, just stared at Hawk. He stared for so long that Hawk looked away, embarrassed. "Sorry, Captain," he apologised. "Out of line."


    "You are more shrewd than I give you credit for," Sirannor said finally. He let out a long sigh, and for a second it seemed that he flinched, though Hawk suspected it was not the wound in his shoulder that gave him pain.


    , let alone my own daughter, for they lead to a dark and lonely place."


    He paused for a moment, closing his eyes against his thoughts. "It is true that I have used my influence to prevent Carmine from going to the Middle Isle. There are too many dangers there; it is a place that eats lives."


    Hawk regarded him quizzically. "Well, I work there and I''m not screwed up," he pointed out frankly. "Er¡­ I think."


    Hawk shook his head in confusion. "I don''t understand. You''re trying to protect Carmine, yet at the same time you want nothing to do with her? Captain, that doesn''t make sense."


    "It is¡­ complicated."


    "Then explain it to me."


    Sirannor looked at him carefully. "If I explain it to you¡­ then you must tell Carmine. All of it. I will not have the man my daughter loves keeping secrets from her."


    "Why don''t you tell her yourself?"


    "I cannot."


    "If I can, then you can."


    ," Sirannor insisted, his smile gone now, eyes darkening like a gathering storm, "I cannot. If you wish to know about my past, you must be prepared to accept my terms for it."


    Hawk fell silent and looked away, staring at the surreal shattered glass-scape glittering in the moonlight, and the silhouetted ruins beyond. Windows like black eyes stared back, many of them, surrounding the courtyard like silent watchers, listening to their conversation. Whatever it was that messed with their minds was still out there: Hawk was certain it hadn''t given up. Perhaps it was waiting to see what they would do next. The moon had almost disappeared behind what had once been the SOMS belltower.


    He turned back to the Captain and nodded. "I will tell Carmine everything you reveal to me, whatever it may be." He swallowed. "You have my word."


    Sirannor regarded him a moment. Then he sat back slowly and closed his eyes. "So be it," he whispered.

 Chapter Thirty Eight

    In blood a daughter born but steel


    Cannot replace the need to feel.


    "I never wanted a daughter," Sirannor began in a quiet voice. "Or a family, or a lover. I never wanted anyone. At times, I even despised my own company. But life has a way of finding all the things you do not want and forcing them into your hands, regardless. So it was with me.


    "I was brought up to care about nothing but my sword. A piece of metal and how much enemy blood I could coat with it, that was the only thing that mattered. My father had been a general in the Darorian army until he was forced to retire when he was severely crippled. Not by battle or accident, but a terrible act of nature: one of the volcanoes on the Middle Isle exploded, flooding his encampment with molten magma. Both of his legs and one of his arms were seared off. He survived, somehow, but was left irrevocably scarred with bitterness and anger. This was not how he wanted to be remembered, and he passed that resentfulness on to me.


    "I took that virulence, too young to understand what it meant or make my own choices, and turned it into coldness. As I honed my fighting skills in sunlight and moonlight, storm and dust, I fought not my swordmaster, but instead my own weaknesses and one by one, I destroyed them, determined that they would not distract me from my destiny. When my mother died, I did not weep. When my father passed away, I sat cleaning my sword in my room rather than attend his funeral. By the time my adult years were fully upon me, I had forgotten how to love.


    "And then¡­ I met Sereth."


    Sirannor paused, eyes closed. He was silent for so long that Hawk began to wonder whether he had changed his mind about talking. But then, finally he continued.


    "I was on mainland leave, wandering down the main street of Sunsee, rather irritated as I did not like to be away from the war for too long. The Middle Isle was my home: I lived drenched in its red glow day after day. The air here in the city was too clean and cool, the stars too brightly white, too perfect. I missed the ever-present scent of danger.


    "She was standing in the middle of the road, staring at me. People often stared at me; my blade skills and personality were earning me a reputation. I ignored her, entering a tavern. As usual, the whole place went silent. More stares. Most avoided my eyes, except for a few of the younger lads, who whispered amongst themselves and tried to catch the gaze of the blond-haired, steel-eyed warrior they had heard so much about. I ignored them, as well; they were not fighting men and therefore not worthy of my attention.


    "I sat at the bar, drinking only water, disdaining any substance that would dull or impair my judgement. Even on safe ground, I preferred to keep my wits on a razor sharp edge at all times. Rather, I came to the tavern to think and to listen, finding the idle chatter of the other patrons curiously comforting, much like finches twittering in a garden.


    "Late in the night, I got up and left, noticing that the young woman was still there, still standing in the moonlit street, in exactly the same place I had last seen her. Still watching me.


    "I paused outside the tavern door, demanding to know what she wanted, my annoyance growing again.


    "She looked startled that I had addressed her, but softly, hesitantly, she replied: ''They say you''ve never cared about anyone. Is that really true?''


    "I stared at her. ''You waited out here all night to ask me that?''


    "She looked down at her hands, embarrassed. ''Um¡­ no.'' She glanced around suddenly, nervously, tugging her shawl tighter around her throat, and came forward a few steps. ''Captain Vandaris¡­''


    " ''Stop wasting my time,'' I told her, and began to walk away.


    " ''No, please¡­ wait!'' " She hurried after me, stopping abruptly as I turned. She looked quite pale and frightened in the moonlight. ''I have something I must tell you,'' she said quickly. She kept looking over her shoulder as though afraid that someone was watching her. ''Please¡­ please listen," she begged.


    "I studied her. She was very pretty, a slender little thing in a pale blue blouse with slitted sleeves and a double-layered skirt with silver embroidery glittering along the bottom hem. Her hair was pulled back in a white lace scarf, a few long, curled strands falling in front of her childlike face. Her eyes were soft, dark and intelligent.


    "Something about her presence, or her face or her voice held my eyes to her. And a feeling I thought I had long since obliterated struck me, shockingly, unexpectedly, as though this girl had impaled me with an invisible sword. I pulled it out hastily, refusing to acknowledge the damage it had done, and waited to hear what she had to say.


    "Having gained my attention, she took a deep breath, composed herself and continued: ''General Myer is becoming increasingly anxious of your ambition to succeed him. He is jealous of your fighting skills and frightened of your intelligence and ruthlessness. He is aware of your family history and worries that you might be¡­ becoming impatient. He truly believes that you are¡­ that you are capable of anything¡­'' She hesitated, glancing once again into the shadows cloaking the street. Then she looked up into my face and whispered: ''So he has hired an assassin to kill you.''


    "I took this news in silence, running it over carefully in my mind. It was not the first assassination plot against me and most likely would not be the last. ''How did you come by this information?'' I inquired.


    " ''I¡­'' She lowered her gaze again, and swallowed. ''I am General Myer''s daughter. I overheard a conversation that I was not supposed to hear. I took a great risk in coming to you. My father would be very angry if he found out.''


    "I inclined my head slightly in scepticism. ''Then why would you betray him?''


    " ''Because I do not want you to be hurt.''


    " ''Why should you care what happens to me?''


    " ''Because¡­ because I can.'' Lifting her head, she held my stare for longer than anyone ever had before. Something deep and strange glittered in her eyes, and again I felt the sword pierce my heart. ''Safe night, Captain Vandaris,'' she whispered, and turned to leave.


    " ''What is your name?'' I asked suddenly.


    "She stopped, but did not turn around. ''Sereth,'' she replied. Then she ran from me, and was quickly lost in the darkness.


    "Sereth''s warning proved well-timed, for the assassin was waiting for me behind the line of poplar trees opposite the military compound wall. He was good: even with all my senses alert I almost reacted too late. As it was, my parry was clumsy, but the assassin did not get the chance to take advantage of it: he was dead a moment later.


    "Good, I thought, but not good enough. I was disappointed that there hadn''t been more of a fight.


    "Then, unbidden, an image of Sereth came to my mind.


    "I could not sleep that night, and it had nothing to do with my literal brush with death." He shook his head slowly. "I could not work out why someone as beautiful and soft-hearted as her could have come to care for someone as insensitive as me. Why had she warned me? Why had she asked if I cared for anyone?


    "I refused to believe the obvious answer, choosing instead to forget I had ever seen her.


    "Two days later, in the midst of a heavy downpour, I was walking quickly through the streets, heading for the docks. I sought to return to the Isle early, feeling that I was accomplishing nothing loitering in the city. A part of me also hoped that by resuming my duties, I might drown out the sound of Sereth''s quiet voice, which, despite my resolve, I could not seem to banish from my mind.


    "Consumed with these thoughts, I slipped into an alley. A figure crouched there, drenched and shivering against the wall. I passed without interest, reaching the end of the alleyway before one tiny detail registered in my memory: a scrap of white lace, peeking out from beneath the figure''s hood.


    "I froze, then turned and strode back to the hunched form, grabbing her chin, forcing her face up to look at me.


    "Sereth gasped and stared back, terrified. Her face was wet with more than rain, one eye swelling badly beneath an ugly bruise. Neither of us spoke; no words were necessary. Each of us could see the truth in the other''s eyes.


    "A dark cloud came over my vision. The rain seemed louder, the shadows deeper, Sereth''s fragile, beaten face ghostly. I stood up slowly, staring down at her, a quiet fury building in my chest.


    "Without a word, I headed back up the alley.


    "Behind me, the young woman scrambled to her feet, ran after me and clutched my arm. ''No!'' she cried. ''Don''t hurt him! Don''t hurt my father!''


    " ''He is no father!'' I snarled.


    " ''I must,'' I replied coldly.


    " ''Why?''


    "I stared her in the eye. ''Because I can.''


    "We looked at each other for a long moment. ''You do care,'' she whispered.


    "A wash of rain blew over us from the street, pattering on my armour, dripping off Sereth''s hair. My gut twisted at the sight of her. ''I will not kill him,'' I said finally.


    "Then I walked away.


    "True to my word, I did not murder General Myer, though I do not deny that it would have given me pleasure to do so. Instead, I cut off his hands, so that he could never again raise them in an act of barbaric cruelty against an innocent person.


    "No one in the army, save my victim, knew that it was I who had committed this deed, though some suspected. General Myer did not dare speak the truth to anyone, lest he lose his head as well.


    "I remained on the Isle for awhile, but something inside me seemed to have changed. I did not find peace, as I had wished. The memories of my encounters with Sereth replayed themselves over and over in my head with disturbing frequency. I found myself taking the image of her face, before it had been marred, and holding it in my vision, admiring it from every angle as though it was a precious gem. I looked at my sword, seeking strength from its hard cold metal, but it did not seem to fit in with my thoughts of Sereth. I felt unbalanced, unfocused, as though I were being pulled in opposite directions at once.


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    "Slowly, I could feel myself being torn apart.


    "I was horrified at these newfound feelings for I did not understand them and worse, could not control them, though I desperately tried. I became reckless and irritable, throwing myself into every conflict, large or small, and ended up inflaming them. I trained with furious determination, though no one would spar with me as I took duels as though each one was a personal vendetta.


    "Eventually, I resolved that I had to go back. I had to see her again.


    "My commanding officer was glad to grant me leave, he was becoming tired of my attitude. So I boarded a ship and returned to Sunsee. I discovered that Sereth lived in the South Quarter, in one of the mansions close by the military compound.


    "I knocked on the door, and she answered, and the first thing I did when I saw her was kiss her.


    "And so it was that we became caught up in each other''s arms and could not let go."


    Sirannor paused, taking a slow breath. "Inevitably, then, Sereth became pregnant. She did not tell me straight away, anxious of my reaction. Her fear was justified: when finally she did impart the news¡­ I was furious. She flinched when she saw my expression, as though expecting me to scream or hit her as her father had done. I did neither.


    "But what I did instead, perhaps marked me as cowardly and tragic as General Myer.


    "I walked away.


    "And I did not come back."


    Sirannor''s face was lowered, drawn with sorrow. Hawk said nothing, merely waited quietly for him to continue. The Captain''s voice was becoming increasingly wearier as he related his tale, as though the telling of it was draining his strength. Already, Hawk could feel a cold, empty space opening inside him from what he''d heard, but he had a feeling there was worse to come.


    "As I told you," Sirannor went on softly, "I never wanted a child. I could barely forgive myself for falling in love, but to share that love with yet another person was something I could not bear. I felt that I had made a stupid mistake, a dangerous mistake. I could not afford the responsibility of a family, my life did not allow for it. My destiny abhorred it. I had let down my guard, and I was determined not to do so again. Sereth could look after the child on her own; I wanted no part of its life.


    "Angry and haunted, I returned once again to the Middle Isle, where I was ringed by war and Sereth could not reach me¡­ except in writing. She sent me letters, many of them: begging me to return, every single one smudged by tears.


    "I cast them, along with all thoughts of Sereth and the baby aside.


    "Until, one day nine months later, I received a letter different from the others. It was not written in Sereth''s small, neat handwriting, but in a hurried, scrawling script. Sereth''s childbirth was imminent, it informed me. I was to come immediately.


    "Almost, I tossed that letter away as well, but at that moment an unexplainable feeling of dread seeped through me like a dark stain. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with Sereth.


    "So I went. I would go to her, I told myself, be with her at the birth and see the baby. She deserved that much, at least. But I would not love the child. It was mine in flesh and blood only.


    "There was a commotion at the infirmary, when I arrived. People were milling around with anxious and confused looks on their faces. Members of the Watch were comforting weeping nurses and interrogating bystanders. The dark stain sunk deeper, and I broke into a run, shoving people aside until I found Sereth''s room.


    "I stood in the doorway, shocked at the scene before me. There was blood everywhere. Everywhere. It leaked out of Sereth, trickling down her slender arm, onto the bedsheets, onto the floor. And lying on the floor, bathed in his daughter''s blood and his own, was General Myer.


    "They were both dead.


    "He had stabbed her in the heart, one of the healers explained to me in a shaking voice, and in the belly, and then slit his own throat. Despite having no hands, he had done this by affixing a blade to his wrist-stump, concealing it beneath his cloak. The healers thought he had come to bring his daughter comfort, no one had realised his horrific intentions. ''We should never have left him in the room with her alone,'' the healer whispered, grief-stricken.


    "I barely heard the man''s voice. I needed no explanation, knowing instantly what had occurred, and why.


    . Sereth, for betraying him. The baby, because it was mine. Himself, to deny me vengeance.


    "The truth crushed me, an impossible weight that would have brought me to my knees, save that I could not move. I could not speak.


    "But the baby survived, the healer told me, his words floating through a haze. They had been forced to cut it out of its mother''s body, but miraculously, it was unharmed.


    "Sure enough, in a corner of the room the midwife sat huddled, sobbing, trying to clean the newborn child. ''I can''t get the blood out of her hair,'' she kept repeating, over and over. ''I can''t get the blood out of her hair.'' And indeed, the wisp of hair on the little child''s head was crimson red.


    "I named her Carmine, and left without touching her, without holding her. I was afraid, deeply afraid that if I did so I would never, ever be able to let her go."


    Sirannor was shaking, his face in his hands. Hawk had gone pale, his heart hammering in his chest.


    "Still," Sirannor continued with an effort, "still I did not cry. Still, I tried to believe that I did not love Carmine, but I was fooling myself.


    "Four¡­ four years later, I went to visit Sereth''s grave, down near Barquilla Bay, where the green cliffs of Remast are visible on a clear day and herons glide over the water. She was buried beneath a great old magnolia tree, one that her distant ancestors had planted, I believe. It was a favourite spot for family picnics when she was a child ¨C an experience that I had never known.


    "Carmine was there, with her adoptive parents. The little girl was sitting beneath the tree, carefully arranging fallen petals on the grave. And she was singing, in a carefree, childlike way. She looked so peaceful, with her red hair shimmering in the afternoon sun. So happy, and beautiful.


    "I did not approach the family; they did not know I was there, watching. No one knew that my heart broke, irreparably. No one saw me cry.


    "I knew, on that day, that I had wasted my life chasing something that was not important. There was no glory in war, no honour in death, nor happiness in suffering. I had pushed away everyone I had ever cared about, and now I was alone.


    "There was no peace¡­ in loneliness."


    He paused again, struggling with his emotions. Hawk wanted to say something comforting, but couldn''t find the right words. He was fighting not to cry himself.


    "When Carmine was twice as old," the Captain went on with a sigh, "I saw her again, unexpectedly. She turned up, of all places, on the Middle Isle. She had run away from her parents, stowed away on one of the supply ships and somehow managed to sneak into the main camp without being seen. I was sorting weapons, half-heartedly as the afternoon was burning hot, the sunlight filtering bright crimson through the Aegis, furthering the impression that I was working in Hell. Then I turned around and she was there, staring inquisitively up at me.


    "But then some of the other soldiers stopped what they were doing, exchanging surprised glances. Some of them pointed at Carmine and shouted at each other to come and look, and I realised with incredulity that she was not a hallucination: she was real.


    " ''Hi, Daddy,'' she greeted, smiling up at me, oblivious to the strange looks she was gathering.


    '' I scolded with such fury that the nearest soldier took a step backwards, startled. ''Go home, girl! GET OFF THIS ISLAND AT ONCE!''


    "The girl went pale and flinched away in fright, tears in her eyes. ''I only wanted to see you,'' she said in a tiny voice.


    "A curious crowd had gathered by this time, and a shocked gasp rippled through them as I drew my sabre on my own daughter, glaring at her. ''Go. Home. Now.''


    "Carmine looked terrified, but she did not run away. She did not turn her back on me.


    "Do you know what she did, Hawk?" Sirannor''s voice was a whisper.


    Hawk shook his head mutely.


    Sirannor looked haunted. "She tugged out her own little sword and pointed it at me. It was not even a proper weapon, merely a crude wooden thing that she had presumably made herself. Yet, the blade was sharpened and surprisingly well proportioned: she had known what she was doing when she had crafted it. The look on her face as she wielded it was so serious that I almost laughed; truly, she believed that she was prepared to fight me.


    "But as I stared into her intense grey eyes, I saw that they were a mirror-image of my own as a young boy. I saw the curve of my sabre reflected in her gaze.


    She had come to see me because she idolised me. She had heard of my exploits, exaggerated and glorified by tavern-talk, and she thought misguidedly, like many others, that I was a hero.


    "I lowered my sword, trying not to let her notice that I was trembling, and said: ''You win.'' I even managed something of a weak smile.


    "Then I ordered my men to take her back to the docks, and they sent her off with the next ship.


    "Matters between us became somewhat... tense, and as such I reassigned myself to train new recruits in the academy in Sunsee for a time. As you know, that was where you and I first met, Hawk. I may add that you were one of my best students, full of enthusiasm and good humour, somewhat reckless at times, but serious and responsible when you needed to be. Most importantly, you had compassion."


    Hawk coughed self-consciously. "Thanks, Captain."


    "In any case, I digress. One of my informants notified me that my daughter was attempting to join the academy. I told him to refuse her, to use any excuse possible or none at all to dissuade her. But Carmine was extraordinarily stubborn, she kept finding a defence for all the rejections and insisted on seeing me. She even tried sneaking into the compound in disguise. I did everything I could to avoid her."


    The Captain shook his head ruefully. "I felt that I was fighting a losing battle. It was not enough to simply deny her entry: I needed to do something more, something that would fundamentally ruin her opinion of me. I wanted her to believe that I was no one worthy of imitating.


    "I half-considered confronting her and telling her everything about me, about her mother, about her birth, every ghastly detail; to make her see the truth about what sort of person I was, and had been.


    "But I could not bring myself to break her heart so horribly.


    "Instead, I devised a plan to disgrace myself in the eyes of Carmine, the army, and everyone that knew me. My own career ambitions meant nothing to me any longer, I did not think twice about throwing them away for the sake of my daughter''s future.


    "I stole some experimental new armour,¡± Sirannor went on. ¡°Fashioned from the strange, dark, newly-discovered substance the army was calling moltmetal. Liquid in its natural form, it turned solid when forged, and was unbreakable. The armour made from it was extraordinary, and a highly guarded secret.


    ¡°


    He nodded at Hawk. "You know that I did not serve my full sentence, otherwise I would still be there now."


    "Yeah," Hawk replied. "I know you got out and joined the Freeroamers¡­ but you''ve never explained exactly how that came about."


    Sirannor stretched his legs slowly to ease out the kinks, folded his arms and gazed up at the star-strewn sky. "I met Grisket Trice in prison," he continued. "We¨C"


    There was a loud, ominous grating sound, and the massive stone ball upon which they were leaning suddenly moved.


    Hawk and Sirannor leapt to their feet, backing away quickly. As they watched, it began to roll backwards, slowly, ponderously, crackling over the broken glass. It continued until it was about twenty yards away from the dais, then it halted and went still again.


    They eyed it warily.


    After several tense minutes in which nothing further happened, Hawk straightened and yelled at the ball: "C''mon then! Have another go, why don''t you! See if we run away this time!" He hesitated and turned anxiously to Sirannor. "Uh, we''re not gonna run again, are we?"


    "Hmm," the Captain murmured in reply. "Looks as though my bedtime story is over."

 Chapter Thirty Nine

    Message from the Holy Land


    Forecast a dire doom at hand.


    had contributed to the capital city of Sel Varence, that the locals called ''Selvar.''


    Some said she was beautiful, too, in her own unique way. Others (particularly nobles from the Crystal City) argued that she was an eyesore of great magnitude, an exceptional disaster of town planning.


    Wedged deep within a forested river canyon between the curious rock formations of the Tentaryl Ranges to the north, and steep ivy-choked cliffs to the south, it brought to mind an image of a giant roaming across the country and dropping a bag of oddments into a gully. The buildings were a mish-mash of architectural styles and strange foreign influences, and due to the narrowness of the valley and premium prices for land, most of the structures towered many stories high, abutting the cliff walls wherever possible.


    Decorative walkways and arches spanned twisted, cramped alleyways alongside criss-crossing webs of colourful washing hanging out to dry. Elegant statues of forgotten rulers, gods, heroes or just extraordinarily wealthy aristocrats perched on ledges, fountains, plinths or anywhere there was space. Amongst it all, the bushy round heads of ti-trees peeked between gaps and gargoyle-infested chimney stacks like dark green clouds hovering around the city.


    Whereas Sunsee was neat, clean and orderly, governed by strict military rule, Sel Varence thrived on chaos. There were more street performers and musicians than beggars, more artists'' workshops than blacksmiths and more merchants than soldiers. Markets choked the streets, which were permanently abuzz with people and cheerful tunes and the over-enthusiastic cries of hawkers. People of all races and backgrounds mingled and conversed without fear of judgement or discrimination. Enopians walked openly beside Darorians, Sirinese and the Centaurs of Remast. No one seemed to care about the war on the Middle Isle: many people had forgotten entirely which countries were feuding over it.


    Even the Watch were lax in their duties, more often to be found drinking and smoking in taverns than surveying the streets. They mostly patrolled at night, when novice criminals mistakenly thought the darkness made them invisible and tended to be more reckless and stupid, and thus, easier to catch. Most of the problems of the city were handled privately, behind the scenes. With so much wealth and variety of skills floating around, anyone could be hired to do anything. Corruption was rampant, but it provided an odd sort of balance, and withheld the peace.


    No one asked questions in Selvar.


    But everyone wanted answers.


    Carmine Vandaris sought more answers than most. In fact, her livelihood depended on it: for she was a spy.


    She smiled to herself at the thought. Of course, the term she preferred to use in business dealings was ''information gatherer.'' And she had a feeling that the information she was attempting to gather at this very moment was of great importance indeed.


    She reflected on this as she scaled the south wall of the Angelican Embassy. A representative from Arkana had turned up in Selvar with no warning whatsoever, refusing to speak or to leave the embassy until he had met with the King of Daroria in person. It was an incredibly ostentatious demand: the King rarely left Crystaltina for any reason. The fact that he had agreed to come with very little negotiation beforehand suggested that he, at least, believed that the message the Angel ambassador had brought was of a highly sensitive nature.


    Therefore, to the right people, highly lucrative.


    Carmine intended to be one of the people who reaped the benefits from the meeting. But more than that, she was personally intrigued.


    with rumours. People were talking about it on street corners, in taverns, discussing it with shop owners and anyone who happened to be walking past. The questions were all identical:


    She paused for a moment, brushing loose strands of her long, dark red hair out of her face, her grey eyes surveying her surroundings with well-practised swiftness. She was taking more than the usual risk, breaking into the embassy in the middle of the morning in a fairly open space, but she had no other choice: the King''s entourage was approaching the city and was due to arrive in an hour or so. A large crowd was already gathered in the square below, murmuring voices drifting up to her on the breeze, along with the perfume of a nearby jacaranda tree. She was crouched in a patch of shadow, partly obscured by the curve of the embassy roof, and most of the crowd were peering and straining for a view of the street to the west in any case, in anticipation of the King''s arrival. If anyone had spotted her, they had not drawn attention to the fact.


    she cursed inwardly.


    She would have to be careful: she wasn''t the only one in this town who ran a freelance eavesdropping service, and most of her rivals were far more ruthless and adept at it than she. Carmine was an amateur: she''d only been learning the trade for a few months.


    But she had a good teacher.


    Permitting herself another quick smile, she skimmed the white, seashell-inspired curves of the distinctly Angelican building looking for lead ropes and found none. Unhooking her own grapple, she wound up her rope, tucked it neatly back in her belt, then placed her hands on the window frame and pushed gently.


    It wouldn''t budge.


    Argh, he didn''t bother to leave it unlocked for me, the brute!


    A little irritated but not entirely surprised, Carmine pulled a lockpick from a pocket in her leather vest. With some fiddly manoeuvring and a couple of stifled grunts, the latch finally slid free. Breathing a sigh of relief and pride at her accomplishment, she carefully opened the shutter and checked methodically inside for caltrops, trip-wires or other nasty surprises. Finding nothing suspicious, she swung her legs over the sill and dropped quietly into the building.


    The room she found herself in was a small attic space, empty of furnishings save for a wardrobe and a tarnished bronze plaque on the wall, depicting outspread Angel wings. The floorboards were bare and water-stained. A wooden door directly opposite her stood closed.


    She remained in a crouch, watching, listening intently.


    Nothing seemed amiss.


    Nevertheless, she silently slid a knife from her boot. Straightening slowly, she took one step towards the wardrobe¡­ and suddenly winced.


    The floor groaned alarmingly.


    Her cover blown, she breathed a curse and rushed the wardrobe, flinging open the door, her knife raised¡­


    It was empty.


    Click.


    She heard the soft sound too late to do anything about it, and felt the telltale burning prick in her shoulder.


    With a gasp, she spun, grabbing the dart out. She slumped against the wardrobe in disbelief, her gaze falling upon the plaque on the opposite wall. There was a mark on the peeling plaster where it had shifted.


    "Dammit!" she cursed aloud. Already, she was feeling light-headed, her vision blurring¡­


    she thought, her heart racing frantically, struggling against the invisible claws reaching down through her shoulder, into her chest, into her lungs...


    What if the poison was lethal? She might never see Hawk again.


    Hawk¡­


    Through her tears, she glared at the tiny needle that had snatched away her dreams in a careless instant. Something about it seemed familiar¡­


    She blinked, her eyes refocusing with a start. It was fletched with black feathers.


    That''s the signature of...


    She went limp, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush. She lifted a bare tanned arm to her forehead, grimacing in relief.


    Beyond lay a shadowy hallway that opened into an arched gallery. In the distance, Carmine could see rainbow beams of light streaming from a high, stained-glass ceiling.


    she told herself, taking a deep breath.


    Slipping through the door, she made her way down the corridor in a half-crouch, her soft leather shoes making no sound on the moth-eaten carpet. At the end she paused again, quickly scanned the gallery, then scooted forward and dropped to the floor with her back against a section of wall between two arches.


    Carmine took a moment to let her heart settle and her own hands to stop shaking. Glaring at him, she pointed to her dart-struck shoulder, then patted her heart, then shook her fist.


    he signed, smirk still in place,


    She gave him a sarcastic look, stuck her tongue out, then sat back with her arms folded in pretend moodiness.


    The Angel saluted and went back to watching the meeting chamber below.


    Carmine peered carefully through the arch, through a gap in the balustrade, following his line of sight.


    Below them was a circular chamber, filled with hazy coloured sunlight and ringed by tiers of disintegrating wooden pews: the embassy had been abandoned ever since the Angels left Daroria over a hundred years ago. Obviously, no one had bothered to maintain it, and as such, it had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. Parts of the upper gallery had collapsed as well: beams and bits of debris lay scattered on the floor, covered in dust. In the middle of the chamber was a round podium, and standing in the very centre, like a statue expecting to be worshipped, was the Arkanian ambassador.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Short and slim of stature like most Angels, he wore decorative flight pants tucked into calf-high boots, overlaid with robes of beige and brown, with a feather pattern of gold splayed across his shoulders and upper arms. His great beautiful wings, folded officiously at his back, were a shimmering golden-brown, with flight feathers tipped purest white. A pair of tiny round spectacles clung to his small, upturned nose, and his straw-blond hair was swept back tightly from his face and pinned behind his neck in a birdlike ruffle of spiky ends. He stood erect, hands behind his back and his eyes closed, as though meditating while waiting for the minutes to pass.


    The ambassador had been standing there, in that exact spot ever since he''d arrived, and had said nothing except for his request to meet with the King. No one knew if he''d moved at any point to eat or sleep.


    The expression on his face was one of such arrogant seriousness that Carmine was forced to stifle a sudden, irrational urge to laugh.


    But it couldn''t be argued that Mekka wasn''t a good-looking man. He gave off the impression of a quiet, sophisticated rogue, and made a healthy living from street dancing. He was just as talented at that profession as he was at spying. In fact, he was mesmerising.


    His shoulder-length hair, tied behind his head, appeared black at first glance, but shimmered green in sunlight, and his eye was a perfect match: as deep and darkly viridian as a forest shadow. His wings were raven black from shoulder to feather-tip, their shade so intense they cut a sharp silhouette even in the dimmest light. Once, when he''d been out in the city late at night, a couple of Watchmen had almost attacked him: mistaking him for a Muron.


    When Carmine had found out about this, she thought it was the funniest thing she''d ever heard in her life and laughed her head off. She had been forced to apologise belatedly, however, when Mekka hadn''t seen the funny side and became quite disgruntled.


    Since that incident, he had taken to covering himself in stone or wood dust to dull his outline. Hawk, on one of his brief visits to the city, had commented jokingly that it wasn''t the Watch that Mekka needed to look out for: it was the pigeons.


    This had Carmine in hysterics all over again.


    The Angel hadn''t spoken to her for a week after that, and had refused to communicate with Hawk since.


    Carmine shook her head in remembrance. Mekka tended to take things rather personally. And he didn''t just hold a grudge: he shackled it to himself and threw away the key.


    She sighed inwardly. He and Hawk didn''t get along very well. Normally, Hawk wasn''t the jealous type, but Mekka rubbed him the wrong way, sometimes intentionally.


    She wished dearly that she could go and work with Hawk on the Middle Isle, perhaps that would ease his conscience a little. But first, she had to find a way to get past her father.


    She was, after all, in the business of uncovering secrets.


    Sirannor''s deceptiveness was partly why she had taken up the stealth trade; she was good with a sword but wanted to expand her repertoire. Working the market stalls selling silks was incredibly boring, but she kept it up anyway as a cover to her more secretive profession. Although, the bright, flouncy skirts and pandering to customers was starting to drive her a bit nuts¡­


    He returned the gesture with a nod, and they waited.


    Before long, the doors of the chamber opened and the King of Daroria swept through, accompanied by half a dozen strong-muscled, gold-armoured members of the Royal Guard.


    Carmine was slightly startled, he had arrived much sooner than she''d expected: he must have practically leapt out of the carriage. The King''s flustered face and heavy breathing seemed to confirm this observation.


    Dispensing with formalities and even greetings, the King said: "I came as swiftly as I could, ambassador. What news?"


    The ambassador opened his eyes. He regarded the King from the dais, taking in the monarch''s sumptuous crimson and orange robes, the precious redstone beads twined in his thick black beard, the gold crown with its setting sun design, and his stoic but equally gleaming guardsmen. Then he looked carefully around the lofty chamber. Carmine and Mekka flattened themselves against the wall either side of the arch as his gaze travelled over the gallery. Finally, he turned back to the King and inclined his head towards the guards. "Please dismiss your escort," he said.


    The King scowled. "I will do no such thing. These men are my personal bodyguards, trusted with secrecy and my life. They remain with me at all meetings for security reasons."


    The ambassador closed his eyes again. "You will send them away, your Majesty, or I''m afraid I cannot deliver my message."


    Is he for real?


    King Neodine stiffened, and his expression turned angry. He gestured at his guards, who, in perfect unison lowered their heavy pikes at the ambassador. He took a few steps forward, his patience clearly at the end of a very long tether, and pointed a jewel-encumbered finger at the Angel.


    "Understand me, you little winged upstart. I have come a long way to meet your demands, and on very short notice. You will tell me why you have been sent here, right now, or I shall have you arrested for wasting my time!"


    There was silence for a moment, then the ambassador replied: "You cannot arrest me, this embassy remains part of Arkanian territory¡­"


    The King took another step forward. "Who," he challenged, "is going to stop me?"


    The ambassador considered this. Finally, he sniffed and adjusted his spectacles. "Very well," he sighed disdainfully. "Might you close the doors, at least?"


    The King ordered his men to do so, and then, despite his own words, sent four of them to keep watch outside. The remaining two took up position in front of the doors. Neodine folded his arms. "This had better be worth it," he grunted.


    "Your Majesty," the ambassador said, "my government has spent the last six months altering our foreign policy simply to allow me to come here legally. Believe me, you will want to hear this."


    "Out with it, then."


    The ambassador took a deep breath and descended the steps. For the first time, he gave a respectful bow, acknowledging the King''s effort to meet his request by sending most of his guards away. "Tell me, your Majesty," he said, pacing slowly around the dais, hands behind his back again. "What has become of your Aurellian Sync?"


    "My¡­?" The King frowned and shook his head. "Excuse me, I''m not familiar with that term."


    The ambassador paused. Though his back was turned to the King, Carmine saw his eyes roll briefly and heard him mutter something along the lines of: "How soon we forget¡­


    "Your Farseer?" the ambassador explained, turning. "Aegis-Eye?"


    Still, the King looked blank.


    The ambassador sighed. "A large, tetrahedral-shaped mirror, about three feet high?" He demonstrated the shape and height with his hands.


    A glimmer of recognition sparked in the King''s eyes. "Ah¡­ yes. Yes, that old thing?" He shrugged. "I keep it in the basement of my palace with a number of other family heirlooms. What of it?"


    The ambassador looked incredulous, as though the King had told him he kept his own grandmother locked up in the basement. For a moment, he seemed lost for words. "Majesty," he said finally, "that ''old thing'' is an ancient magical artefact of extreme significance!"


    The King appeared to be losing patience again, his fingers drumming on his elbow. Looking miffed at the ruler of Daroria''s ignorance of history, the ambassador nevertheless resumed his pacing and went on quickly: "No one knows when the Aurellian Sync were first crafted, or by whom. Many thousands of years would be the best estimate. They were originally designed as scrying mirrors and proved very useful for spying on certain events around Arvanor. Too useful, perhaps, but that story is of no relevance right now.


    "Around the time the Middle Isle Aegis was constructed, three Aurellians were modified for a unique purpose: to monitor the magical energy flux of the shield. Specifically, to provide advance warning of any problems with the stability of the magic."


    The King''s fingers had gone still. Slowly, his features shifted into a troubled expression, as though he could sense where this conversation was going.


    "Go on," he prompted the ambassador quietly.


    "These Aurellians were given to the three most powerful rulers of Arvanor at the time: the Emperor of Siriaza, the King of Daroria and our own leader, the Governor of Arkana.


    "The Sirinese Aurellian was lost or destroyed en route to Trystania while being delivered to the Emperor. The Darorian Aurellian has, it seems, been neglected and forgotten. The Arkanian Aurellian, however, has taken pride of place in the Holy Tower tower of Fleetfleer for a thousand years since we received it from the sorcerers." The ambassador oozed smugness as he said this. "Hence," he went on, "when it began to exhibit changes, we noticed immediately."


    "Changes?" said the King, with an effort.


    The ambassador stopped pacing again, and the haughty expression slipped from his face, replaced with sombreness. "There were¡­ lights, within it," he said. His voice was softer now, his eyes distant, almost as though he was talking to himself. "And¡­ visions¡­"


    King Neodine stared at him intently. "What did the visions show?"


    The Angel did not reply at once. He continued to stare into space, until finally, he shook his head abruptly, as though something in his memory disturbed him. When he turned back to the King, there was a slightly haunted look to his eyes, which he quickly blinked away. "The¡­ the details aren''t necessary for you to know," he replied carefully. "But their meaning was unmistakable."


    He hesitated. "Your Majesty¡­ there is no other way to say this¡­


    "The Aegis is failing."


    Deep silence filled the chamber. Overhead, a cloudbank slid over the stained-glass ceiling, extinguishing the rainbow-beams and beckoning shadows out of their hiding places. Carmine exchanged a wide-eyed look with Mekka. Even the guards by the door shifted, glancing at each other uncomfortably.


    The King stared at the ambassador for a long while. At last, he said: "No¡­" and grinned nervously, eyes flicking around as though expecting someone to jump out and tell him that this was a joke, that he had really been summoned here for a surprise party.


    But the ambassador''s face remained grim.


    The King went pale. "You''re serious?" he whispered.


    The Angel nodded.


    ! It is supposed to last


    "No magic lasts forever, Majesty," the ambassador answered quietly.


    "The Dragons!" the King exclaimed, pacing furiously. "If the Aegis fails, the Dragons will escape! There will be chaos¡­" he stopped abruptly, terror sweeping across his face. "It will be the Great Breath all over again¡­"


    "Quite possibly," the ambassador agreed.


    !" he declared, loudly and forcefully, whirling on the ambassador as though it were his fault, personally. "You!" he said, stabbing a finger at the Angel again and striding towards him. "Your people know how to read the mirror! You must know how to fix this!"


    "Ten sorcerers?" the King repeated. "There aren''t ten¨C"


    "No," the Angel said scornfully, "there are not. If I were to hazard a guess, there may not even be one. Therein lies the dilemma and urgency of the situation."


    The King chewed his bottom lip anxiously. "How much longer will the shield hold up?" he asked.


    The ambassador lifted his head thoughtfully. "It is difficult to say," he replied. "Months¡­ maybe weeks. Maybe days." He shrugged indifferently.


    The King scowled at him. "You don''t seem particularly concerned about a potential worldwide catastrophe!"


    The ambassador waved a hand in his direction. "The Middle Isle is currently occupied by your country, is it not? Therefore, may I presume that this crisis is your responsibility?"


    ¡°I''m surprised you even bothered to tell us about it!" the King snapped.


    "We Angels eschew the affairs of Humans," the ambassador stated airily, "but we have no wish to see innocent people die. However, we have neither the power nor the resources to assist you with this matter. We do not even have a working army; our Sky Legion was disbanded shortly after our last disastrous attempt at Middle Isle occupation, some two hundred years¨C"


    ! Do you mean to sit back and watch as monstrous, fire-breathing beasts ravage your neighbours?!"


    The Angel stared at him. "Our council has not yet come to a decision¨C"


    "YOUR COUNCIL IS A PACK OF FOOLS!" the King shouted. "What will you do when the Dragons cross the Tentaryl," he demanded, "or fly in from the sea? How will you defend yourselves?"


    To King Neodine''s surprise and fury, the ambassador smiled. He lifted his hands and placed them flat on his chest, thumbs linked representing Angel wings. "Our Goddess of Life will watch over us," he said, "and the God of Light blind our foes. No war, famine, pestilence or disaster has ever laid hands upon our forest. Our land is blessed by ancient holy magic."


    The King''s eyes narrowed. "Your arrogance will be your downfall," he warned.


    "If that is so," the Angel replied, "then it will come on the heels of your own." He bowed again. "Good day, your Majesty." Then he spread his wings and leapt into the air, soaring up through the chamber towards a gap in the broken roof, through which a shaft of sunlight had reappeared.


    Just before he reached it, however, he paused, wings thumping lazily, and looked back down at the King. "Oh, one more thing, your Majesty!" he called. "Four spies have been eavesdropping on our conversation from the upper gallery. I suggest you deal with them quickly, before they escape. After all," he smiled again, "we wouldn''t want a panic to spread, would we?"


    And then he was gone.


    Mekka leapt to his feet at the same moment King Neodine whirled on his guards, ordering them up the stairs to the gallery. Before Carmine could recover from the shock of being discovered, the Angel grabbed her around the waist.


    "Time to go, redfeathers," he said.


    Spreading his great black wings with a thump of dust, he vaulted over the balcony.


    Carmine''s stomach gave a sickening lurch¡­ then the floor of the chamber was receding rapidly beneath her. As Mekka carried her up to the hole in the ceiling, she caught a glimpse of two grey-clad rival spies scurrying for cover on the gallery opposite where she and Mekka had been hiding. Crossbow bolts thunked into the woodwork around them, and the entrance doors burst open, the remainder of the King''s guards flooding into the building.


    Then bright sunlight smashed into her face and the white roof of the Angelican embassy sank away, like a shell lost in the sea.

 Chapter Forty

    In the castle, darkened walls


    No place to hide when Winter calls.


    Red drapes swished in the silence, stirred by an unseen draught, as though ghosts were playing hide and seek in the corners.


    The hall had darkened considerably since Ferrian had arrived, but the master of the castle had yet to make an appearance. No one else had entered save for a thin and mournful young boy of about nine or ten, who whispered around the walls like a shadow in his black robes, lighting torches in their brackets. He left without a word or sound, and without looking at Ferrian.


    Ferrian watched the firelight dancing on the polished floor, wavering and multiplied into bright hypnotic shapes through his blurry vision. He tried to concentrate on what he was going to say to the sorcerer when he appeared, but found it almost impossible to think of anything except for the pain thundering through his head, and all the way down his right arm.


    He looked dazedly down at his injured hand, where he held it lightly against his chest. He was certain that his fingers were broken, they were red and swollen and he could not move them or even touch them without screaming. They burned with agonising pain. In a way, he was thankful that the Muron still had its talons clasped around his upper arm: he felt that he might have sunk to his knees, otherwise.


    He fought back another surge of nausea. At least the terrible flight from the Coastlands was over. He had sunk into a semi-conscious daze after the Muron had hit him in the face and was glad of that: regaining full awareness some time later he had thrown up immediately upon noticing that he was several hundred feet in the air.


    The flight was relatively swift, however, the Muron taking only two days to cross the Coastlands and the Barlakk Mountains, much quicker than any human could complete the journey, even by horse. It set him down once or twice to drink from streams, and he managed to grab a handful of wild blackberries that did nothing to sate his ravenous hunger. Instead, they only made him feel more ill and he spent most of the windswept hours with his eyes closed, trying to hold on to what little he had managed to put in his aching stomach.


    Had he been in a more agreeable state of mind, Ferrian might have been awed at the land of Daroria sweeping out beneath him in a patchwork of dry brown fields, green forests and mountain ranges. If he looked over his shoulder, a bright glint far to the south-west sat on the horizon, like a fallen star wedged between earth and sky: undoubtedly the Royal City of Crystaltina.


    To the north, he could make out the Tentaryl Ranges which blocked the land of the Angels from view, and far, far to the east ahead of him, the hazy reddish ridge of the Red Mountains bordering Siriaza, but he was slightly feverish at that point and could not be sure it was not just his imagination.


    Overnight, the land soared upwards into rugged grey cliffs that passed beneath them in a neverending stony jumble. Eagles whirled away from their perches on wind-bent trees as the Muron''s shadow passed overhead. When the sun finally set behind them, there was no end to the mountains in sight and only far glimpses of civilisation.


    The Muron continued flying through the night, the peaks eerie and desolate in the sharp moonlight; approaching morning it began a slow descent, brushing close against sharp edged boulders and ducking around outcroppings. Quite suddenly, the ancient barren rock gave way to ominous black walls and towers, hunched halfway up a cliff like an enormous, spiny sea urchin.


    Lord Arzath''s castle.


    There were so many spikes and spires on the roof that Ferrian thought he might be impaled long before he hit the ground if the Muron should drop him.


    There was no chance of that, however: the creature''s grip was steel-tight. Ferrian heard the faint rush of a waterfall somewhere in the distance and caught a glimpse of something grand and white across the valley: another castle? But his view was obscured by the glare of the rising sun and suddenly the Muron folded its wings and plunged into a steep dive.


    A huge, corroded iron structure engulfed them¡­ chains¡­ curved, grimy walls¡­ a great, grisly mass of something below that looked like bones or carcasses¡­ Then the Muron swerved into a pitch-black, yawning archway, and for several minutes Ferrian could see or hear nothing at all save the rustle of the Muron''s leathery wings. Various smells passed him by, the rank, sickly odour of rotting flesh amongst the worst. His stomach lurched about as though it were being pulled on a piece of string as the Muron twisted and turned, almost making him sick again.


    Once or twice, it exchanged rasped words with its fellows in the darkness, presumably announcing its arrival and what it had brought with it. Then, finally, they dropped down a long shaft into the high-ceilinged chamber he found himself in now.


    They stood facing the red throne, waiting. The Muron had not spoken to Ferrian nor glanced at him since they had arrived. It clutched him in an almost disinterested fashion, like a lump of meat it had brought to its master.


    Ferrian shuddered.


    Somehow, he knew he had to convince Lord Arzath that he was of some value. Somehow, he had to do this without putting the Freeroamers or Cimmeran in danger. If he could not, then he would never see the world outside these dark walls again. He had already decided that if it came down to a choice between his life and theirs, he would sacrifice his own. He was cursed anyway; he was a hazard, there was no guarantee of finding a cure for the Winter. There was nothing about him that made him any better or worthier than they were.


    His greatest fear was that the sorcerer would simply read his mind, pluck out anything he wanted to know as easily as picking flowers. Ferrian could do nothing about that; he had no defence.


    Nothing presented itself.


    he thought desperately. At least Arzath was Human; he might be more willing to listen to reason.


    Who am I kidding? He has Murons as servants! He can do anything he likes!


    He discounted any chance of outside help. No one even knew he was here. The Freeroamers could not know that Murons had captured him, and even if they did manage to work it out and convince Cimmeran to lead them here, it would take them at least a week to reach the valley on foot, if not longer.


    Ferrian didn''t know if he had that long. He didn''t even know if he had another night.


    He could not afford to rely on rescue. His survival, and that of his friends, was in his own hands.


    Behind him, the doors to the throne room opened. He could feel a cool draught on his back, and the drapes stirred a little more anxiously. The Muron turned its head to look, but Ferrian remained staring fixedly at the floor a couple of paces in front of him. His heart leapt into a gallop.


    Footsteps sounded on the marble floor: careful, unhurried. They were accompanied by a rhythmic tapping noise, like a staff, perhaps.


    The footsteps drew slowly closer, until at last they stopped a few feet behind him. "What is this?" a voice demanded.


    It sounded hoarse and slightly short of breath, but there was a clearly refined, haughty accent to it, like someone of noble upbringing.


    Someone who had spent a lifetime subjugating others.


    "I have brought sssomething that might interesst you, Masster," the Muron replied.


    I thought I gave you  NOT to come back here¨C"


    "Thiss boy knowsss the location of the ssservant," the Muron interjected.


    "Then why didn''t you interrogate him?"


    "I did ssso, Masster, but he wass uncooperative¡­"


    ?! ARGH!" There was a gasp as though the owner of the voice was gripped with sudden pain. Then he moved around Ferrian to his throne.


    The sorcerer was indeed carrying a staff: a long black one, carved with intricate designs, and was leaning on it heavily, clutching at his head with one long-fingered hand. He slumped into the ornate chair with the staff across his knees and his head in his hand.


    Ferrian lifted his eyes from the floor and found himself staring at Lord Arzath in astonishment: he was not exactly what he''d been expecting. In fact, he looked quite ill; he was very pale and seemed to be shaking. Though his black hair partly veiled his face, Ferrian could see enough of it to notice deep shadows around his eyes.


    He looked as bad as Ferrian felt.


    "Masster," the Muron hissed, its eyes narrowing slightly. "He hass sssomething elsse that may be of worth. He hass magic."


    Arzath looked up slowly, glaring at the Muron. "What are you talking about?"


    "Magic," it repeated. "Can you not ssensse it?"


    Arzath stared at the creature with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, as though trying to work out if he''d heard correctly or the Muron had gone insane. His gaze swept over Ferrian, then turned back to the Muron.


    "Of¡­ course I sense it!" he snapped. "Do you think me an idiot?" He waved his staff irritably. "Get out of here! I''ll deal with him myself!"


    "Masster," the Muron said, bowing, and leapt back up to the ceiling and disappeared.


    Ferrian staggered from the sudden release, but managed to keep his feet. He returned his eyes quickly to the floor. He could feel Arzath''s gaze on him, sizzling through his skull and out the back of his head.


    "My Murons do not lie¡­" Arzath''s voice had gone curiously soft, as though he were half-talking to himself. "Who are you?" he questioned suddenly, the edge returning to his voice. "What magic do you possess and how have you come by it?"


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    Ferrian hesitated, trying to decide how much about himself he should reveal to Arzath. The sorcerer seemed to have forgotten about Cimmeran, at least for the moment. If Ferrian could keep him interested in the magic, perhaps the other reason he was brought here might be overlooked¡­


    "Tell me," Arzath inquired suddenly, silkily. "Do you know who I am?"


    Ferrian forced his voice out through his parched throat, not looking up. "Yes. You''re Lord Arzath, the sorcerer."


    ¡°, or your worthless little life ends here. You are nothing to me; you are an  and I can crush you as easily as one. Is that perfectly clear?"


    Ferrian nodded. "Yes," he added quickly, unable to take his eyes off the end of the staff and trying desperately not to visualise what might come out of it.


    are you and how have you come to possess magic?"


    "M-my name is Ferrian. I¡­ I don''t have proper magic, I mean, I''m not a sorcerer. I''m cursed. I don''t know how or why, but if I stay in one place for too long, the weather goes bad. It gets cold, and there are storms and blizzards, and I don''t know how to stop it except to run away."


    Silence fell, deeper than the shadows draping the corners of the hall. Arzath seemed frozen in position, eyes locked on Ferrian, staff still raised. Thinking the sorcerer was waiting for further explanation, he swallowed and continued: "Sometimes ¨C just recently ¨C there is light, as well. A blazing white light. It spears out of me without warning, sometimes so bright that I pass out¡­"


    Arzath rose slowly to his feet, his staff lowering. "Look at me," he ordered.


    Ferrian forced himself to meet the sorcerer''s fierce green gaze.


    Without warning, Arzath lunged forward and grabbed Ferrian''s chin, forcing his face so close that their noses were almost touching. Ferrian gasped and cried out at the sudden jolt of pain through his injured hand.


    Arzath ignored him, staring deeply into his eyes, as though searching for something. Ferrian felt his skin crawl and his resolve begin to crumble. He tried to cringe away, but the sorcerer''s fingers dug into his skin, holding him in place.


    "Your eyes!" Arzath breathed. "Your¡­ eyes¡­"


    Arzath''s own eyes widened: recognition and disbelief flickering through them. "Where were you born?" he asked quickly. "Your parents, who were they?"


    "I¡­ don''t know where I was born," Ferrian answered, wincing. "I don''t¡­ I never knew my parents! I was raised by gypsies, they wouldn''t tell me¡­"


    "N-no¡­" he hesitated. "I¡­ think it''s a town in the south of the Outlands¡­ an old, deserted town¡­"


    "No! N-no, I don''t remember anything!"


    Arzath released him and took a step back. His shaking had become more pronounced and his expression was one of incredulity. "No," he murmured, turning away from the boy, apparently lost in his own thoughts. "The crystal¡­ the White Dragon¡­ surely, it couldn''t have¡­?"


    Ferrian remembered the huge sparkling diamond in his dream, and wondered if it was a coincidence. His heart and mind raced madly.


    "Show me!" Arzath ordered suddenly, whirling back. His eyes flashed with excitement.


    Ferrian blinked. "Sh-show you?"


    "Your magic!" the sorcerer snapped impatiently. "Let me see it! Now!"


    "I¡­" Ferrian''s heart leapt in terror. "I''ve n-never tried to summon it before, not intentionally, I don''t know if I¡ª"


    "TRY!" The staff swung back up.


    he thought.


    He had never done this before; he had no idea how to use magic. He could not predict what would happen.


    He didn''t know if he was more afraid of failing or succeeding.


    But what did he have to lose?


    Reluctantly, he closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of Arzath and the staff and the hall and the flickering torches. Vaguely, he searched around inside himself, willing something to appear.


    Long moments passed.


    Nothing happened.


    Ferrian shook his head in frustration.


    "Try harder!" Arzath persisted. "The magic is there, inside you! Let it out! Stop holding back!"


    "I''m not holding back!" Ferrian objected, but as soon as he said the words, he knew they were untrue. Fear and pain were preventing him from concentrating, but more than that, his deeply ingrained hatred of the Winter. After so many years of vehemently pushing it away and trying to suppress it, to call it forth willingly was no easy task.


    He thought of the devastation it had caused and all the people it had hurt or disadvantaged. He thought of the terrible journey through Demon Heights, of poor Aari''s fear of the tunnel collapsing and Ferrian''s spontaneous outburst of magic making that happen.


    He thought of the Freeroamers, who had risked their lives to help him find a cure.


    He was sick and tired of it. He understood exactly how Cimmeran felt: being constantly chased and harassed, forever living in fear, but Ferrian''s cruel master had no face, no soul.


    His hand closed into a fist, his eyes squeezing shut tighter.


    Fine,


    With that, he summoned every ounce of willpower he could muster and bent it towards calling forth the power he had been cursed with since birth.


    Nevertheless, Arzath could barely contain his excitement. Who would have thought the unexpected consequences of a failed experiment many years past could have turned out to be so beneficial? Ferrian was serendipity incarnate! If Arzath had known of his existence, he would have taken the child and raised him, moulded him into a glorious living weapon.


    If Ferrian possessed the sort of magic Arzath suspected he did, then Requar was already just a blot in a history book. One sorcerer he could defend against, but two? Hah! He didn''t stand a¨C


    The flash of white light was so sudden that Arzath took a startled step backwards, throwing his arm up to protect his eyes. It exploded into the darkness, growing like an expanding star, filling the entire hall, every nook and crevice with soul-piercing brilliance. Arzath gasped as his eyes began to burn with pain¡­ and then the light diminished.


    Slightly dazed, he lifted his head, blinking, to see Ferrian buckle and collapse to the floor. Frost seeped out of his body, spreading out across the black floor in white, fern-like tendrils.


    A penetrating cold enveloped the room, snatching the breath from Arzath''s lungs.


    Then a peal of thunder sounded, as deep and threatening as anything that Arzath had ever summoned himself. It did not fade away, however, but continued to gather in strength and volume, shaking the entire castle as though a fist from the heavens had gripped it. The great, heavy oaken doors at the entrance to the throne room burst open and the narrow window above them shattered, glass spraying everywhere like falling ice¡­ and, out of nowhere, a monstrous gale surged into the room.


    Howling and shrieking like a wild beast, it snatched up the sorcerer and threw him sprawling across the floor like a leaf. It caught the drapes and tore them from the walls and hammered the torches into submission, plunging the chamber into freezing darkness.


    Illuminated by flashes of lightning, snowflakes poured through the open window and swirled into every corner.


    Mortally afraid now, Arzath clawed his way to his throne and hunched behind it, seeking what little shelter it provided, his cloak thrashing around him. He could feel his lungs tightening, and frost was gathering on his skin, on his clothes¡­


    The storm raged on, unstoppable, completely out of control.


    "God of Darkness!" he cried, his voice disintegrating into the merciless wind.


    * * *


    Kyosk stared in shock at the scene before him.


    The Murons were attacking each other!


    Or rather, to be more accurate, Varshax was attacking his subordinates.


    Kyosk had never seen the Muron Wingmaster so enraged. His jaws were frothing and his eyes blazing with a manic fire reminiscent of Lord Arzath. He was grabbing anyone and anything within claw''s reach and hurling it against the walls of the eyrie with bone-shattering force, all the while screaming epithets in his own guttural language. The chamber was filled with flapping wings as lesser Murons hastened to get out of his way, ducking into arch-holes or fleeing out the ceiling.


    Lying littered amongst the mound of bones were many black bodies, some of them still alive, crawling around like battered moths. Kyosk looked down at his feet to see one missing its head.


    Strangely, there were no lacerations or other injuries on the body. The creature appeared to have been decapitated with a single, clean swipe.


    Kyosk stared, his brow raising in surprise. It would have taken an extraordinary blade or an extraordinary wielder to achieve such a thing. Peering at the other corpses, he saw that most of them exhibited similar injuries.


    Someone or something had painted the wall of the eyrie with their blood.


    "What the hell," Kyosk exclaimed, "is goin'' on here?"


    He immediately regretted opening his mouth, as Varshax looked down sharply, caught sight of him and dropped onto the bones (and the head of a crippled Muron) with a crunch.


    "You! Grik!"


    Kysok backed away hastily as the big Muron stalked towards him, wings spread, dramatically increasing his size and ominousness. He loomed in the doorway. "Where isss it?" he snarled.


    The Grik frowned. "Where''s what?"


    "


    Kyosk backed away to the edge of the stairs, looking perplexed. "I don''t know nothin'' ''bout no sword!"


    Grikss, not an hour passt, tresspassed in our eyrie and sstole ssomething of great ssignificance to Lord Arzath! If he disscoverss it iss misssing, there will be


    Keep yer scrawny wings on, I''ll fetch it."


    He started to turn away, then paused, remembering suddenly the reason he had come up here in the first place.


    He looked back at Varshax curiously.


    "Quickly!" the Muron snapped. His eyes widened dangerously. "Or I ssshall take great pleassure in retrieving it myssself¡­"


    Nothing moved save the flickering shadows cast by his torch.


    Consequences, eh? For whom?


    The Murons'' incompetence amused Kyosk, but at the same time, he was puzzled as to why they were still so wary of Arzath. They could sense magic, surely they should have noticed that something was amiss with him by now? Were the Murons stupider than they looked, after all?


    Or, could it be that Kyosk had made a dangerously wrong assumption?


    He stood in the darkness, thinking hard.


    No, definitely


    Kyosk didn''t know much about magic, but he knew when someone was weak.


    Eyes narrowing again, he continued down the corridor. Perhaps it would be more interesting to let Varshax remain ignorant for awhile¡­


    The door to the mess hall banged open to admit Clanmaster Kyosk.


    "Alright!" he roared. "Which one o'' you liddle maggot ''eads stole somethin'' from the Muron''s eyrie?"


    As one, every single finger in the room pointed towards a small Grik at the back, who was standing on a table demonstrating, with great vigour, how to kill a horde of Murons.


    A rapt crowd stood watching, or rather, ducking hastily.


    Crysk froze mid-swing as Kyosk strode towards the table. He scrambled down quickly and stood to attention, remembering just in time not to give the Grik salute with his sword arm.


    "Gimme dat!" Kyosk growled, snatching the long shining sword off the young Grik. He lifted it up to the light, examining it.


    After a few moments, he swung it at the table, scattering a few Griks who were crowded around it. The sword cleaved through a stack of half-eaten chickens, continued through the table and embedded itself in the stone floor.


    Kyosk yanked it out and turned to Crysk. "You were the one who cut up dose Murons? Wiv dis?"


    Crysk attempted to shrink into his own shell. "I didn'' mean to!"


    Kyosk snorted. "Right. Day just tripped and cut dere own ''eads off."


    "Day was attackin'' me!" Crysk whined. "Day was gonna rip me to bits!"


    " A gold-shelled Grik at the table stood up abruptly. "But, dat''s  posi¨C"


    "Shuddup!" Kyosk barked.


    Grogdish hammered the table with his fist and slumped back in his seat, looking mutinous. He gave Crysk a vicious glare.


    Crysk merely looked scared, glancing around as though waiting for the mob to beat him up.


    Kyosk looked back at the sword, impressed. The blade was so highly polished it looked almost liquid in the torchlight. A very faint, silvery glow lingered in the air whenever he moved it, like a ghostly aura.


    he thought.


    He grinned.


    He turned to face the room. "Listen up!" he boomed, immediately silencing the leers and jeers and angry outbursts and disappointed mutterings of those who had expected spilt blood.


    "Who ''ere is sick of sittin'' around?" His voice resounded off the greasy walls. "Who wants ter taste battle? Who wants ter hear the hallways ringin'' wiv steel and screams? Who wants to smell Muron blood on dere fists?"


    The hall shook with cheers and howls.

 Chapter Forty One

    On slender ice all plans parade


    Yet slender still this doomed charade.


    The dream was almost the same as before. Once again, Ferrian was cocooned in scintillating brilliance, the white light forming a barrier to his senses, his emotions and memories, filling his entire being within and without. Once again, he knew only peaceful indifference.


    Somewhere, he could hear a fierce wind ululating in joyous reverie like a thousand freed spirits, faint and distant, beyond the glow of magic. He sensed that a terrible storm raged all around him and yet at the same time very far away. He listened to it, unconcerned, feeling strangely safe and protected. He felt detached from the world, as though listening to meaningless echoes from inside the heart of a star, high in the heavens.


    After awhile, a woman''s voice drifted into his range of hearing, as he knew it would, as he eagerly expected it to. It was just as beautiful as he remembered it. The whispers of the storm slipped completely from his thoughts, trailing into silence as his awareness focused completely on the song.


    This time, he thought he began to recognise glimmers of meaning within the melody. He did not know how this could be, for he knew that the language was one that he had never heard before. Trickling through his mind like a sunlit stream, he felt the words slowly unravelling, translating themselves in bits and pieces that seemed familiar.


    Ferrian concentrated harder. He did not know for how long, since the concept of time here was foreign, but eventually the song revealed itself in full, blooming like a flower opening to a cold winter sun:


    Breath of snow and raindrop bright


    Keep our Mother safe and cold


    Through the everlasting night


    May she never perish old


    May she once again bring light


    To the children of her fold.


    The lilting verse repeated itself over and over, brandished with love and, Ferrian thought, sadness. But it was a gentle, forgiving sorrow, as of someone saying goodbye.


    She''s not my mother, he realised. She''s searching for her own¡­


    Who are you? he asked.


    The woman''s voice trailed into soft silence. After a few moments, however, it resumed as though there had been no interruption. Ferrian asked again. Who are you? Please, tell me.


    Again, he received nothing in response to his query.


    The singing continued.


    He wondered at that, for awhile. Why did the woman never answer him? Was she even aware of his existence? Or did she not have the words to reply?


    Was there, perhaps, no woman at all, but merely the voice, the same exquisite, melancholy chant repeating itself for all eternity?


    Just the echoes of a voice long gone¡­


    Keep our Mother safe and cold.


    Trapped within a diamond¡­


    Ferrian turned suddenly, searching the white glare. As though summoned by his wishes, the pedestal appeared a short way away, hazy in the light. He ran towards it ¨C or perhaps it came to him ¨C and in an instant he stood once again before the great clear crystal. Light shimmered within it, sparkling off thousands of facets, throwing tiny rainbows in all directions.


    The voice was louder, now.


    May she never perish old.


    Ferrian stared into its depths, mesmerised by the pattern of flickering light. An overwhelming desire to touch the crystal seized him and without thinking, he placed his hand upon it.


    Crack.


    It snapped along a facet, the crack travelling deep into the diamond''s heart, splintering the light, freeing it from its frozen prison.


    Ferrian''s emotions returned in a rush that caused him to gasp and take a step backwards. The edges of his vision closed in as blackness crept up behind him, deeper than starless space, the omnipresent white glare retreating into the crystal, into a freezing, burning ball. The woman''s voice warbled and wailed: no longing soothing or beautiful but sharp and dissonant. Fear and horror spider-webbed through him like the ever-spreading cracks in the diamond, threatening to break him apart as well.


    No, he cried. I didn''t mean to break it!


    Knowing what was going to happen next, he tried to turn, to flee, but found that he could not move. His insubstantial body was riveted to this realm of light and darkness, forced to watch his dream play out.


    The light grew so bright that he could not look at it.


    And then the diamond shattered.


    But just before it did, in a sliver of time before the end, the invisible shackles binding him in place abruptly released and he turned into the darkness¡­


    ¡­only to find himself staring at an enormous eye.


    A quicksilver eye. Just like his own, but nothing like his own at all; it was huge, inhuman, and inconceivably old. Disembodied, it floated in the black void, gazing directly at him.


    Ferrian could see his reflection in it ¨C not a ghostly wisp of shadow but his own solid self, his own stunned, terrified expression, silhouetted against the white glow behind him.


    Then the great eye closed and crystal shards exploded all around, like glittering daggers. One of them embedded itself into his right hand, pain ripping his arm asunder, and he screamed¡­


    Removing his boot from the boy''s broken hand, Arzath watched him wake with a scream and roll over on the icy floor, clutching his arm to his chest. In the chilly, quiet stillness, the sorcerer''s breath clouded before bloodless lips, his eyes bright glimmers beneath frost stiffened hair. He dropped to one knee at Ferrian''s side, ice cracking off him in sheets. Then he curled one freezing hand around the boy''s throat, causing him to gasp.


    Arzath leaned forward, struggling to speak through numb lips and chattering teeth. "M-most impressive," he stammered. "Y-you have proven your w-worth¡­" He leaned forward even further, until he was whispering directly into Ferrian''s ear, his mouth twisting into a sadistic grin. "Sh-shall we try that again, this time on my d-dear brother''s castle instead of my own?"


    And then he laughed.


    * * *


    Ferrian woke slowly. He felt groggy, his consciousness dragging itself out of a sticky quagmire of unpleasant dreams. He could not remember any of them ¨C save for the one with the crystal, which he was beginning to think was something more than just a dream ¨C but the sick, unnerving feeling they created stayed lodged in his stomach.


    He forced his eyes open.


    Rain and sleet splashed in violent waves against a nearby window, as though the room was adrift in a heaving sea. Nothing was visible beyond the rippling panes except grey fog and a glimpse of mountain rock. The storm still grumbled all about, but slightly more subdued now, having retreated beyond the walls.


    .


    That one act alone might very well have saved his life, or at least bought him some more time, but the fact brought him no joy. If Arzath thought that Ferrian had some kind of control over the Winter, he would surely force him to summon it again.


    Or use it in Gods knew what unthinkable ways.


    He groaned. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he peered around, blinking sleep out of his eyes.


    He was in a small, circular room, only about five paces in diameter and sparsely furnished. Besides the bed he was lying on, there was a dusty clothes chest and a tiny crude table made of scrap wood nailed together, one leg propped up with a chunk of obsidian rock, the same material as the enclosing walls. On the table was a bowl of water and a mug containing the remnants of a strong-smelling herbal concoction.


    Ferrian slumped back onto the hessian sack that passed for a pillow. So, Arzath had drugged him. That explained why his head was so foggy. He touched a hand to his forehead and saw that it was splinted and bandaged. The pain had lessened to a dull throb, but was starting to spike again as his body awoke fully. He winced. Obviously, Arzath wanted him rested and healed for some reason.


    Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what the sorcerer had whispered in his ear. Something about his brother''s castle¡­ he could barely recall anything that Arzath had said, other than forcing him to summon the Winter.


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    Inevitably, his thoughts drifted back to the dream within the white light. He was ruminating on how it was connected with the Winter when he heard the door lock click.


    He scrambled out of bed as a black robed figure entered, but it was only the young servant. The boy carefully averted his eyes from Ferrian''s as he placed a tray of steaming food on the table, collected the empty mug and turned to leave. Ferrian made to catch his arm, thinking to ask him some questions. But the boy dodged away, nimble as a mouse and scurried out of the room, locking the door behind him.


    Ferrian sat back on the bed gloomily, noticing as he did so that he, too was clothed in a similar black garment, but his distaste was short-lived.


    The smell of the food was intoxicating.


    Too hungry to care whether it had been contaminated or not, he threw himself onto the hot soup and bread. He was still choking down the last of it when the door opened again.


    This time, it was Lord Arzath.


    The sorcerer strode across the room and threw a heavy oilskin cloak at Ferrian''s feet. "Put it on," he ordered.


    Ferrian swallowed quickly. "We''re going outside?" he said in surprise, glancing at the frost-streaked window. "In this weather?"


    "I''ve no more time to waste!" Arzath snapped impatiently. "Put it on!"


    For a moment, Ferrian considered refusing the order. Then he decided that being petty would gain him nothing, so he reached down for the cloak. Arzath''s staff lashed out and caught him on the cheek, sending him staggering against the wall.


    "I''m doing what you asked!" he cried angrily.


    Arzath stepped up to him and leaned forward. "Just making sure that you''re completely awake," he said, smirking. Then he turned, leaning on his staff, and departed the room, leaving the door open. Glaring after him, Ferrian picked himself up from the floor, snatched up the cloak and put it on. He paused for a moment, scraping together the last crusts of bread and stuffing them in his mouth, then followed.


    The Grik on guard outside the door sneered at him as he passed, causing him to take a startled step sideways and nearly trip over. The Grik guffawed and then attempted to spike him with its halberd, but Ferrian was already hurrying down the stairs. Arzath was waiting for him at the bottom, boot tapping. He grabbed Ferrian''s arm and yanked him out of the stairwell, whirling him into the corridor and giving him a shove in the right direction.


    He wasn''t about to attempt anything rash just yet, however. He remained observant as Arzath directed him through the castle, but the place was a rabbit warren. Some of the corridors were laid out lavishly with red carpet runners, tapestries, urns and other decorative features, splashes of colour against the black. Others were simple bare flagstones and cobwebbed walls. There were niches and crannies everywhere, passages that could have led anywhere or nowhere. Most of the windows were high and impossible to look out of, the light filtering through dusty and uncertain. They came across no one save a few rats that skittered out of their way.


    At one point, they passed along a wide, lofty hallway lined with deep-set windows that were low enough to allow Ferrian a glimpse of the valley beyond, saturnine and misty. There was the white castle, perched on the cliffs like a ghost in the rain.


    That was his castle, it had to be! Was there a chance that he was home? Could he help? At the very least, he couldn''t possibly be worse than Arzath¡­


    "Vile, isn''t it?" Arzath said sourly from behind him. "Take a good look while you can, boy. With your help, it won''t be there for much longer."


    stop walking. He turned to Arzath, aghast. "That''s what you want me to do? Use the Winter to break into that castle?"


    I wanted you for?"


    Ferrian stared at him. "I don''t understand. Why don''t you use your own magic? I can barely even control¨C"


    In the next instant Ferrian found himself pinned to the wall, the butt of the black staff jammed painfully against his chin. "You WILL get me into that castle, wretch, or I will let the Murons pick you apart, piece by piece! Those are your choices. Why don''t we decide right now?"


    Rain hammered on the window glass beside them, casting rippled reflections like teardrops over Arzath''s face. Ferrian stared into those green eyes and quavered. There was a wild, mad desperation there, and hatred like nothing he had ever seen before, or imagined. This was not a rational man, but one teetering precariously on the edge of sanity. And despite his outwardly fragile appearance, he was nevertheless a sorcerer: a very powerful one. Pushing him too far would almost certainly be the last thing Ferrian ever did.


    He tried to swallow against the staff. "Alright," he whispered.


    "."


    "W-what?" Ferrian coughed, rubbing his throat.


    ," Arzath repeated. "It is a simple chant used by novices to improve concentration. Repeat it over and over if you feel yourself losing consciousness. You are no use to me if you continue to black out every time you try to summon your magic."


    Ferrian simply nodded, grateful despite himself.


    "That is all the instruction I can give you at this stage," Arzath went on. "You are far too young and na?ve to learn anything more complicated, and there is no guarantee that anything I teach you will have any effect whatsoever, considering your magic is innate and not taught in the traditional way." He regarded Ferrian like a chained animal not yet broken in. "Willpower will prove most effective in controlling your Winter. Spells are merely words to help guide you. Remember that."


    "I understand," Ferrian replied.


    "Good." He flung the boy back into the corridor. "Keep walking."


    A few minutes later they emerged onto a mezzanine balcony, and Ferrian couldn''t help staring around in morbid awe. A grand, vaulted entrance hall dropped away to their left, lined with columns and towering twelve-foot high statues of gargoyles and demons. The heads of all the statues were turned towards the main doors: anyone entering that way would be faced with a very disquieting sight.


    But Ferrian''s attention was caught by much more than the impressive architecture.


    The polished marble floor was strewn with glass and mud and debris. The high windows were shattered, gaping white holes through which the rain pattered. Patches of ice melted from the ceiling, trickling down the walls and dripping in a steady cadence. Carpets lay in soggy heaps against the walls and draped like tattered banners over the broken balustrades. At the top of the sweeping staircase that led down to the foyer was another pair of heavy oaken doors, sitting awkwardly on their hinges and splintered with deep cracks.


    Ferrian peered inside and recognised the throne room where he had arrived the previous day. Memories of his first encounter with Arzath jarred his consciousness with horrifying clarity.


    Arzath swung him away from the doors and down the stairs. "I¡­ I did all this?" Ferrian whispered.


    The sorcerer smiled, eyes gleaming. "Indeed," he replied.


    Even the impenetrable-looking main doors showed signs of damage. They were firmly secured now, however, with a massive iron bar.


    Arzath stopped before them and scowled. "I thought I ordered these doors unlocked!" he said irritably. He spun, his gaze sweeping the hall, but there were no Grik guards in sight.


    "Kyosk!" he bellowed.


    They waited for a long moment, listening to the wind thrumming the spires high above, creating eerie echoes throughout the castle.


    No response: no one appeared.


    Arzath cursed and turned back to Ferrian. "You!" he said, waving his staff at the doors. "Open the damned thing."


    Ferrian looked doubtfully at the huge bar. He knew before laying a hand on it that it was far too heavy for one person to shift, but he didn''t bother arguing. Instead, he took as firm a grip as he could manage with his injured hand and shoved with all his might.


    Losing patience, Arzath joined him. But even with their combined strength, the bar would not budge a fraction. It seemed to be jammed in place.


    "Dark curse it!" Arzath whacked the stubborn bar with his staff. "Fine," he muttered. "We''ll go another way." He walked a few paces away and then paused, closing his eyes and bringing a closed fist up to his forehead.


    Ferrian watched him nervously. "Is something¨C"


    "Shut up!" Without opening his eyes, Arzath swung his staff up to point at Ferrian again. "I''m trying to think!"


    It was then that Ferrian noticed something odd.


    The staff had a crack in it.


    Quite a large one, several inches long. It must have happened when Arzath hit it against the doors in frustration.


    Ferrian frowned suspiciously. Surely, a magical staff couldn''t be broken so easily? Wouldn''t it necessarily need to be extremely strong in order to contain the power within? And now that he looked closer¡­ he was not an expert on runes or sigils, but those carvings appeared to be very similar to a decorative design that he had seen on staves sold at the markets as walking sticks. Why would a sorcerer be using something so mundane and flimsy as a weapon?


    His mind began to work very fast. He had been too fearful of the rumours to consider it properly before, but from what he could piece together from bits of tales, sorcerers were renowned for carrying swords. Long, shining, magnificent swords... the Swords of the Gods, designed to channel and intensify their power. Every sorcerer who graduated from the School of Magical Studies was supposed to have received one.


    , Ferrian thought, astounded by the revelation.


    All of a sudden, his anxiety was swept away in a conflagration of anger, making the recent bruise on his face sting anew. Instinctively, and with no real idea of what he was doing, he grabbed the staff.


    Unfortunately, he underestimated his opponent''s grip; Arzath stumbled, but maintained his hold. "What the hell do you think you''re doing?!" he cried, attempting to pull it back. Ferrian wrapped both hands around the staff and held on for all he was worth.


    A furious struggle ensued. "Why are you so¡­ desperate to¡­ get it back?" Ferrian challenged, gritting his teeth at the pain in his injured hand. "It''s just a¡­ worthless stick!"


    "You have no idea what you''re¡­ talking about!" Arzath snarled, slamming Ferrian against the doors. The shock of the metal bar against his spine caused him to gasp and lose his grip.


    Triumphantly, Arzath wrenched the staff back, but Ferrian kicked out desperately at the other man''s shin, causing him to stumble, and used the distraction to grab the staff with his good hand and smash Arzath''s head against the door with it. While the man was momentarily dazed, Ferrian twisted the staff out of his grasp and staggered away.


    "You''re not¡­ what you claim to be, are you?" Ferrian panted angrily. "You''re no more a sorcerer than I am! Less, even! Do you even have the use of magic at all?"


    Slumped against the door, Arzath''s face contorted in fury. "You little fool." He pushed himself away. "I will show you how mistaken you are." For the barest of instants, his gaze flicked towards the balcony.


    Ferrian caught the look, and it fanned his courage. "What''s wrong, huh?" he mocked, backing away. "Afraid your minions will find out YOU''RE A CHARLATAN!" He shouted the last words as loud as he could muster.


    Arzath stopped breathing, becoming very still as the words rang throughout the hall and bounced away down the corridors. His expression changed, assuming such a look of panic that Ferrian felt a chill creep up his spine. He didn''t regret the outburst, however. He hoped the Murons would come swooping down and see their master for what he really was.


    You will not live to regret that!"


    He came up against a pillar and ducked behind it as Arzath slashed at him, hitting the stone instead with a shower of sparks. Seizing a sudden opportunity, Ferrian spun around the pillar swinging the staff at Arzath''s back, but the other man was quicker. He whirled, catching the staff with his sword and smashing it against the stone column, breaking it to pieces.


    Heart thundering, Ferrian threw the remains of his weapon at Arzath and sprinted for the stairs, frantically trying to think of a plan on the way. At the bottom of the staircase, however, he stopped dead. There was a squeak on the marble floor as his pursuer skidded to a halt as well.


    A lone Grik stood at the top. He was huge and heavily muscled, with dark, stony skin and deep-set red eyes, his large fangs and face freshly warpainted with Human blood. Several enormous red spikes, four or five feet long, loomed impressively from his craggy, shell-like back, but the sword he held in one thick fist looked oddly disproportionate to his stature. There was something strange about the way the blade reflected light, seeming far too bright for the gloomy hall.


    "Charlatan, eh?" he rumbled, and grinned. "Dat''s intrestin''."

 Chapter Forty Two

    Retaliation, condemnation


    Snow and wind and devastation.


    Ferrian was shoved aside as Arzath ran up the stairs. The man seemed to have forgotten everything, his eyes gone wide, riveted on the sword in the Grik''s hand. "That weapon!" he gasped. "Where did you find it? Give it to me!"


    The Grik lifted the blade, regarding it thoughtfully. "You want dis?" He levelled it at Arzath. "Come an'' get it."


    Halfway up the stairs, Arzath paused. "What are you doing?" he said angrily. "I am your master and I am ordering you to give it to me!"


    "Den take it."


    Arzath hesitated.


    "Go on. Whadda yer waitin'' for? Use yer magic an'' take it!"


    A deep, unnerving silence fell as master and minion glared at each other. Arzath''s free hand closed into a fist, but he didn''t move.


    The Grik''s eyes narrowed. "You ain''t my master," he growled. "You ain''t nothin'' no more, ''cept a pretender. A scrawny, lyin'' Human!"


    "I AM A SORCERER!" Arzath screamed.


    Ferrian wondered whom it was he was trying to convince, the Grik or himself.


    "Yer a Human," the Grik repeated. "A dead one." He began to descend the stairs, swishing the sword lazily as he did so. It was so sharp that it made a humming sound as it passed through the air, and left a curious blurred trail.


    To Ferrian''s amazement, the failed sorcerer held his ground, lifting his own sword in both shaking hands.


    "You¡­ you can''t kill me, Kyosk," Arzath threatened, but his voice had lost its power now, taken on a desperate tone. "Th-the Murons need me, I am the only one who can give them what they desire most! If you destroy me, you will face their wrath!"


    "We''ll deal wiv der Murons."


    "All of them? I don''t think so!"


    "Don''t matter what you fink. Day will die just like you. Me an'' my Griks will fight ''em off like Great Chief Dukogeg fought off an army of five fousand Angels an'' take dis castle fer OURSELVES!" With a battle cry that shook Ferrian''s bones, Kyosk swung his blade at his former master.


    Somehow, Arzath managed to parry, but the force of the blow knocked him back and he was forced to grab the balustrade to keep from tumbling down the stairs. Struggling to regain his balance, he brought his sword up again, only to find that the blade had been sheared off.


    What little blood was left in his face drained away.


    There was sudden movement and noise above them as more Griks appeared. Streaming from left and right, they spread out across the balcony, blocking all escape routes. All of them were armed for battle, faces warpainted, feral eyes craving the taste of death.


    Ferrian backed away in horror.


    Arzath''s broken sword clattered onto the steps.


    He fled.


    The Griks surged forward to the railing, cheering and howling. With a great roar of laughter, Kyosk thundered after.


    Ferrian darted for cover amongst the statues and pillars on the left. The duplicitous sorcerer went the other way, scurrying around like a trapped rat. His demeanour had completely changed, now: he was terrified. Gone were the taunts and threats, his entire attention was focused on staying alive.


    The Griks were throwing things down into the hall, trying to hit him: pottery, candlesticks, weapons, cutlery, burning torches, anything they could lay their hands on. He sought cover behind the pillars on the opposite side of the hall, but Kyosk flushed him out. The big Grik came after him unhurriedly, enjoying the game immensely.


    Desperately, Arzath snatched up bits of debris and hurled them at his attacker, but they either bounced pathetically off his shell or were demolished by the shining sword, which seemed to cut through everything.


    Then a flying object caught Arzath in the shoulder, and he went down.


    Kyosk charged towards him as the onlookers screamed for blood. The sword swept down, but Arzath managed to roll aside and stagger to his feet while the Grik extricated the blade from the floor.


    Mingled boos and howls of laughter followed.


    Watching from the shadows, Ferrian felt sick. He was about to see a man slaughtered before his eyes. None of the Griks paid him any notice; to them, he was simply another useless servant. But once they had finished off Arzath, he had no doubt that they would come after him, as well.


    He was shaking, and sweating despite the chill of the hall. Panic and the terrible jeers of the Griks were making him dizzy. There was no way out. Apart from the stairs, which were now impassable, the only other exit from the hall was via the main doors, and he couldn''t move the bar, even with Arzath''s help. He realised suddenly that it was a carefully constructed trap; the Griks had locked the doors on purpose, had planned this attack. Which meant that they must have known of their master''s deception even before Ferrian had arrived.


    That was not a comforting thought. It meant that all other exits were probably locked or heavily guarded as well. Not that he could get to any of them, in any case.


    Oh, Gods! How did I end up in the middle of this mess?!


    Because I was stupid enough to go looking for a sorcerer, and found the wrong one¡­


    He tried to breathe. He would have given anything in the world to have Sirannor, Grisket and Aari here with him right now: they would have known what to do. But they weren''t here. He didn''t even know if they were still alive.


    The fight moved to his side of the hall and Ferrian hurriedly shifted position, trying to keep out of sight. There was an immense cracking sound as Kyosk''s sword scythed through a statue and the Grik threw his weight onto it, seeking to topple it onto his victim.


    Once again, Arzath''s dexterity saved him, though he was weakening quickly. He fell to his knees, straining for breath, but was forced back to his feet as the big Grik approached relentlessly.


    A sudden, tremendous roar engulfed his hearing. Tentatively, Ferrian peered around the pillar.


    Kyosk had Arzath finally cornered beside the stairs. The ill-fated lord of the castle was slumped on the floor against the wall, too tired to continue running. The Griks crowded around the balcony and onto the stairs, chanting and thumping their fists together, some of them trying to hack at the man from above.


    Kyosk raised his sword in the air triumphantly. This was the moment.


    !" Arzath''s cry resounded throughout the hall, a final act of desperation.


    At once the chanting ceased and the Griks fell silent, uncertain. Kyosk hesitated, his eyes flicking around in a moment of confused, wary doubt.


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    Only Ferrian knew what the words really meant.


    The Winter. He wants me to summon the Winter.


    he thought,


    The Griks stirred and resumed their chanting with excited vigour, as though the fact that nothing had happened was final proof of the traitor they knew their master to be.


    Arzath cowered, awaiting the deathblow.


    Ferrian''s expression hardened. "I''m going to die anyway," he said aloud, in case they were the last words he ever had a chance to speak. He picked himself up and took a trembling breath. "This is for you, Aari," he whispered.


    And with that thought firmly in mind, he ran out into the hall.


    Most of the Griks ignored him, too intent on their prize to care about a black-clad servant running about. But some, hungry for their share of the bloodletting, rushed down the stairs towards him, weapons raised.


    Ferrian positioned himself in the centre of the floor, facing the attackers, and closed his eyes. It was the most terrifying thing that he had ever done, and took unbearable willpower to force himself to remain rooted in place. His heartbeat was so loud it almost drowned out the sound of the Griks'' thumping footsteps on the floor. Expecting to feel the bite of steel in his unprotected flesh at any moment, he concentrated.


    Please let this work. Please¡­


    Arzath screamed, and he couldn''t tell if it was a scream of pain or fear, or both, but it clinched his resolve. In his mind he visualised the main doors being torn asunder by the claws of a monstrous wind, rain streaming through the breach like silver arrows, ice flooding over the Griks...


    Burning heat and burning cold flushed through him, and the familiar light appeared almost before he was expecting it, bleeding through his eyelids. Once again, he felt his thoughts disintegrating, pushed to the back of his mind by the blinding glare.


    !" he said desperately. "


    How long he repeated them for, he never knew, but eventually the light began to subside. With grudging slowness it pulled away, releasing its grip, sinking back inside him. He let the chant trail off, waiting for his thoughts and memories to return. He could not tell if he was still conscious or not; he could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing.


    Slowly, Ferrian opened his eyes.


    He was not prepared for what he saw.


    The glow was still there, still emanating from his body, but it had settled into a steady aura and he could see beyond it. The hall had gone dark as night, save for the ice, gleaming like a crystal cavern. Snow swarmed past him and around him in a great whirlwind, wild and angry like frozen bees. The Griks were scattered, flung everywhere like debris, shadowy shapes heaped on the floor and against the balustrades.


    He could not see Arzath or the big Grik Kyosk anywhere.


    Amazed, he stood in the heart of the storm, watching it rage around him, a small, glowing figure in the darkness, yet untouched by its vengeance. He turned slowly in his silent peaceful space to look at the doors.


    They had indeed been ripped apart, just as he had wanted. The heavy iron bar still bound them, but was buckled and twisted, the wood forced open in a huge ragged hole above it. The Winter poured in through the gap, a great beast that had come to him with merely a thought, disastrous and merciless and horrifically beautiful.


    He was enveloped in its power, and it could not hurt him.


    Ferrian lifted a hand as if to touch the invisible face of the monster, not understanding it, yet for the first time in his life, unafraid.


    The storm reflected in his silver eyes.


    My Winter.


    Then his trance-like state began to fade, the light to dim, and whirling ice stung his skin. His hair and cloak ruffled as the wind caught them. "No!" he cried, feeling himself losing control, feeling the energy that had been coursing through him draining away. He tried to maintain it, but it was like trying to hold snowflakes that melted at a touch.


    Then the magic was gone, and he was just another helpless victim in the storm.


    Wind elbowed him about, and Ferrian put up an arm to protect his face. He felt suddenly weak and empty inside, and somehow betrayed.


    , Ferrian thought.


    With that thought he looked around, trying to see what had become of Arzath, and something over by the ruined statue caught his eye.


    A sliver of light. An impossible reflection.


    The strange sword that could cut through anything.


    If there was one certainty in Ferrian''s mind, it was that that sword in the hands of the Griks was a very bad thing.


    Wrapping his cloak around him, he hurried towards it.


    "No!" The cry was almost inaudible over the moan of the storm.


    Ferrian paused, peering through the snow and darkness, and saw a black shape crawling in his direction across the frosty floor.


    Lord Arzath. He was still alive.


    "D-don''t¡­ t-t-touch it!" he gasped. "D-don''t touch¡­ my S-S-Sword!"


    Your sword?" Ferrian replied, voice raised over the wind. "I don''t think so!" He headed for it with increased determination.


    "No, NOOO!" Arzath wailed. With a mammoth effort, he pushed himself to his feet.


    Ferrian picked up the weapon. Immediately, he knew that something was wrong. An unpleasant itching sensation crept through his hand, like pins and needles, followed by a jab of acute pain as though a spike had been rammed into his palm.


    He screamed and tried to drop the sword, only to find to his horror that he could not let go. The blade started to vibrate, and glowed with a white light similar to his own magic, pulsing like a heartbeat. The pain was quickly becoming excruciating. Desperately, he tried to release his hand, to no avail. Frost was seeping out of his skin, sealing it to the hilt.


    Arzath grabbed his arm, frantic in his effort to prise Ferrian''s fingers off. The sword made an eerie sound as it quivered, like an out of tune harp string increasing in pitch. Nausea flooded through him. He could feel his skin start to tear as Arzath forcefully separated it from the hilt. "Stop!" he cried. "My hand!"


    And then, all of a sudden, his hand came away. The sword, unexpectedly deprived of its bond, leapt like a creature alive and fell to the floor, spitting sparks.


    Ferrian staggered backwards against a pillar, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest, gasping and in shock. Arzath quickly removed his cloak and wrapped the sword in it. "I w-warned you!" he hissed.


    Through his daze, Ferrian noticed that Arzath was keeping his left arm close to his body, and saw that there was a deep cut in it. A trickle of blood ran down his face as well from a blow to the head.


    He realised they were both very lucky to be alive.


    "What¡­ what now?" he asked weakly.


    Ignoring him, Arzath picked up his bundle, glanced around quickly, then ran for the doors. Not knowing what else to do, and deciding he preferred to take his chances with Arzath and the weather than face the Griks and Murons again, Ferrian followed.


    The gale had lessened somewhat by now, most of it having moved back outside the castle. Snow gusted through the doors and windows in random drifts. The Griks on the balcony were moving guardedly down the stairs, alerted by Ferrian''s scream but still watchful of any further signs of magic. A large bulky shape stirred close to where he and Arzath had just been struggling with the sword, and Ferrian''s heart sank.


    Kyosk had survived as well.


    It seemed that none of the Griks had spotted the two black-clad escapees yet, but it was only a matter of moments¡­


    Arzath had already disappeared through the rent in the doors. Ferrian struggled to clamber out after him, but found this very difficult considering both of his hands were now in agony. "Lord Arzath!" he pleaded. "Give me a hand!"


    Then a black-gloved hand reached through the hole and snatched his wrist, giving him just enough leverage to pull himself through. Sharp splinters scraped his leg but he didn''t have time to check on it. Landing awkwardly in the snow, he hurried after Arzath, grateful that the man had at least had the presence of mind to leave him his boots.


    Then he looked up, and limped to a halt. Instantly, Lord Arzath, the castle, the Griks, the Winter, his pain, everything was forgotten, blasted into oblivion by shock.


    A Dragon stood on the bluff, directly in front of him.


    It was not one of the Red Dragons of the Middle Isle, angry and fierce and filled with fire. Instead it was cool and serene and intense, with scales of pearl and long spiral horns clear as spun glass. Some of these horns curved downward from the sides of its head, others swept back over the massive quartz-crystal plates that were clumped in a ridge along its spine. It had two pairs of wings: the larger two were leathery for half their length, ending in vast silken feathers of white and pale blue. The smaller pair were butterfly-like, delicate and lacy, drifting on the air as though on a summer breeze, not a fierce winter storm.


    Its claws were huge icicles and its eyes¡­


    Its eyes were silver.


    They were identical to the eye in his dream.


    Ferrian was breathless. It was like the Winter incarnate.


    With a blurred, dreamlike movement, the great majestic head lowered until it was so close that he could have reached out through the falling snow and touched its iridescent scales, had he possessed the courage and willpower to do so. The gleaming horns surrounded him, enclosing him like a cage.


    Quicksilver gaze met quicksilver gaze.


    Ferrian was speechless, mesmerised by its strange words. The Dragon stared at him a moment more ¨C it felt like a lifetime ¨C then at last lifted its head away, spread all of its wings and with single, immense flap let the wind carry it aloft. There against the clouds it began to fade and lose form, until finally it was torn apart by the storm and trailed away like mist.


    A hand grabbed his cloak, making him start. "Keep up if you want to live, boy!"


    Ferrian let himself be dragged along, still overcome by what he had seen. "Y-you¡­ you didn''t see that?" he stammered.


    "See what?" Arzath snapped.


    Ferrian looked up into the sky, blinking stinging snowflakes out of his eyes, and whispered: "Never mind."

 Chapter Forty Three

    A shining sword to freeze the way


    So much is lost on this cold day.


    "H-how are we going to get across?" Ferrian asked in dismay. He and Arzath were standing on the riverbank, Ferrian huddled in his cloak in a futile effort to fend off the freezing wind and both of them breathing heavily from pain and fatigue. It brought him little comfort to see that the other man appeared to be in far worse shape than himself.


    Arzath looked completely spent, sagging to one knee on the ground as though his legs could no longer support him. One gloved hand was clamped over the cut on his arm: the makeshift tourniquet was already soaked through. They had been forced to pause in their hasty flight down the bluff path to tend to their wounds as best they could; despite this, Arzath had left a trail of bloody specks all the way from the castle that would be impossible to miss by anyone following. Mercifully, Ferrian''s own injuries had not been as serious as they felt and had stopped bleeding quickly. If nothing else, the cold helped to extinguish the pain.


    It was also numbing his thoughts. The unpleasant repercussions of using his magic were dawning on him very quickly: his strength was failing rapidly. When he had summoned the Winter for the first time in Arzath''s throne room he had fallen unconscious almost immediately; he supposed this was his body''s way of shutting down before too much energy was expended, to give itself time to recover and heal. But on this occasion, he had not allowed that to happen and it was just now returning spitefully to take its toll.


    The brief surge of exhilaration he had felt at witnessing the awesome power of his curse was barely a memory, and he was now fighting a strong desire to close his eyes and sink away into oblivion, anything to escape the freezing nightmare he found himself trapped in. Only fear, crystallised around his brain like sharp icicles, kept him from losing his grip.


    For a long moment Arzath did not answer, his eyes glazed beneath whipping black hair as he stared at the thunderous, churning mass of foam that the river had become. Finally, he muttered, without lifting his head, as though half-talking to himself: "The ford d-downstream will be w-washed out." His voice was coarse and weary. "The only other r-route across lies that way." With an effort, he pointed to the north end of the valley, which was lost in a heavy bank of fog.


    ¡°The w-waterfall path," he continued. "In this weather, it will be a long and tr-treacherous climb. I have come too close to losing my life from that cliff once already. I do n-not care for an encore performance."


    Ferrian stared into the swirling gloom. "But the¡­ the Griks won''t be able to follow us easily," he pointed out.


    Arzath grimaced. "They would be fools to try, and s-so would we. More likely, we will f-freeze to death before we get halfway¨C"


    A shout tumbled down over the rocks, cutting him off. Ferrian caught a glimpse of the Griks as they ventured out of the castle. They were clustered in a group, studying the ground, torches blazing smears against an achromatic background. A few moved forward to the cliff edge to search the valley below. Ferrian lifted his gaze anxiously to the forest of black spires that pinned the sky, searching for winged silhouettes, but nothing moved there except rolling dark clouds.


    He turned back to find Arzath shaking violently. At first he was alarmed, thinking him racked with convulsions, before realising that he was in fact laughing.


    "The M-Murons cannot f-fly in this wind!" he cackled with vicious glee.


    Ferrian scowled at him. "But the Griks can still come after us," he insisted. "W-we can''t stay here¡­"


    As though in answer to his words, further shouts were carried down to them from the bluff top, snatches of sound tossed about by the wind. Ferrian looked about desperately, praying that the snow and fog would provide some cover. Apart from the two protruding bluffs, the valley was narrow and stony and sheer-sided, slick with ice. There was little vegetation to be seen save clumps of gorse and heather, and a few tall spindly pines high up on the bluffs, thrashing in the gale, some already shattered or lightning-scorched. The north and south ends of the valley were completely invisible, and the sky lowered inexorably to envelop the white castle as well, making it appear a ghostly apparition through sullen clouds. Through the middle of it all, the river was a stormy serpent spitting at them, barring them from their last hope of salvation. There was no telling how far they were from any other Human habitation: it felt like ten thousand miles.


    Arzath was right; if they didn''t find shelter somewhere, the Winter would claim them both, long before the Griks did.


    Lord Requar''s castle is our only refuge¡­and we still have to find a way inside¡­


    He shook his head against an overwhelming flood of hopelessness, yet was unable to come up with a better alternative. "We''ll have to risk the waterfall path," he said decisively. "We don''t have any other choice."


    Arzath did not reply. He had gone silent, gazing up at the white castle as he knelt in the snow, his arms wrapped tightly around himself like a child. Without his cloak, he looked terribly gaunt. Ferrian was reminded of his tormented servant, Cimmeran, though Arzath''s fine clothes only served to underline the irony of his situation.


    He is lord of nothing. He can''t control anything any longer, not even his own destiny, and he knows it.


    , Ferrian thought, not wanting to feel sorry for Arzath, but doing so all the same.


    "I''m going to the waterfall," he repeated, a little more sympathetically. "You don''t have to come, but I still have something to live for." His own words surprised him. Not so long ago, he would have given up as well.


    Arzath made no move or response.


    The Griks were starting down the bluff path: they had found the trail.


    Pulling his hood further over his head, Ferrian glanced at Arzath one final time, shook his head, then started upriver, pushing through the frozen reeds.


    "Ferrian."


    The sound of his name stopped him at once. It was the first time that Arzath had used it since they had met.


    He turned.


    Arzath climbed unsteadily to his feet. He picked up the wrapped sword, stumbled towards Ferrian and to the boy''s great astonishment, shoved the weapon into his arms.


    "Take it," Arzath whispered, his gaze turned away. His face was twisted with despair and resentment, as of one being forced to give away their only child.


    "I¡­ I thought you told me not to touch this?" Ferrian said, suppressing a shudder of revulsion at the memory of what it had done to his hand.


    "Th-that was before you completely ignored me!" Arzath replied through gritted teeth.


    Ferrian resisted the urge to drop the bundle. "But it''s your sword. Why are you giving it to me?"


    A terrible silence fell, the wind howling its mockery around them. "W-what do you mean?" Ferrian stammered. A mixture of confusion and icy dread crept through him.


    Arzath took back the sword, shook the cloak away with a flick of his arm, then swept it back under Ferrian''s nose. The blade was dazzling in the frosty air, snowflakes whirling and sliding off the metal like tiny dancers.


    "The moment you touched this Sword," Arzath explained coldly, "it was bonded to you by b-blood and magic. No other l-living soul may ever harness its power! So, let me offer you my sincerest congratulations."


    He stabbed the blade into the snow at Ferrian''s feet. "You''ve just made yourself a Sword of Frost!"


    "No!" Ferrian cried suddenly, leaping backwards, staring at the Sword in alarm. "No, I, I never wanted to be¡­"


    "You made your choice when you sought to claim something you d-did not understand!" Arzath snapped. "Now you must accept the responsibility! You are a s-sorcerer now, boy, whether you c-care to admit it or not, so you may as well make use of your new power!"


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Ferrian stared at him, agape.


    "Or," he continued spitefully, "we can stand here and f-freeze to death in this storm you''ve created!"


    They stood silent for a moment, glaring at each other. Finally, out of pure anger, Ferrian stepped forward and snatched the sword, wincing at the pain in his hand. But it was not a fresh, searing pain; this time the blade did not flare or react strangely to his touch. He was so tired, cold and upset that he could not have cared if it had turned into a fish.


    Before Ferrian could utter another word, Arzath grabbed his sword hand and dragged him over to the river''s edge. "Do not let go!" he hissed, and thrust the blade into the water.


    There came a flurry of howls and shrieks from behind them, and Ferrian saw at once the reason for Arzath''s hasty reaction.


    The Griks had finally spotted them.


    They were charging down the path, some a little too recklessly. Those that stumbled or were too slow were shoved off the cliff along with their torches and weapons and smashed onto the rocks below.


    "What¡­ what are you doing?" Ferrian cried. But he did not need an answer, he had already guessed the man''s unbelievable intentions. "This is impossible, it will never work!"


    "It has to work!" Arzath yelled back. "Summon your magic!"


    "I don''t know how to use it!"


    !"


    "But¡­"


    ?"


    Something whizzed between Ferrian and Arzath and disappeared in the river. Another arrow glanced off a reed, thrown way off course by the wind. Panicking now, Ferrian struggled to call up the Winter, wondering if it would even respond after having been summoned so recently.


    Unfortunately, his fear proved correct. Nothing stirred inside him except his own hammering heart.


    "It''s no use, there''s nothing left!"


    A small axe hurtled towards him and thunked into the mud inches from his foot.


    Arzath screamed a curse, then closed his eyes and began speaking very rapidly and fluidly in a language that Ferrian did not recognise. He gripped Ferrian''s hand in both of his own, crushing it into the hilt, while the two of them attempted to maintain their balance on the slippery bank, fighting the pull of the wind and water. Ferrian''s hand was so numb that he could barely feel the pain any longer¡­


    And then, all of a sudden, he felt a jolt from the blade. An icy sensation swept up his arm, penetrating deep into the core of his being as though a single artery had frozen. Then, at last, the white light responded, sluggish at first, then flooding with unnerving familiarity throughout his body, into his mind. Ferrian quickly repeated the chant that Arzath had taught him, the only spell he knew, praying that it would once again ward off unconsciousness¡­


    Abruptly, the magic drew away from his mind and vision and gathered itself into a piercing ball inside him. Then, like a diverted stream, it rushed down the icy conduit through his arm and into the Sword.


    The flare stopped the Griks in their tracks.


    The wind picked up speed until it was a shrieking white hurricane with two black clad figures hunched at its centre. Disoriented by the light and movement and strange sensations passing through him, Ferrian lost his balance and fell into the river, taking Arzath with him.


    But instead of plunging into frigid water, he landed on something unexpectedly hard.


    Before the light died away, Arzath dragged him to his feet and Ferrian stumbled after him, looking down in shock.


    The river was frozen solid, all the way to the opposite bank. Waves and troughs had gone still, paralysed in time like a magnificent sculpture. Neither he nor Arzath stopped to admire their handiwork, however: the ice bridge was creaking and groaning as the river dammed up behind it.


    The Griks gathered on the bank and began arguing amongst themselves. One hapless victim was pushed onto the bridge.


    The ice along one side was beginning to shift now, the pressure of the water breaking it up piece by piece. The Grik tried to turn back, only to be met with a wall of scythes, spears and halberds.


    "Get after ''em, maggot!" Kyosk yelled. He grabbed the Grik next to him and shoved him out as well. "An'' you too! All of yers! Don'' let ''em get away!"


    "Dey got magic!" one complained. The others growled their agreement until the Grik who had spoken lost his head.


    "AN'' DERE STILL RUNNIN'' FROM US!" Kyosk roared, swinging his halberd at the rest of them. "NOW GET AFTER ''EM!"


    Spurred on grudgingly by the wrath of their Clanmaster, the Griks charged onto the bridge.


    A crack like a whiplash cut the snowy air. The first Grik, who had made it halfway across, suddenly disappeared as the ice gave way beneath him. Then another hapless Grik plunged into the icy river.


    The whole ice bridge splintered.


    The remaining Griks on the bridge tried to struggle onwards, but the ice collapsed beneath them, not strong enough to hold their weight.


    Arzath had already reached the safety of the bank, but Ferrian was lagging behind. He felt the ice become unstable and made a desperate leap for the bank.


    He hit the frozen mud but slipped and fell back onto the ice, which broke and tilted dangerously. He scrambled to regain his feet, but at that moment the bridge failed completely, the river breaking through the obstruction and crashing over everything in its path.


    Ferrian toppled into the water and was engulfed.


    He would have been lost to the icy torrent if not for Arzath, who caught his wrist at the last second. But the current was immense, and Arzath''s grip was not strong enough to hold him.


    He began to slip.


    Ferrian could not breathe. Cold crushed his lungs in an iron fist. But he still had enough sense left to know that he had to do something to help save himself: Arzath was injured and weak and would not be able to pull him out alone. His right hand was all but useless, and his left was still clutching the Sword of Frost¡­


    Arzath seemed to read his thoughts. "Do not¡­ let go of the¡­ Sword!" he cried.


    But Ferrian had no choice. He was not prepared to sacrifice his life for a piece of metal, no matter how powerful or useful or precious in Arzath''s eyes.


    He opened his fingers and released it. The Sword tumbled away, glittering like a fish in the foam and disappeared.


    Arzath cried out in despair and his grip suddenly slackened. For one horrifying, uncertain moment, Ferrian thought the man intended to let him go as well¡­


    Then his grip tightened once more and he resumed his effort to pull the boy out of the stream. Ferrian flailed at Arzath''s wrist with his now unoccupied hand and caught it.


    Slowly, laboriously, Arzath dragged him out of the water. When Ferrian was high enough to catch the rocks with his feet, he used them to bear his weight, providing more leverage. At last, they both collapsed, exhausted and freezing onto the snowy grass.


    Ferrian could not feel his body.


    He could not feel anything any more, not even the cold, and knew that was a bad sign. He should have been panting but his breath was barely a whisper from his lips. Snowflakes spun past his vision, which was going dark around the edges.


    He knew then that he was not going to get up again.


    His strength had been sapped away completely. He did not have the energy to break into Requar''s castle; he could not even move his lips to thank Arzath for trying, futilely, to save his life.


    Distantly, Ferrian wondered if that determination was more than just a desire not to lose a powerful source of magic. He wondered if Arzath was capable of compassion. He wondered what had happened in the man''s life to misguide him, to turn him so hatefully against his own brother and the world.


    He would never know.


    You are a sorcerer now, boy, whether you care to admit it or not.


    No, he wasn''t. He never had been. He was just a boy. All he had ever wanted was to live a normal life, to have friends he could trust, to wake up in the morning without worrying how many days he had woken up in the same place. The Winter had always been too huge, too frightening, too impossible to deal with¡­ and now¡­ it had finally come to claim him.


    I should never have touched that sword.


    He saw it again, vanishing forever in the swirling river.


    Just let it go¡­


    He closed his eyes and let go.


    * * *


    The storm was subsiding.


    Arzath was barely aware of the fact that the snow had stopped falling.


    He could not explain what had possessed him to squander the very last of his energy dragging Ferrian all the way to the top of Requar''s bluff.


    The boy was dead.


    He lay motionless on the ground beside him, his skin porcelain. There was no breath from him, or heartbeat. The plunge into the freezing river had finished him off, his wet clothes had leached the life from him.


    He had also taken with him something irretrievable.


    The last dying flicker of Arzath''s hope.


    The magic was gone, evidenced by the fact the Winter was dispersing.


    Arzath looked bitterly into the valley below. There was no sign of the Griks: those that had survived had retreated back to the castle.


    Tears of frustration and anger welled in his eyes as he watched fire flaring up in many of the windows. Tendrils of black smoke curled into the sky amongst the spires.


    The Griks were torching his possessions. All of his books, all his research, artefacts from the School of Magical Studies¡­ the castle was theirs now and they had no use for such things. The plans and materials for his weapon would be destroyed: he had no chance of ever creating another one.


    And the Sword of Frost was essentially worthless without the boy to wield it, even if he managed to recover it somewhere downstream.


    If only Requar had been the one to fall from that cliff. If only it had been he who had lost his magic, not I ¨C everything would have been so simple!


    Leaving the boy''s lifeless body in the snow, he crawled away into a sheltered niche beside his brother''s castle, using his good arm to drag himself along. When he was amongst the cluster of boulders, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his match tin.


    Opening it, he took a match in unfeeling fingers and lit it. There was nothing to burn: the bits of heather in the rocks were stiff with frost. Instead, he simply stared at the tiny dancing speck of brightness ¨C a mirror of the large angry orange ones in the distance ¨C until it burnt itself out. Then he lit another one. And another after that, and another, until all of them were spent.


    The last match he blew out prematurely and mordantly flicked away. Then he leaned back on the cold stone and decided to close his eyes for awhile.

 Chapter Forty Four

    White sand swirling, here at last


    The Presence''s final die is cast.


    Mekka and Carmine landed on the roof of Carmine''s apartment some way from the embassy. The bright red tiles simmered in the sun, which had scaled the canyon wall and was now attempting to outfly the billowing clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. A hot, dry breeze washed over the heads of the buildings, ruffling the Angel''s feathers and scattering the last of the dust he''d cloaked himself in, returning his feathers to their natural glossy black.


    Carmine could feel his heart thumping against her back, echoing her own. Despite his outward coolness, he was just as anxious about the groundbreaking news they had overheard as she was.


    He was also, Carmine thought, holding her a little longer than was necessary.


    "Thanks, Mekka," she told him politely.


    Reluctantly, he released her. "You''re welcome," he replied quietly.


    She turned to catch his gaze, but he looked away awkwardly. With a flap of his wings, he leapt nimbly onto a chimney stack and slouched against it with one leg dangling over the rim. Carmine edged carefully down the tiles to a flat space and sat down. For a long while they sat in silence, not talking, brooding over the conversation between the King of Daroria and the Arkanian ambassador, letting the revelation and its consequences sift through their minds.


    However Carmine looked at it, the repercussions were overwhelming.


    The Aegis is failing¡­


    She chewed her lip anxiously. "What are we going to do?" she said aloud.


    Mekka simply frowned, saying nothing.


    "King Neodine will launch an attack on the Dragons," Carmine went on. "He''ll try to wipe them out while they''re still confined on the Isle, before they have a chance to escape and scatter around the other nations. He has no other choice. There aren''t any sorcerers left to restore the Aegis, therefore we have to assume that its failing is a certainty, and that it''s going to happen sooner rather than later. The ambassador must have been pretty sure of what he''d seen in the Aurellian, otherwise he wouldn''t have gone out of his way to warn us."


    "Noble of him," Mekka muttered dryly.


    Carmine ignored him, frowning in thought. "The King will need to rally the entire army, perhaps seek help from Siriaza or Remast or maybe even Enopina. Current enemies and former enemies, maybe, but petty power wars over redstone won''t seem so important when everyone finds Dragons on their doorsteps."


    Mekka shook his head. "It will make no difference," he said fatalistically. "Many kings of many nations have attempted to eradicate the Dragons throughout the ages, to no avail. A thousand years they have been imprisoned on that island, and in all that time only one Human has ever managed to slay one¡­" his voice trailed off and he gave a start of realisation.


    Carmine closed her eyes. "My father," she whispered. Suddenly, she straightened with a jolt and looked up at the Angel, her eyes widening. "Oh no, Mekka, you don''t think¡­?"


    "That the King will seek Sirannor''s aid once more?" Mekka replied darkly. "Assuredly."


    "But he''s a convicted traitor!"


    "He is also a Freeroamer," Mekka pointed out. "Which may be enough to redeem himself in the eyes of the King¡­ although General Dreikan will be more difficult to convince. But still, this is a desperate situation: anything is possible.


    "The more important question, I think, is whether or not Sirannor Vandaris would be willing to help."


    "Of course he would!" Carmine retorted, a little angrily. "It''s true that he hates General Dreikan, and he hates the King, and he hates the Middle Isle, but he wouldn''t let millions of people die and his own country fall into ruin out of spite!"


    "And then of course," Mekka said hesitantly, "there''s Hawk."


    Attack first, threaten anyone who asked questions later.


    She sighed heavily and stood up. "Someone has to warn them¡­"


    Mekka was already standing on the chimney stack, arms folded across his lean chest. He was rather tall for an Angel, an inch taller than Hawk, in fact. Perhaps that was another reason Hawk found him insufferable.


    "I will go," he declared, seemingly having come to the same conclusion way ahead of her.


    He had a set look to his face, which Carmine knew indicated that he had made a decision and would not be budged on it. She had to try, anyway.


    "You don''t have to do this, Mekka," she replied, shaking her head, though was nevertheless touched that he had made the offer. Mekka rarely visited other cities; most places in Daroria weren''t as accommodating to Angels as the capital was, and his ominous colouring especially seemed to spook people. "My family aren''t your responsibility."


    His elegant eyebrow raised in genuine surprise, as though any other possibility had never occurred to him. "I can get there much faster than you can, redfeathers," he told her reasonably.


    There was no arguing with that. Even on horseback, she could not match the swiftness of an Angel.


    She sighed again. "You always get your way, don''t you?" she said jokingly.


    Mekka''s self-satisfied smirk faded and he gave her a long look. "No," he answered softly. "Not always."


    He glanced away abruptly, then his smile returned. "Don''t get into trouble while I''m gone," he said with a wink.


    She gave him a sweet, innocent, ''who, me?'' look.


    With a sceptical "hmm," he took off.


    "Mekka!" Carmine called.


    He whirled in the air, shadowy wings flapping.


    "If Hawk calls you a Muron again, you have my permission to punch him!"


    * * *


    "You know what, Captain?" Hawk said.


    "What?" Sirannor replied wearily.


    "I''m sick of this bloody place."


    "You don''t need to tell me."


    "Have you thought of a plan yet?"


    "No."


    "Good. ''Cause I have."


    Hawk jumped down off the dais and began crunching over the glass, swinging his sword up to rest on his shoulder. "I''m getting out of here, even if I have to walk until my legs drop off. And even then," he added, "I''m gonna keep on walking anyway, ''cause it''ll probably be a trick."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Sirannor smiled. "As good a plan as any," he said. He turned to drag Cimmeran to his feet.


    Hawk scowled at the stone ball as he walked, looming on the glass field some way away like the moon''s angry little sister. "Go on, flatten me," he muttered. "I could use a good lie down."


    And then he heard the noise.


    Despite his own resolve, Hawk halted, glancing again at the ball. But the sound was not coming particularly from there; the great stone had not moved.


    It was coming from all around them and sounded like laughter. But it was strange, warped and heavily echoed, entwined with many voices, like listening to a crowd jeering from underwater.


    Hawk turned around slowly, holding his sword up defensively, bracing himself for whatever mad new manifestation was to appear.


    Then he saw them.


    disfigured.


    Hawk was no stranger to burn injuries, on the Middle Isle there were casualties on a daily basis from the Dragons and volcanoes. But these turned his stomach.


    "Dead people?" he said, fighting back a sweep of nausea. "It''s trying to scare us with corpses?"


    "Not just any dead people," Sirannor replied quietly. "Look at their clothing ¨C what''s left of it ¨C and the objects they are holding."


    Hawk looked around uncomprehendingly. "They just look like freaks to me¡­"


    "Some of them are carrying books, some are carrying swords. Look closely at the weapons."


    Hawk did so. "They all seem to be the same design,¡± he observed. ¡°Gems in the hilt; entwined snakes¡­"


    "The Swords of the Gods," Sirannor declared. "I have seen relics of these weapons before. Their origin is well known¡­"


    "The School of Magical Studies!" Hawk finished in realisation. A chill of horror passed through him. "Holy Goddess, they''re sorcerers¡­ the people who died in the explosion¡­?"


    "Indeed," Sirannor replied sombrely.


    "Damn right we are!" Hawk answered. "We know who you are, and we know your secret, so quit with the stupid mind games!"


    You know nothing of us. You do not understand the meaning of pain, of fear, of eternity, or of games. We are the sand, the dust at your feet¡­


    Beneath Hawk''s feet, the glass shards softened and dissolved back into white sand.


    We are the sky and the stars, the old stone and the buried bones. The children of the Gods. The rulers of a shattered order. The black windows that frame your soul. Nothing is hidden from us. We are the Presence.


    ¡°Shall I tell you a sad story? I believe that your own magic has corrupted you, trapped you here in a tortured half-world, like the wraiths on Demon Heights. You died in fear, and fear is the only thing you can now comprehend, the only thing you still have the power to manipulate.


    "And you miss that power, don''t you? You long to regain it. You feed hungrily on the weaknesses of those that venture into this place because it gives you back a shred of your lost superiority."


    "We''re not afraid of you," Hawk said determinedly. "There''s nothing more you can show us that we can''t overcome."


    One of the figures broke away from the circle and ran towards Hawk. Pieces of scarlet fabric still clung to its charred body like torn flesh. In its one remaining hand it raised its shining Sword and attacked him. Hawk swiftly parried the blow but his own sword passed right through his opponent''s, and he felt a devastating pain as the blade plunged into his chest.


    He staggered in shock, his face going pale as he watched blood trickle down his breastplate.


    All of these images were the bitter truth; things that he could not deny or ignore, and he felt his legs weaken under the monstrous weight of despair and guilt. His chest burned, his body seized with pain¡­ he was dying.


    No,


    He was not a bad person. He had no regrets. He did not resent the unpleasant aspects of his life; he needed them, for without them the wonderful, beautiful moments would have no meaning.


    Abruptly, the dead sorcerer stumbled backwards as Hawk had done, pulling its Sword from his chest, and the pain and visions vanished. Hawk looked down, relieved and empowered to see no blood, no wound. Glaring at the sorcerer, he swung his own sword again and this time the corpse exploded in a shower of sand.


    An uncertain murmur rippled through the rest of the crowd. A faint tremor passed through the ground. The stone boulder cracked. A third of the gruesome figures evaporated into grey mist.


    Another one loped up to the dais and attacked Sirannor. The Captain did nothing at all, merely folded his arms and closed his eyes placidly. The moment the Sword struck him, both weapon and sorcerer turned to dust.


    The Presence let out a scream, and another third of the corpses disappeared. The tremor this time was more powerful, and the boulder fell apart.


    Sirannor brushed some sand off his sleeve.


    The Presence appeared to be losing its resolve. The remaining figures wavered and flickered, and one by one melted into mist.


    Grinning, Hawk ran back to the dais and clasped his old friend''s hand in victory.


    But the Presence had not retreated entirely.


    One solitary figure remained.


    She was an Angel with long silver hair, once very pretty but now half her small body was ruined, the bones melted so badly that she could hardly stand upright. One wing was soft and grey and white, the other a twisted mess of burnt feathers. Tattered turquoise robes trailed in the sand as she limped slowly towards the dais. She carried no weapon.


    "Uh-oh," Hawk said quietly, his grin fading as he realised the corpse''s intentions.


    Both he and Sirannor looked at Cimmeran.


    The servant cowered from the advancing horror, his eyes wide and terrified.


    Sirannor grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic. "Listen to me," he said coldly. "You must face this thing or none of us will ever get out of this godforsaken place again. The Presence will show you things that you do not want to see, that will terrify you and cause you pain. Pain, greater than you have ever felt before in your life. It will try to make you believe that you are worthless¡­" his voice trailed off.


    Hawk put his face in his hand. "We''re doomed."


    After a moment of uncertain silence, in which they all watched the Angel corpse climb awkwardly onto the dais, Sirannor went on in a low voice: "For what you did to Aari, you will gain no forgiveness from me. Ever. It does not matter to me whether or not the Presence takes your life. It would please me greatly if it did."


    His grip tightened and his steel eyes narrowed. "But it does concern me if the Presence uses your fear to strengthen itself all over again, so for all our sakes, fight it! For once in your miserable life, show some courage and consider lives other than your own!" With that, he shoved Cimmeran at the walking corpse.


    The Angel stretched out a grey, slender arm and touched Cimmeran''s face. Tears trickled down her ravaged cheeks from pale blue eyes, which were clear but empty of life or emotion, staring at nothing. "Poor lost one," she whispered. "Poor lost one¡­"


    And then Cimmeran began to scream.


    He tried to pull away, but the Angel wrapped her arms around him with startling speed, clutching him to her possessively. He struggled hysterically, but the Angel was much stronger than she looked, and with his hands still bound behind his back, he could not fight her off.


    happy memories to fall back on?


    His torment was painful to watch. "Sirannor," Hawk said anxiously, wincing, "that thing''s going to torture him to death. Do we have to put him through this? The Presence is weakened already, maybe it won''t chase us if we make a run for¡­"


    Movement off to his right caught Hawk''s eye.


    The boulder was putting itself back together.


    But not in the shape of a ball. Amidst a whirl of sand, the chunks of stone rearranged themselves into something resembling an enormous horned and armoured beetle, with six legs and three long, segmented tails that curved over its back like a scorpion''s.


    Sirannor cursed and lunged at Cimmeran. "Fight it!" he yelled angrily.


    Cimmeran did not respond, just continued to scream and writhe in agony.


    "Dammit!" Sirannor cried, as the stone monster moved towards them. "It is drawing on his terror to fuel one last manifestation!"


    Hawk felt his heart begin to pound anew. "It''s real this time, isn''t it?"


    "As real as Cimmeran makes it!"


    Hawk swallowed, watching the monster approach, looming against the skyline. Its shadow spilled out across the white sand. Its footsteps shook the ground, sending up puffs of dust.


    Hawk''s hands tightened around the hilt of his sword. "There''s only one way to find out," he said.


    Before he could think better of it, he leaped off the dais and ran to meet it.


    The monster was swifter than he expected, swivelling on the spot, swinging its three massive tails towards him. Hawk flung himself to the ground, feeling the stone scrape across his pauldrons as they passed over. Leaping at once to his feet, he managed to gain the relative cover of the creature''s body before the tails came back for another pass, only to be confronted by an even more arduous problem: avoiding being stepped on.


    Joints grinding, the monster twisted and turned in an effort to find him, churning up the sand. Hawk ducked and dodged and swung his sword with all his might at one of the legs.


    The blade rebounded with a vicious clang, spraying out sparks, sending him staggering backwards. He let his momentum carry him backwards into the sand to avoid the leg that slammed down right where he had been standing.


    "Hellfire," he panted in dismay. "Guess this night ain''t over yet¡­"

 Chapter Forty Five

    Before the dawn, a final stand


    Can stone be slain by single hand?


    On the dais, Sirannor strained to prise Cimmeran out of the Angel''s death grip, cursing the servant for his lack of willpower. He had feared that this might happen, that if the Presence should target their weakest member he would not have the strength to resist its manipulations. Yet, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, save offering Cimmeran the kind of reassurance and hope that Sirannor simply could not give. Aari''s death still burned too painfully inside him.


    He found himself wishing bitterly that he had killed the man when he''d had the chance.


    Cimmeran had screamed his voice out, and was now sobbing weakly against the corpse''s chest. Despite her frail and decimated appearance, the Angel would not release her prize, seeming almost to have fused herself to the servant''s body. Sirannor could not touch her directly, his hands simply went through her; she was a ghost. Instead, he had wrapped his arms around Cimmeran''s waist and was pulling back with all his weight.


    The Freeroamer ignored her, clenching his jaw tighter, concentrating on his efforts.


    "It''s no¡­ use, Captain!" Hawk panted, having just sprinted back onto the dais, doubled over with the effort to breathe. He shook his head helplessly, his scruffy hair flicking about, lank with sweat. "It''s¡­ just too strong!"


    Sirannor pulled away from Cimmeran, breathing heavily from his own futile exertion. He swiped angrily at the dark mist, which was creeping into his nostrils and mouth, and looked up at the monster. It was advancing slowly, but it was so huge that it would not need many strides to reach the dais. Sirannor''s sharp grey eyes scanned its anatomy rapidly, searching for weaknesses.


    There were no obvious ones that he could see. "You tried the leg joints and the gaps between the armour?" he inquired of Hawk.


    His companion nodded. "I tried every damn thing I could think of! There are no eyes, and not even a head that I could find. The underbelly is just as impenetrable as the rest of the thing. It''s all solid rock! It''s like trying to attack a great big ugly walking fortress!" He was waving his arms about emphatically as he spoke, clearly becoming edgy and nervous.


    "Calm down," Sirannor told him, even though his own chest was tight with apprehension. "Every enemy can be defeated. If we cannot stop it directly, we must find a way to do so through Cimmeran." Even as he said the words, he eyed the sword in Hawk''s hand.


    Hawk didn''t notice the dark look in the Captain''s eyes. "Can''t we knock him out?" he suggested hopefully.


    Sirannor shook his head at once. "No. That will likely make things much worse. The Presence has the ability to infiltrate our deepest thoughts, even while we are awake. Unconscious, we would be completely at the mercy of our subconscious mind, unable to distinguish at all between delusion and reality. It would literally have free rein of Cimmeran''s head."


    "It would manifest his nightmares?"


    "Exactly. While awake, he still has at least partial awareness of his surroundings. He can hear us and see us. We may be able to influence his thinking."


    The monster had almost reached them, a craggy wall of threatening stone filling their entire field of vision. Its shadow enveloped them, blocking out the moon, so deep they could barely see each other in the gloom. The ground rumbled. Heavy stone rasped on heavy stone, a sound that promised crushing death with every movement.


    "How do we do that?" Hawk asked quickly, backing away, his sword raised again, more out of instinct than a useful defence.


    "By making him believe in himself, or the very least, in us. MOVE!"


    They both flung themselves to one side as the three massive tails slammed into the dais.


    Rolling into the relatively clear space between two of the tails, they lifted their arms to shield themselves, chunks of stone raining down upon them. Hawk''s armour protected him somewhat, but Sirannor wore nothing but his long coat, pants and boots. Great slabs and small projectiles slammed into his back and limbs with stinging brutality, knocking the wind from his lungs. Dozens more blooms of pain added to the re-inflamed ache in his shoulder.


    Sirannor was glad the pain excused him from a reply. He knew exactly what needed to be done, known it before he had forced Cimmeran into this confrontation. He realised now that he had known hours earlier, from the moment that he had encountered the heartbreaking apparition of poor Aari, when he had first entered this place. He had known what it would take, but had buried the truth inside him, denying it, because it was devastating.


    How could he commit such a betrayal? It cut against everything he had ever taught himself.


    He looked up, purposely avoiding Hawk''s gaze, struggling violently with his emotions. Hawk had dropped his sword. It lay a few feet in front of him, glinting dully in a chink of moonlight, chipped and dented from the young soldier''s useless assault on the stone behemoth.


    The easier one.


    Aari''s death must be avenged!


    With an animal snarl, he sprang to his feet. Before Hawk had time to react, he snatched up the sword. Ignoring his friend''s horrified cry ¨C not even aware of it ¨C Sirannor bounded on to the tail as it began to lift from the deep furrow it had created in the platform.


    He leapt the final six feet and landed in a crouch by Cimmeran and the Angel corpse. The tails lifted high over his head, plunging him into a rippling band of shadow.


    !"


    Hesitation and mercy cast aside, he strode purposefully forward, and swung the sword¡­


    Hawk slammed into him from the side. Despite the young man''s momentum and armour giving him an advantage, Sirannor kept his balance. He elbowed Hawk viciously in the face, sending him reeling into the furrow.


    Enraged at the interference, Sirannor spun and jumped down to where the soldier lay dazed in the rubble.


    "DO NOT GET IN MY WAY!" he screamed, eyes blazing. "THIS DECISION IS MINE ALONE TO MAKE!"


    Then he advanced on Hawk, spinning the sword in his hand to point downwards like a dagger.


    His eyes going wide, Hawk slid hurriedly backwards, scrabbling on the loose rock. "What¡­ what the hell are you doing?!" he cried. "Captain Sirannor, I''m not the enemy!"


    Hawk''s frantic pleas were mere thumps of sound in the haze of Sirannor''s bloodlust. He stabbed the sword downward, frighteningly fast.


    Hawk lashed out desperately with one leg, catching the flat of the blade with his leg guard, knocking it out of the Captain''s grip. Then he was on his feet, launching himself at Sirannor, seeking to throw him to the ground.


    Sirannor shifted to one side, caught Hawk by the arm and flipped him, and had him in a crushing headlock in the blink of an eye.


    Hawk gasped, and clawed at the arm that was cutting off his air supply, but his steel gauntlets were too thick to gain any purchase. "Captain¡­ please!" he choked. "I''m¡­ your friend!"


    Sirannor tightened his grip. He grabbed Hawk''s head with his free hand, preparing to snap his neck.


    "Stop!" Hawk tried to scream. "Sirannor¡­ no!" He was sobbing with panic, now. "You¡­ gave me¡­ your¡­ blessing!" Sirannor could feel the young man''s heart crashing around like a deranged captive animal, even through the breastplate.


    He hesitated, shreds of memory slipping through the haze like glitters of glass in a crimson sea.


    His blessing?


    Carmine.


    He¡­ he had given his heart to their union. His daughter was Hawk''s soulmate.


    Hawk. Hawk was his friend¡­


    The mist dissipated. Abruptly, Sirannor released him, starting in shock.


    Hawk doubled over, coughing and wheezing. For a long moment, neither of them could speak.


    "I¡­ I''m sorry¡­" Sirannor apologised finally, blinking to clear his vision. "I¡­ do not know¡­what happened¡­" He stared down at his friend, who was checking gingerly that his bloody nose was not broken.


    I nearly killed him,


    To his wonder and astonishment, the young man smiled, albeit weakly. "Just¡­ warn me, the next time¡­ you''re feeling homicidal," he quavered.


    Sirannor found that he was shaking as well. How had the Presence manage to slip past his defences so easily? He had been certain that it could no longer reach him, that he had conquered his weaknesses¡­


    . When he had touched the Angel, the dark mist had crept surreptitiously into his mind, finding the one chink in his mental armour that he had not covered, and taken control of him in an instant. It was more powerful that he had thought.


    He felt ill and tainted, as though poisoned.


    Hawk placed his hand on the Captain''s shoulder. "I know it wasn''t you," he said. "It was the Presence screwing with your head."


    me, Hawk," he replied, haunted. "A part of me¡­"


    "The part that died a long time ago, with Sereth. Remember?"


    Sirannor said nothing. He merely lifted his hand and placed it over Hawk''s.


    "What''s happening now?" Hawk sighed, glancing around.


    The old man looked up. Darkness engulfed them, but it was more than just the monster''s shadow. Gone were the moon and fading stars and steadily brightening flush of the oncoming dawn. Gone were the ancient remains of the old city. The courtyard had been plunged into pitch blackness, illuminated only by the otherworldly glow of the Angel corpse, smearing everything with a thin, silvery lustre, a parody of moonlight. Men and monster and Angel floated in an empty void; a ring of glittering white sand surrounded the ruined dais, disappearing into nothing.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    And the Presence was laughing, all voices joined together again in hysterical ecstasy at the madness it had created.


    The Captain stood up slowly. The monster was still there. Its three huge tails were poised ominously above their heads, hammers of stone against a black sky, ready to pulverise them like bugs. A strange serenity drifted down upon him like a silken shroud as he gazed up at them. The giant stone insect was representative of the personal monsters each one of them had been forced to overcome simply to survive this evil place.


    fear?


    He walked over to Hawk''s sword, and picked it up for the last time.


    Hawk rose to his feet anxiously. Sirannor turned and looked him in the eye, and forced a smile for his friend''s benefit. "Trust me," he said softly. He held his gaze until Hawk nodded, then walked through the rubble until he stood again behind Cimmeran.


    Dark, oily mist curled around him, seeking to subvert him. The Angel tightened her grip on Cimmeran, her slender arm deceptively powerful, like the coil of a snake slowly suffocating its prey. Her pretty, disfigured head rested on his shoulder. She grinned at Sirannor, though her eyes were still luminous white holes.


    Sirannor stared back at her dispassionately, though inwardly he was sickened by the Presence''s words, by its very existence. Yet, he felt no anger towards it. He raised his sword and placed it at Cimmeran''s back.


    the Presence crooned.


    "Not any more," Sirannor replied quietly.


    With a series of quick strokes, he brought down the sword.


    Blunt as it was, it did its work.


    No blood was spilled. Instead, the severed ends of the ropes binding Cimmeran''s hands slithered to the ground.


    "You are free, Cimmeran."


    The servant was no longer crying, no longer moving. He was limp and listless in the Angel''s embrace. He did not respond.


    Sirannor stepped close to him, ignoring the noisome mist that wrapped around him. "You can stop this," he said, keeping his voice low and calm. "You are the only one who can."


    Cimmeran turned his head slightly, his eyes glittering with pain. "Kill me," he whispered.


    "No," Sirannor refused flatly.


    Anguish twisted the servant''s features. "Please¡­"


    "No."


    "Why?" Cimmeran sobbed. "You hate me. You want me to die. I murdered your friend. I deserve to die."


    Sirannor closed his eyes. "I promised you that I would not kill you, and I intend to keep my word." He took a slow, deep breath. "I also promised you something else, and I intend to break it."


    He lifted his hand and placed it on Cimmeran''s shoulder, and lowered his head. "I forgive you."


    The words came more easily than he had expected. It did not feel like a betrayal of Aari''s memory. It felt like¡­ a release.


    The Presence shrieked, the sound echoing far into the darkness. The tendrils of mist retracted from Sirannor at once, coiling in agitation as though forced back by a strong wind. A shudder passed through Cimmeran''s body and into the stone at his feet. The stone monster rumbled. There was a loud cracking sound, and one of its tails snapped off and crashed to the ground with a tremendous boom.


    "You¡­ forgive me?" Cimmeran whispered in disbelief. "Why would you do that?"


    "Because I need to," Sirannor replied. "Because¡­ I want to."


    Hawk appeared at his side, admiration and respect in his eyes. Sirannor handed him back his sword. The soldier took it, turned and threw it away with all his might, and it vanished into the black.


    Turning back to Cimmeran, he put his own hand on the tortured man''s other shoulder. "Push her away," he told him gently. "You''re stronger than her. All you have to do is raise your arms and push her away, and we can all leave this place."


    leave!!" The Presence''s voice intermingled with Cimmeran''s, contorting his words.


    "And what about Sirannor and I?" Hawk said, forced to raise his voice over the grating of the monster, which was positioning its remaining tails directly overhead, preparing its final strike, which would crush all of them like ants. "Do you want us to die as well?"


    " Cimmeran cried. Then he shook his in denial of his own response. Emotions rushed over his face as he grappled with the force controlling his mind.


    !" He grabbed hold of the Angel. She began to disintegrate beneath his touch, white sand trickling in streams between his fingers.


    The Presence screamed, the entire courtyard shaking with the force of its fury. The darkness thinned and deserted the dais, fleeing into the ruins like the trailing black cloak of a gigantic wraith. A wide, cloudless blue sky lay revealed, speckled with faint stars that were quietly disappearing into the blazing embrace of the rising sun.


    The Angel, screaming hideously, strove to retain her grip on Cimmeran, squeezing him ever tighter even as her pale arm gradually crumbled to dust. But her captive victim tore at her frantically now, his willpower returning as her power diminished.


    The monster was falling apart as well. In a final, parting act of vengeance, it struck at them, its tail plummeting downwards.


    Despite himself, Hawk gasped and flinched.


    The tail came to a dead halt a foot above their heads.


    For a moment there was complete stillness, as though time itself had frozen. The Presence''s frightful wail cut off. No one moved or made a sound, except for the Angel, who continued to decay.


    Everyone stared, spellbound, at Sirannor.


    The Captain held the massive stone tail aloft with one hand.


    It was a feat that defied belief.


    He could feel the monstrous weight of it pressing down on him, but did not waver, for he knew the feeling was subjective. This was not an object that could be affected by gravity. It had been created by thought; and by thought, it could be manipulated. The Presence would find no further chinks in his armour, for he had cast that armour off. During the course of this long night, every part of him had been exposed, every secret torn mercilessly from his heart. And he had accepted it all.


    Nothing in the world was stronger than his belief in himself.


    He glared up at the stone, cracks spreading outwards from his fingertips.


    "Who''s afraid now?" he growled.


    Then he pushed upwards.


    The tail flew into the air with impossible velocity, the second tail following it. They rose into the dawn sky like two pillars holding up the heavens. Then, with dreamlike slow motion they descended, the entire monster flipping over onto its back, crashing to the ground.


    A gigantic cloud of sand surged over the dais.


    When the dust finally settled, Sirannor looked around.


    The Angel corpse was gone, as were the pieces of the shattered monster. The dais beneath his feet was flat and undamaged save by time and weather. The buildings surrounding the courtyard remained as unchanged as they always had been for all the lonely years they had been abandoned.


    Save for the fact that he, Hawk and Cimmeran were all covered top to toe in white sand, there was nothing to suggest that anything unusual had ever taken place.


    The Presence was gone. But Sirannor doubted very much that it had been truly vanquished.


    So it has, my friend,


    !"


    Cimmeran was kneeling next to him on the dais, staring at the sand on his hands with a haunted expression.


    Sirannor decided that now would be a good time to sit down.


    Back to the sun, folded hands pressed against his forehead, the veteran soldier closed his eyes.


    He did not want to think about any of that right now. He couldn''t.


    Sirannor.


    The whispered voice dragged him back grudgingly from the muddy depths of unconsciousness. "Hawk," Sirannor murmured without opening his eyes, "whatever the problem is, deal with it without me¡­"


    Don''t fall asleep just yet, old man.


    The voice didn''t sound like Hawk''s. It was achingly familiar¡­ With an effort, Sirannor forced his bleary eyes open and raised his head.


    Something strange stood on the dais in front of him, just to one side of his stretched out shadow, shimmering and sparkling like sunlight on clear water. Sirannor blinked. "Aari?" he whispered, his vision clearing with incredulity.


    His white wings were bright and full in the sun, the orange tips glowing like embers. His hair and eyes were molten copper. He was dressed in his Freeroamer uniform; it was in perfect condition, the silver buttons glinting like stars. The only thing missing was the badge.


    For a wild, hopeful, ridiculous moment, Sirannor almost convinced himself that Aari was really standing there, alive and well, that there had been some kind of unbelievable mistake. But he could clearly see the ruins of the Old Quarter through the Angel''s ghostly wings. He was just an apparition.


    Sirannor stared, wondering if this was yet more of the Presence''s trickery or if his mind had finally given out.


    The magic of this place allows you to see me,


    "I see," Sirannor sighed in dismay. "You are nothing but a figment of my own imagination. A creation of wishful thinking¡­"


    Sirannor did not reply. Tears had filled his eyes.


    Sirannor could not manage a smile in return. "Perhaps I have," he whispered.


    The apparition regarded him for a minute, then came forward and crouched before the Captain. He continued to shimmer brightly, even in Sirannor''s shadow.


    Aari told him gently.


    Sirannor frowned uncertainly. "He took your life, Aari."


    Aari replied sadly.


    Sirannor fell silent, brooding. At last, he said, ruefully: "You never saw the Dragons."


    He reached over and put his arms around the Captain.


    Sirannor tried hard to feel something; some slight pressure or warmth or substance from Aari''s touch, something more than light and air and memories. He closed his eyes, and for just an instant¡­ he thought¡­ he did.


    "I will. Goodbye, lad."


    When he opened his eyes again, Aari was gone.


    Hawk was beside him, looking worried. "Captain¡­ are you alright?"


    Sirannor looked up at his face. He could tell from his friend''s puzzled and slightly suspicious expression that he had only witnessed one half of the conversation. He got to his feet.


    "Yes," he answered simply and walked over to where Cimmeran still knelt motionless. "Cimmeran," he said quietly, crouching beside him. "Would you care to tell me exactly what it was that your master did to you?"


    Cimmeran shook his head, hunching his shoulders.


    "Sirannor," Hawk interjected. "We all need rest¡­"


    Sirannor stared at the mute servant for a moment longer, then nodded and rubbed his eyes. He rose and started after Hawk, when Cimmeran said suddenly: "C-Captain Sirannor?"


    He turned. Cimmeran was on his feet. Swallowing heavily, the haggard little man stared up at the Freeroamer mournfully. "I¡­ don''t need to tell you," he whispered. He pulled his grimy tunic off over his head and held it clutched to his chest, his bony hands curled tightly into the fabric.


    Slowly, Sirannor stepped around him to look at his back.


    There he stood, unblinking, for so long that Hawk came over inquisitively. At once he too froze in place, his eyes widening. "Mother Goddess¡­" he breathed.


    Cimmeran''s back was a grotesque collage of scars. There were large discoloured, melted patches indicative of burn wounds where the skin had never properly healed. There were many, many white welts, criss-crossing each other, scars on top of scars: decades'' worth of lashings and other unidentifiable punishments. Underneath it all, partially erased by the damage, running in a single line down his vertebrae were black markings, tattoos of some sort.


    But it was not these, heinous as they were, that truly shocked him, nor the other injuries that drew acid sizzling up from the pit of his stomach.


    He touched Cimmeran''s back, near the shoulder.


    "Surely not," Hawk said, horrified. "Surely Lord Arzath didn''t¡­ he couldn''t have been so cruel¡­"


    "It''s true," Cimmeran confirmed, hugging himself tighter, fresh tears trickling down the runnels etched in the sand on his face. "I''m¡­ I''m not Human¡­"


    "I think there can be no doubt," Sirannor finished.


    His hand fell away from the telling lump of marred flesh and bone, one of two, that protruded from just behind the servant''s shoulder blades.


    "Cimmeran is an Angel."

 Chapter Forty Six

    Dragon''s hope and Winter''s curse


    What seems bad may yet be worse.


    The sky rippled black and gold. Chasms opened in the dark clouds, spilling forth sunlight onto the frozen world below. Icicles glinted on the eaves of Lord Requar''s castle and delicate patterns of frost were illuminated on the blind windows. The castle rose up out of the drifts of snow, cold and empty and beautiful like a masterpiece sculpted out of ice.


    Standing on the bluff before it, paired to its magnificence, untouched by the sunlight but radiating a pale, mystical light of its own, a white Dragon gazed up at the sky with mournful, mirrored eyes.


    A handful of snowflakes fell, soft and silent, and the Dragon watched them flutter through her snout like little lost children. The great eyes blinked, slowly.


    Turning, she looked down at the tiny Human that lay at her feet. Her children were covering him, gathering in his hair and clothes.


    So fragile¡­


    The boy had run from the Winter, had fled from it, fought it... and for a single moment, when he had courageously summoned it and gazed into its heart, had perhaps even understood it. But he was Human, and could never truly comprehend that it had never sought to harm him, only to protect him.


    The Dragon placed one huge, glittering paw over the boy, and brought her ancient horned head close to him. Magic leaked out of him in scintillating, silver-white rivulets, like ghostly blood trickling over the snow. His life-force was dissipating as well, a golden mist twisting and weaving with the streamers of sunlight, becoming one with it. Once it had left his body completely, he would die, and her bond with him would be lost forever.


    The Winter was too immense to be contained in a Human body: it had never been designed for such a use. But the magic had chosen him as its vessel, and so it must be.


    This vessel must not break, as the last one did¡­


    The Dragon''s power was only a memory of what it had once been, her influence on the living world only a whisper''s touch. Once, she might have had the strength to return his life-force to his body, but no longer. Magic, however, transcended all realms. It spanned the boundary between life and death. It could restore and retain that which would not normally survive. Magic was easier to manipulate.


    The Dragon cupped her paw around the shining silver stream, letting it pool, preventing it from running away. Then she closed her eyes and began to beat her enormous wings, the movement painting the air with after-images. Ghostly snowflakes swirled up around her and the boy, whirling around them both until they were lost inside a glowing, hazy cloud.


    Above them, the clouds closed over, sealing away the sunlight, plunging the valley into gloom and bitter cold once more.


    Ferrian awoke to the sound of the wind, howling with maddening impatience as though determined to drag him back to reality. The first thing he felt was disappointment.


    He tried to sink back into the empty white void that had come so close to claiming him, but his body had other ideas. His senses began to return, one by one, dragging him back from the brink despite his struggles. The wind became raw and sharp, cutting across his ears. He knew that he was deathly cold, because his skin was tight and his lungs constricted. He felt stiff, as though he had been lying here forever, a stone carving exposed to the elements.


    Dismay gave way to confusion. He tried to open his eyes, only to find that they were fused shut. With some effort, he shifted his arm ¨C it felt heavy, like dragging a lump of wood ¨C and scraped the snow away from his face. Slivers of pain shot through his fingers; dimly he remembered that his hand was broken.


    Finally, he managed to prise his frozen eyes open, lift his head, and look around.


    he realised suddenly.


    He stared at it in surprise. How had he gotten all the way up here?


    Then he remembered Arzath.


    With a start, he looked around, but no figure lay buried in the snow beside him, or anywhere that he could see. There were no footprints: any trail that might have been there had long since been erased. He peered through the snow for any sign of movement, listening carefully.


    There was nothing to be seen or heard, save the storm.


    He was alone.


    He swallowed, wondering what had become of the man. Perhaps the Griks had finally gotten their revenge.


    Shuddering involuntarily, he let his gaze drift outwards, across the valley, drawn by a cluster of flickering lights.


    At first, he thought they were torches. But they were too large, too fierce, casting a glow onto the cliffs and clouds. Arzath''s castle was burning. He could just make out a flock of dark shapes flapping amongst the spires, awkwardly against the wind. Murons, circling like crows around dead carrion.


    He was not sorry to see the castle on fire. He hoped the flames caught the Murons and burnt them all to ashes.


    A gust of wind buffeted Ferrian, trying to shove him back into the snow. With stiff, sore fingers, he tugged his cloak around himself, although the cold had already penetrated every part of his body. He was shivering now, his teeth clattering so hard his jaw ached. His eyes stung and watered as the wind threw particles of ice into them. Something was wrong with his vision. The fire on the opposite cliffs looked unnatural; it was white, there was no colour to it.


    There was something else different with his body as well, though he could not at the moment identify what it was. It was hard to be aware of anything beyond the terrible cold. His survival was miraculous, but he could not last out here indefinitely in this weather.


    He forced himself to his feet. His cloak was so laden with ice that it tugged him back to his knees. He pulled at it until it came free of the snow, got up again and staggered towards the castle. He didn''t know what he intended to do when he got there. It would be all locked up and most likely warded with magic as well. For all he knew, it might be riddled with dangerous traps. Arzath had seemed positive that he couldn''t get inside without Ferrian''s help. He hadn''t brought him out here for nothing, after all.


    Ferrian sighed. At the very least, he might find shelter against the castle walls¡­ Suddenly, he stopped.


    He had just worked out what was wrong with him.


    He wasn''t breathing.


    Quickly, he took a breath, feeling the icy air scrape his throat. His lungs inflated, then deflated as he breathed out, yet did not seem to want to work on their own. And then he noticed something worse, much worse¡­


    He couldn''t feel his heartbeat! Horrified, he pressed a hand to his chest, searching desperately for the familiar, comforting thump.


    Nothing.


    Everything inside him was still and silent.


    He dug his fingernails into it, pressing harder and harder until he could no longer bear the agony. He might as well have stuck them into clay. A row of indentations were left in his hand, but no red marks, no blood.


    Then another thought occurred to him; a darker, gut-wrenching thought. It wasn''t a dream. The Winter had done this to him. It wouldn''t let him die. It had forced him to live, against his will, against nature.


    What kind of cruel curse is this?!


    Screaming his anger and despair to the wind, he ran, blindly, not caring where he was going, not caring if he fell over the edge of the cliff. He needed to get away from this wretched Winter. He wished someone else were here: the Freeroamers, Arzath, Requar, anyone at all, just to reassure him that he was not losing his mind¡­


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He slammed into something solid and was thrown backwards into the snow. Dazed and blinking, he sat up. He thought at first that he must have hit the castle, but the nearest wall was at least ten feet away. He frowned in puzzlement, then noticed the air in front of him wobbling in a strange way: concentric circles spreading outwards, like the surface of a pool.


    He watched them until they faded away, and continued watching, in case something else happened.


    Nothing did. The castle was silent. The wind battered snow against its walls.


    Ferrian got to his feet. He stared for a moment more, then edged forward apprehensively, his arm outstretched. His fingers touched an invisible wall. Silent waves undulated from his fingers, distorting the image of the castle beyond.


    He took his hand away, then placed it back more firmly, and felt the wall push back. It seemed the more pressure was applied to it, the more it repelled. His despair grew heavier. A magical barrier protected the castle. This must be what Arzath had wanted him to break through.


    , and must require tremendous power to maintain. The raw power of the Winter could break down doors and windows with ease, but this was far more complicated. This was not a physical construction but one made of thought and energy, probably designed to resist magical as well as non-magical attacks. He didn''t have anywhere  the training or mental fortitude needed to breach something like this!


    His face twisted in bitter resignation. It was hopeless! He slammed his fist into the shield, and it bounced off like a spring. In any case, he didn''t want to summon the Winter again. Not ever, ever again. He hated it with what remained of his soul for what it had done to him!


    Ferrian?


    Ferrian jerked upright. The voice had sounded so clear, as though someone were standing right beside him. He spun, searching the darkness.


    There was no one there.


    Brushing his frozen tears away with his sleeve, he stepped back up to the shield and tentatively touched it once more. He hesitated, then whispered: "Lord Requar?"


    Ferrian''s heart, if it had been working, would have leapt through his throat. As it was, he simply gaped. "You can hear me?" He looked quickly up at the castle, as though the sorcerer might actually be inside after all, watching him through one of the dark, frosty windows.


    "I¡­ I did?" Ferrian stammered. He still wasn''t quite sure that what he was hearing was real. "S-sorry."


    Please, do not apologise. I am very impressed that you figured out how to communicate with me through the shield. Most people simply throw things at it.


    "It was just luck."


    .


    Ferrian blinked at the question, wondering what to say. "I¡­ I think I''m dead." It sounded stupid, saying it aloud, but he didn''t know how else to describe what had happened to him.


    Requar was silent for a long moment. Ferrian chewed his lip anxiously. He pressed closer to the shield, fearful of breaking the connection. When the sorcerer still did not reply, he said carefully: "Sir?"


    It would seem that your curse is¡­ more complicated than I expected,


    ¡°You know about the Winter?" Ferrian said, astonished. "And you know my name?"


    I¡­ do,


    Ferrian was silent, not knowing what to say.


    Listen carefully,


    Ferrian looked up. The main doors were about twenty feet away, to his left. He nodded and then, in case Requar could not actually see him, added: "Yes, sir."


    Do so now.


    He did so, stumbling through the snow with one hand trailing on the shield. When he was directly opposite the entrance, he stopped. "I''m here."


    Good. Keep your hand on the shield until it has opened. Once through, it will close behind you and you will not be able to pass through it again without my permission. It is linked directly to my mind: nothing may touch it without alerting me to its presence. You may make contact with me at any time simply by touching the shield as you are doing now.


    "I understand."


    I am going to let you inside now. Are you ready?


    "Yes, sir."


    Ferrian waited patiently with his hand on the shield, noticing snowflakes passing through it unobstructed. Suddenly, the air shivered, sending a tremor through his hand. Ripples spread outwards again, this time creating a large hole that expanded rapidly, its edge shimmering with blue light. Ferrian hurried through the gap. A few seconds later it closed behind him, like water filling a hole. He walked back and touched the shield. "I''m through."


    Excellent. The main doors are not locked. Please go inside out of the cold. There is wood in the dining room hearth and matches in the dresser. I am afraid my pantry is not very well stocked; I only keep enough food for myself and don¡¯t often have guests, as you may expect. There is plenty of wine and water in the cellar, however. Please help yourself to anything you need.


    "Thank you, your lordship," Ferrian said, grateful beyond words.


    Requar. And you are most welcome.


    Ferrian started to take his hand away, then placed it back. "Sir¡­ where exactly are you?"


    Three days away from the valley. I will be there in two.


    Then he fell silent.


    Ferrian turned away and hurried to the doors. On the threshold, he paused, looking over his shoulder. The shield was invisible again. A thick blanket of snow stretched from the castle to the bluff''s edge, unmarred save by his footprints. No one could get past that hidden wall: not the Griks or the Murons or Arzath, if he was still alive. He was safe at last. Requar was coming, and he would know what to do. Everything was going to be all right.


    he thought, and almost laughed.


    Ferrian closed the door behind him quickly, relieved to be finally out of the storm.


    A dark, chilly foyer greeted him.


    It could not have been more different to Arzath''s castle; it was smaller, more compact and homelier. It was taller than it was wide, the ceiling stretching away into a complex array of lofty arches. Like Arzath''s entrance hall, there was a mezzanine balcony with corridors at each end that delved ahead into the upper floors of the castle, and a grand staircase curved down to the floor alongside the wall to his left. The steps were made of highly polished white marble, like the floor. In the middle of the floor a circular design in darker marble was set, like a shadow to the large round window above the front doors.


    Directly opposite the window, spanning the length of the balcony wall where the throne room would have been in Arzath''s hall, was a massive tapestry. There were many scenes upon it that he could not identify in the gloom, but the largest showed a cluster of grand buildings atop a rocky promontory, surrounded by a crashing sea.


    He had never seen this infamous place depicted in pictorial form before, but had heard about it in many stories and songs. It was a place either reviled or revered by everyone who had ever lived since its construction.


    The School of Magical Studies.


    He would have shivered, if he hadn''t been already.


    The rest of the room was furnished tastefully with a few chairs and chaise lounges and bookcases against the walls, small statues and long-stemmed candelabras. A great white grandfather clock stood by the wall to his right, ticking the silence away like the heartbeat of the castle.


    Ferrian''s hand went despondently to his own chest: there was still nothing to be felt within it.


    Crossing the floor, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored door of a cabinet. He stopped and stared.


    The figure that stared back at him looked like something that had been dug up out of a snowy grave. Its hair and clothing were frozen to its body. Its skin was far too pale to be healthy. Its eyes glittered within dark hollows.


    He was a walking corpse.


    I just need to get warm, and then I''ll feel better.


    He reached the doors at the other side of the room and went through them in a rush, closing them firmly behind him as though to escape the horrifying reflection.


    He found himself now in a dining room, as elegant as the foyer he had just passed through. One wall was lined with tall, arched windows, the other a series of shadowy oblong shapes that appeared to be paintings. Ferrian walked quickly around the long table to the hearth at the end of the room. As he passed the dresser he opened the top drawer ¨C as promised, there was a tin of matches within. There were also some candles. Lighting one, he carried it over to the hearth and lit the tinder, which was bone-dry and caught easily.


    Waiting for the logs to flare up, he glanced around the room. Apart from the crackle and snap of the sticks, the only other sound was the moaning of the wind outside. He wandered over to the paintings.


    They were all portraits of long-dead noblemen and women, their style of dress and the age of the frames suggesting they hearkened back to an age all but forgotten. Ferrian regretted that his colour-blindness prevented him from seeing the colours, but they were exquisitely lifelike: every nuance of the characters¡¯ expressions captured in perfect detail. They stared back at him from out of the past, one after the other: stern or proud or thoughtful. One painting, however, was different. It was the largest of the series, placed in the middle of the wall.


    A family portrait.


    Ferrian brought his candle closer. The father figure was proud and fierce-looking, with thick lowered brows and prominent cheekbones beneath heavily sun-tanned skin. He wore a military dress uniform in what Ferrian presumed were Middle Isle colours. His breastplate shone like a mirror beneath a thick furred cloak, set off by a black velvet sash and black ribbon braided into his hair. He stood with one hand on his wife''s shoulder and the other on the hilt of a long, curved sword: a military sabre of the sort that Sirannor had once carried.


    Blinking, he took a step back, realising the candle flame was almost touching the canvas. Tearing his gaze away from the beautiful lady, he examined the two children standing before her.


    They were young boys of about nine or ten. The taller of the two matched his mother for looks; the same long, ice-white hair, same striking eyes. Dutifully he stood with his hands behind his back, a serious, slightly anxious expression on his face, as though determined to make a good impression. Finally, next to him ¨C though a good arm''s length away ¨C his brother slouched. Although much, much younger, Ferrian recognised him instantly: his black hair and brooding expression were unmistakable. He didn''t seem at all interested in posing for the portrait; his eyes not looking out at the viewer but off to the side, as though plotting ways to get out of there¡­


    At that very moment, the doors to the dining hall opened and the boy he had just been looking at stepped through.

 Chapter Forty Seven

    A mournful wind ''round icy spires


    A distant past consumed by fire.


    Ferrian and Arzath stared at each other, frozen in place, each looking equally shocked at seeing the other. Arzath''s expression was the first to change. Slowly, it went from incredulity to curiosity. "So," he said, looking the boy up and down, taking in his deathly appearance. "You survived. Interesting."  you got in here!" His eyes darted around the room and behind him, as though wondering what other surprises lay around the corners.


    got in here?" he managed. "I''d be interested to know the same thing!"


    Arzath glared at him. Then he moved slowly into the room and closed the doors behind him. "You could say I found the back door," he said. "Every sorcerer requires a non-magical means of access to their abode in case of contingencies. This one was exceedingly difficult to find, near impossible, in fact.


    "I only discovered it by pure luck: I happened to be staring at exactly the right place at the right time. If luck had been with me earlier, I would have gained access to the castle weeks ago and saved all this ridiculous trouble." He moved towards Ferrian as he spoke. Ferrian noticed that he had re-dressed the wound on his arm, and his clothing and hair were dry. He had found a clean cloak somewhere, too. Obviously, he had been inside the castle for some time.


    Ferrian could not see any weapons on him, but there was no telling what he might have picked up while ferreting around. He didn''t trust Arzath as far as he could spit. He wasn''t sure of his intentions and refused to let himself be manipulated again.


    He wished that he hadn''t let go of that Sword, after all.


    "I am quite certain that no one followed me in," Arzath continued, stopping a few feet away and regarding Ferrian with suspicion. "In fact, I assumed you were dead." He raised an eyebrow. "I could have been fooled."


    Ferrian''s jaw tightened as he bit back a sarcastic remark. "Shut up," he muttered instead, and walked back to the fire, careful to keep Arzath in his peripheral vision as he did so.


    Arzath followed him quickly. "Then¡­ you broke in through the shield?"


    "I didn''t break anything! Requar let me in!"


    What?!"


    Ferrian shrugged nonchalantly. "I just talked to him and he opened the shield for me," he said. "No big deal. He seems like a pretty decent guy to me. Maybe you should try being nice to him."


    Arzath''s sharp intake of breath sounded like a snake choking.


    Suddenly, he lunged at Ferrian, so quickly that the boy gave a start and nearly tripped over the tinderbox. Righting himself quickly, he scurried around the dining table, convinced the man was going to throttle him.


    Ferrian continued to back away. "I didn''t tell him anything! It doesn''t matter, anyway: he''s on his way back. He''s going to be here in two days, and you better not be around when he arrives!"


    Arzath put his face in his hands and ran them through his hair, then began to pace in front of the fireplace. He stopped and gazed up at the ceiling for a long moment, apparently considering something. Then all of a sudden he began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to brace himself on the mantle.


    He reached into his jacket and withdrew an object wrapped in black cloth. With great care, he unwrapped it and slid it free of its sheath.


    Immediately, Ferrian felt pins and needles wash through his body. He backed against the wall, feeling inexplicably nauseous. The knife that Arzath was holding was horrific-looking: all uneven jagged edges and odd cut-out pieces. It was obviously designed to inflict as much pain and damage to its victim as possible.


    "What... what is that thing?" he gasped.


    Arzath held up the knife so that its dark, iridescent metal caught the firelight. "This," he breathed, "is a trigonic dagger. The most lethal weapon ever forged."


    The two of them sat beside the fire; Arzath slouched in a comfortable armchair, legs crossed over one arm, chewing on some dried fruit, Ferrian hunched against the wall opposite, attempting to fight off an oncoming fever.


    For awhile, he had tried to doze, but the wailing wind taunted him, twisting through his dreams, waking him repeatedly with a jerk. The heat of the fire had not done him any good; in fact, it seemed to be making him feel worse. The ice had melted and dried from his clothing, but he was still frozen inside, while his skin burned and itched and refused to regain any colour. And he could not stop shivering.


    He had tried to eat some of the food that Arzath had brought out of the kitchen, but could not keep anything down, not even water. He wasn''t surprised, considering few of his other bodily functions were working as they should.


    He hoped fervently that Requar would be able to help him. But could this curse really be reversed? Or would he be stuck in his horrid half-existence for¡­ who knew how long?


    Thinking of Requar, his thoughts drifted once again to anxious contemplation of the trigonic dagger. Arzath''s intentions were now horrifyingly clear. The thought of him ambushing his unsuspecting brother with that evil thing made his stomach lurch again. He wanted desperately to go outside and try communicating again through the shield, to warn Requar of what awaited him when he returned home. But Arzath had made it very clear that if he attempted such a thing the knife would taste its next victim rather suddenly.


    Ferrian didn''t know if it were possible for him to die a second time, but he could certainly feel pain, and he wasn''t eager to experience what that dagger had to offer. He sighed, trying to console himself with the fact that Requar was a sorcerer. He had magic, and Arzath didn''t. He had lived a long time, and seemed intelligent. He wouldn''t just walk blindly into danger. He would be able to defend himself, whether Ferrian warned him or not.


    Why then did he have a terrible feeling of dread curled up in his stomach?


    The wind rattled some shutters high up on the castle, as though trying to find a way in. Ferrian shivered harder.


    "Why¡­ why do you want to kill him?" Ferrian asked. "Requar. What has he d-done to deserve it?"


    "How?"


    Arzath snorted a bitter laugh. "Oh, don''t be deluded by whatever cosy little conversation you had with him earlier. You don''t expect he let you in here out of compassion, do you? Concern for your welfare? Ha! He is a sorcerer, he is just as interested in your magic as I am!"


    Ferrian said nothing.


    "He is more manipulative that you would ever believe," Arzath sneered. "He uses his looks and charm to convince people he is genuine. Did you not trust him implicitly, from the first moment you heard his voice? Did you not want to obey his every request? Of course you did, boy, because he has that effect on people! Don''t be fooled. He will ruin your life, too, if he gets his hands on you. He is not the marvellous, benevolent saviour you are so desperately looking for. He will use your magic for his own purposes. He will destroy you, if you let him."


    Ferrian looked away, swallowing. He didn''t know if he believed what Arzath was saying or not. He didn''t want to, but doubts were starting to creep through him.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    he thought.


    "You are still not convinced?" Arzath said. He gestured again at the room. "Look at his castle. Quite grand, isn''t it? Why do you suppose he lives here all on his lonesome?"


    Ferrian frowned. "It must be hard to invite people around with Griks and Murons and you as neighbours."


    Arzath grinned. "Indeed. I do my best to ensure that is so. But what kind of people do you think he would invite, if he could?"


    Ferrian shook his head: he didn''t know.


    "Sorcerers, naturally," Arzath declared.


    "Sorcerers? But there aren''t¨C" he stopped mid-sentence, suddenly remembering the tapestry in the foyer.


    And then realisation hit him in the head like a brick.


    "The School," he breathed, eyes going wide. "He''s trying to rebuild the School of Magical Studies!"


    Arzath clapped. "You figured it out at last. I''m impressed."


    "But¡­" Ferrian shook his head incredulously. "But who would want to train here? People are terrified of magic. No one trusts it any more; and besides that, it''s outlawed. Where would he find willing apprentices?"


    "As I said," Arzath replied, raising an eyebrow, "Requar has the charm and intelligence to convince anyone of anything, given enough time. Probably, he would spool out some drivel about using magic only for peaceful purposes." He cringed. "I assume that is what he has been out doing all this time. Thinking I was dead, he saw the perfect opportunity to advance his plans."


    "He thinks you''re dead?" Ferrian said, blinking in surprise.


    "He threw me off a cliff!" Arzath snapped. "How do you think I lost my magic?" He glared into the fire.


    They fell silent for a time, Ferrian mulling over what he had been told, trying to untangle the truth from Arzath''s prejudices, and finding it an impossible task.


    ¡°How was the old SOMS destroyed?" he asked finally.


    "Take a good guess." Arzath muttered darkly.


    Ferrian paused, thinking. "You''re telling me," he said slowly, "that Lord Requar destroyed the old School just so that he could build a new one?"


    "Precisely." Arzath looked back at him. "Requar was never happy with the way the School was run. He felt that it was corrupted, and his feelings were not unfounded: it was.


    "The place was a snake den. Forbidden magic was being practised capriciously, cursed artefacts were being traded and distributed amongst not only students and teachers but also the general populace, blackmail and backstabbing and scandals were part of everyday life. It was a school for the extremely rich: only those with enough money or influence were allowed to attend. Fortunately, my family had both.


    "None of this concerned me. I was there to become a sorcerer: to train and to graduate and to receive my Sword and I did not care how this was accomplished. Friendships and alliances meant nothing to me. I did what I had to do to survive. It was unacceptable to Requar, however. He had never wanted to become a sorcerer; had loathed them, in fact. He joined the School only to find a spell to save our mother, who was dying at the time.


    "Mother died five years into his training." Arzath paused, pained by the memory. Then he went on: "But Requar stayed on at the School. He had no choice: apprentices were not allowed to leave until they had completed their training. He became obsessed with finding the spell he had been seeking, even though it was no longer of any use to him. A guilt complex, I expect. It consumed him, drove him near to madness. Or perhaps all the way, considering what he did next.


    "He found it difficult to study while he was being forced to watch his back all the time. So, he resolved to do something about it.


    "His plan was to be carried out during the next graduation ceremony. He had plenty of time to prepare: graduation ceremonies were held only once every ten years. They were extremely eminent occasions, cause for much celebration and fanfare. All sorcerers were required to attend every graduation ceremony, including those that were still in training and those who had long since left the School. The study of sorcery had been in decline for many years; there were no more than forty fully-fledged Sword-wielding sorcerers present, including the teachers. The rest of the attendees consisted of students, graduates, the graduate''s families, and other members of high society who had paid enough to be there. Often, royalty was involved as well. I suspect he chose this event to gain as many witnesses as possible.


    "Or as many victims."


    He paused for a moment thoughtfully. "Whether he actually intended to kill everyone there or simply the head of the school, the Enchanter, I do not know. Most likely the latter. With the Enchanter removed, someone else would be forced to step up and take his place. Perhaps he was even deluded enough to believe that person would be himself.


    "It was a few months before the ceremony when I first noticed that Requar was acting oddly. He never missed lectures or practises or meals; he was not that conspicuous, but when he was not at scheduled activities he simply disappeared, nowhere to be found. He seemed anxious and distracted all the time, which was not unusual for him, but this time I sensed that it was something more. I did not bother trying to talk to him directly: I knew he would not reveal anything to me. He tended to avoid me out of habit in any case, as I enjoyed making life difficult for him whenever possible.


    !" Arzath''s eyes were wide with incredulity and anger. "More than that, I found one of the insidious things hidden away in a drawer!"


    "What are destruction orbs?" Ferrian asked quietly.


    Arzath shook his head and waved a hand, distracted by the question. "Objects infused with magic to the point where it becomes explosive, if a catalyst is added," he explained quickly. "They can be made of anything with suitable magic-storing properties, usually crystals or gemstones. The one I discovered in Requar''s study was not made of any traditional materials, however¡­"


    He reached again into his clothing and took out the trigonic dagger. Ferrian winced as the prickly sensations in his skin returned and quickly averted his gaze.


    ?"


    Ferrian shook his head mutely.


    Arzath''s expression was sour. "It is a form of anti-magic. In great enough quantities, it has the ability to nullify spells. It does this by absorbing them, feeding off them to increase its own power. Due to this superior absorption ability, it has the capacity to hold enormous amounts of energy.


    . It devours life-force in the same way as magic-force. If delivered into the bloodstream of a living creature, it causes illness, madness, and eventually, what can only be described as half-death. The victim becomes a demon-wraith, forced to feed on the souls of others to maintain its own abominable existence.


    "One cut is all it takes. The slightest nick."


    As he talked, there was a strange look in Arzath''s eyes, and his hand shook a little. He put the dagger away suddenly. "As you can imagine," he continued, "the catastrophic potential of a trigonic destruction orb is theoretically limitless.


    !"


    He shook his head. "I have no idea where he obtained them from, but it would not have been too difficult. Corruption was so rampant that even something as dangerous as trigon could be acquired, for a price.


    "I could not find the other three orbs, but I kept the one I had as evidence. I had intended to steal the map as well, but I heard someone approaching along the corridor and was forced to leave the study.


    "To my surprise, it was Requar, accompanied by the Enchanter himself. I hid around a corner and watched them enter his study, barely able to contain my glee. Surely, the Enchanter would see the map on the desk and Requar''s plot would be foiled.


    "I crept closer to the door to hear their conversation, but to my annoyance, it had been spelled to block sound. There was a small glass panel in the door, however, and through it, I could see the two of them clearly engaged in a heated argument. There was a look of fear on Requar''s face; he was gesturing at the map, obviously trying to explain himself.


    "I actually laughed out loud, at once grateful for the silence spell. My brother would be stripped of his magic and expelled from the School, I thought.


    "The Enchanter emerged some time later, looking disgruntled and angry. I returned to my own quarters, satisfied.


    "But in the following weeks, nothing happened. Nothing changed. Requar remained at the School, continuing his study and his mysterious behaviour. Not a word was heard from the Enchanter about the assassination plot, although there were whispers amongst the students. I could not believe it. Somehow, that worm had managed to talk his way out of trouble!


    "I now found myself in a despicable quandary. I could not go to the Enchanter with my suspicions and evidence without implicating myself. Being caught in possession of trigon was enough to warrant execution, let alone expulsion.


    "So I did the only thing left I could do. I finally confronted Requar myself.


    "I caught him as he was walking back to his quarters through the cloisters, idly practising a moonlight spell as he went. I demanded to know what he was up to, careful not to reveal that I had stolen the orb in case he sought to pin the blame on me. He refused to tell me; instead warning me to leave the School, admitting that something dangerous was going to occur.


    "I was shocked that he would suggest such a thing. I questioned if it was his intention to stop me from receiving my Sword. He told me it had nothing to do with me, and again insisted that I had to leave the School as soon as possible, for my own benefit.


    "I wanted to know why, but he would not say another word. Furious, I attacked him, but he invoked his camouflage spell and slipped away, leaving me staring at the remnants of his moonlight magic."


    Arzath paused, glowering into the flames, light and shadows flickering restlessly across his face. He closed his eyes. "The day of the graduation ceremony dawned bright and clear," he went on quietly. "A thrill of anticipation swept through the air. Banners and pennants flickered everywhere in the sea breeze. An enormous crowd was gathered, filling every inch of lawn space.


    "I was with the other graduates as we made our slow way up to the Graduation Hall, a large rotunda set apart from the other buildings on the edge of the bluff. Requar came running out of the main compound, dressed in his ceremonial robes, late for the parade. Pushing up the line, he grabbed my arm, trying to stop me from going any farther. He was agitated, distressed, practically begging me not to go into the Hall.


    "I shrugged him off, ignoring him as he had ignored me. I no longer cared about his vile plans: I was focused only on receiving my Sword of Lightning. Once I had graduated, I would be only too delighted to leave the wretched place.


    "The ceremony went as planned, there was no hint of anything amiss¡­ until Requar stepped up to claim his Sword of Healing."


    Arzath hesitated. "I cannot recall exactly what happened, events flashed by too fast. The bond had been completed, he was stepping down off the dais¡­ then suddenly his arm swept out, blue light flashing out of his Sword in an arc. There was a monstrous white flare that consumed everything¡­ a roar as though the bluff itself had opened up¡­ a sensation of heat: tearing, searing heat. The light changed to red, then black.


    "The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back, smoke swirling around me, the Graduation Hall ¨C the entire School ¨C in ruins around me. The sky was deep crimson, as though soaked in blood. I felt strange, detached, though not in pain. I could barely move my body, though I managed to shift my head.


    "Requar was standing beside me, staring at the devastation. Just standing there, Sword in hand, staring. When he noticed me looking at him, he waved a hand over my face and I passed out.


    "When next I woke, I was lying in the infirmary in Sunsee, though I was not injured. The healers were all panicked, terrified. The light streaming in through the windows was red, deeper than sunset. Looking out, I saw people fleeing the city like rats from a burning ship.


    "I hunted for Requar through the chaos, but could not find him. He had fled with everyone else, disappeared into the wilderness."


    Hate crawled across Arzath''s face. "But I vowed," he breathed, "from that day on, I would make him pay for what he had done."

 Chapter Forty Eight

    Blood and smoke, a battle lost


    To find the Winter''s cure, what cost?


    "I spent the next hundred and forty years trying to re-create my lost Sword," Arzath went on. He was standing by the family portrait, wistfully touching the picture of his mother. "It was not easy. The secret technique to forging the Swords of the Gods was known only to a few Masters, and they of course perished in the fire: all their vast lore and knowledge with them. Little was left after the explosion. Requar and I were the only survivors."


    He glared hatefully at the image of his brother in the painting, then suddenly spun away, pacing up and down beside the table. Ferrian watched and listened quietly, not daring to interrupt the tale. He wanted to hear as much as Arzath was prepared to tell him. The sorcerer seemed almost to have forgotten that he was there, lost in the shadows of his memories.


    "I returned to the ruins, some years later, to search for artefacts," he continued. "No one attempted to stop me. Sunsee was abandoned after the disaster. The sky remained red for twenty years, the ruins emitting a fierce heat and black glow, so intense that not even I dared to approach. Eventually, the magic disintegrated and people began to return, but no one wanted to live anywhere near the place of the catastrophe. An entire quarter of the city became derelict.


    "The Presence was powerful. It nearly claimed me, despite my magic. It tried to convince me that I belonged there, that I was a part of it, that I should join my fellow sorcerers and share in its power." Arzath''s face twisted. "It knew how much I hated Requar, how much I wanted him to die. That hate was almost my undoing. But I managed to escape.


    "My search for artefacts yielded no results: there was nothing worth salvaging in the ruins. So instead, I turned my attention to the abodes of the dead sorcerers, and also libraries, museums, palaces, mansions... anywhere that anything magical might have been kept. I roamed Daroria and the other countries and continents looking for lost knowledge.


    "It became increasingly risky for me to do so. Distrust of magic had been building long before the destruction of the SOMS. The violent demise of the sorcerers finally caused that unrest to boil over. Anything remotely connected with magic was now being destroyed en masse. Writings and artefacts were burned. Buildings where magic-users were known to have lived or worked were torn down.


    "But the handful of sorcerers who had not attended the graduation ceremony due to old age or other ailments were hunted down and slaughtered. Even perfectly ordinary people suspected of being sorcerers or magic-sympathisers were put to death. Many people on both sides died in the riots. It was a bloodbath.


    "My own life was threatened many times, but I eluded capture and went into hiding, as Requar had already done. I waited until the chaos died down, then resumed my search for the materials I required to make my Sword, always on the lookout for signs of my brother''s whereabouts."


    He paused for a moment, turning to Ferrian. "During my travels I found something¡­ interesting in Siriaza''s deep south. There I visited Verlista: a city of perpetual cold and ice, nestled in the foothills of the Snowranges, bordered by the Great Southwood.


    "In the mountains above the city was said to be a crystal of exquisite beauty.


    "The locals warned me not to go looking for the crystal, not to touch it. The crystal protected a great Dragon, they said, who in turn watched over their lovely storm-racked city. Anyone who disturbed the Dragon''s rest would be cursed eternally.


    "A charming and interesting myth, I considered, since Dragons are almost universally despised."


    resided there once, true, but the creature had been dead for centuries. Possibly killed in the war that led to their imprisonment on the Middle Isle. Some ancient Frost sorcerer had set a spell there to protect it, or subdue it, or whatever reason.


    "To my fascination, the spell was still active. So, naturally, I took it."


    He gave Ferrian an appraising look. The boy was on his feet now, eyes wide.


    "I was experimenting with its magic one day in the remote town of Ness, where I had briefly set up residence. My experiment went disastrously awry. The crystal shattered into a million pieces and the ''curse'' escaped."


    His lips twisted into a wry smile. "It seems to have found itself a new vessel."


    * * *


    Kyosk stood panting with anger. Blood dripped down his face and armour, some of it his own, most of it the splattered result of the slaughter he had just been forced to witness. There was black blood on his halberd, but not enough. Not enough to compensate for the wash of gore and twisted chunks of rocky shell that lay spread across the floor. Not enough to cleanse the tide of shimmering golden blood that seeped around his feet, as though the castle itself were bleeding.


    Three Murons took the still-screaming carcass of the last of his Griks over to a corner and demolished it. The rest of the Murons were gathered around him in a circle, cold and black and pitiless as the walls that sheltered them. Their eyes glowed in the darkness like lights in a noxious pool. Flames from torches fallen in the battle revealed their lithe, hunched bodies; harder-than-steel scales that repelled the sharpest blade and toughest fist; black flesh underneath, black all the way through.


    He and his Griks had barely managed to bring down half a dozen of the foul creatures, and those few had fought like mad beasts. The price in Grik lives had been great. But it was too late now to regret his mistake.


    And now he was alone.


    Varshax yawned, revealing all his impressive teeth, and leapt down from his perch on top of the throne. The necklace of bones around his neck swung as he slunk forward, his huge taloned feet splashing in the blood and crushing bits of fallen Griks into the floor. He stopped before Kysok, bringing his long dark reptilian snout close to the Clanmaster''s face.


    Kyosk''s hands tightened on his halberd. It made him boil inside, knowing that his own fangs would soon be joining the collection around that creature''s neck. He knew that Varshax could see the fear in his eyes. He sought to repress it with a spiteful glare.


    "Too bad," Varshax whispered in his snake-voice. "Too bad you losst the Ssword, Kyossk. Perhapsss you would have fared better had you not sstolen it in the firsst place."


    Kyosk hated his tone, as though he were but an errant child who had brought this fate upon himself. "I don''t regret nuffin''!" he lied.


    There was a rustling among the assembled Murons. Varshax shot them a narrowed glare and they backed away reluctantly. "Too bad," he went on, "that your masster iss not here to ssave you."


    master too, Varshax!" Kyosk snarled. "Forgotten dat already? You and your Murons were duped as well!"


    The Wingmaster tilted his head from side to side, regarding him. "We Muronss have no masster. Never have we conssidered him ass ssuch. We merely abided hiss pressence, and hiss petty tasskss, for our own purpossess."


    "An'' why would you do dat?"


    "He hass abilitiess and knowledge far beyond that of mosst Humanss. We believed him to be the besst meanss for achieving our ultimate dessign."


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    Kyosk snorted. "You were after his power? Wanted some of it fer yerself, eh?"


    Varshax''s eyes narrowed. "Fool. We have no usse for thiss elemental vainglory that you call ''magic''. We are creaturess born of dark arcana, a messhing of Human and Dragon ssoulss, yet releassed from the weaknessess that fetter both. We are ssuperior to all racess, desstined to claim Arvanor ass our own. Lessser creaturess are ourss to do with ass we wissh.


    "But our numberss are dwindling, and we cannot breed. Once, there were femaless amongsst uss, but they failed to produce acceptable offsspring, and sso we killed them. They were weak and usseless. We musst have a Queen, a sstrong Queen, to enssure our ssurvival."


    "An'' you fought Arzath could make you one?"


    "Yess. He hass knowledge of the old wayss. He undersstandss the ssilent voicess of the old tomess, wordss written by Humanss, that Muronss cannot read. We have been patient. We aided him in hiss effortss to exterminate hiss brother becausse we could not abide any impedimentss to our own planss."


    Kyosk laughed. "Too bad!" he mocked. "Arzath ain''t got no more power! Too bad I ain''t gonna be aroun'' to see you maggots all drop out of existence, one by one!"


    Varshax stared back at him, unmoved. "Hiss brother hass knowledge at leasst equal to Arzath''ss own. We will perssuade him to do our bidding, insstead."


    "Lord Requar? An'' if he refuses?"


    "He sshall not refusse. We sshall ssee to it that he doess not."


    "You fink yer gonna succeed where Arzath failed? You and dis pathetic army? It takes more''n claws an'' teeth to bring down a sorcerer!"


    "Yess," Varshax agreed. "But not sso a Grik."


    And the last thing Kyosk saw was the flash of black claws.


    * * *


    Smoke drifted through the bloodstained corridors, eddying in the cold draughts, flecks of ash dancing with snow before shattered windows. The Winter still raged, but few were left to hear its desolate moaning.


    In the middle of a wide, window-lined hallway a black shape moved, raising itself from a cluster of smashed and burned bodies, its wings flopping limply. Then its head rolled and it slumped to one side.


    Grogdish extricated himself from underneath the dead Muron and peered about cautiously before climbing to his feet.


    Nothing moved in the hallway save the distant flickering shadows of the fires that were slowly burning themselves out. There was nothing to be heard, either: no echoing sounds of battle, no clash of weapon on claw, no roars or Muron shrieks. Nothing save the wind.


    Dukogeg had indeed been a Great Chief, the pride of the Grik race.


    But he was a dead Great Chief.


    And Grogdish didn''t feel like dying, at least not to Murons.


    He pulled a cudgel off one of the corpses and wandered down the corridor, eyeing the shadowy spaces carefully. Crysk was supposed to have been leading their contingent, but he had disappeared in the chaos. Grogdish was disappointed to find his body not amongst the fallen, but there was always the hope that he had been crushed into very small pieces of rock and thrown off the walls, or dragged away to the Muron''s eyrie and hung up on the chains for supper.


    he thought,  He entertained himself with the thought for awhile, but eventually decided, with much remorse, that it meant nothing if there was no one alive to lead.


    After awhile, he found himself at the stairs leading down to the kitchen. Another great battle had been fought here: two dead Murons and ten dead Griks. Their blood mingled in a gleaming black and gold stain that trickled down the stairs like a gilded mural to death.


    Grunting indifferently, he perused the bodies in case anything was worth stealing. Finding nothing of particular interest, he shoved some of the hulking corpses aside and started down the stairs. With any luck, the kitchen hadn''t been torched.


    It hadn''t, but it had been ransacked. Arzath''s last remaining Human servant ¨C or what was left of him ¨C lay sprawled on the table in a bloody mess. Provisions and a rucksack were scattered on the floor beneath him. Grogdish picked up a piece of him and stuffed it into his mouth as he wandered through the room. A trail of footprints leading through the spilled Human blood on the floor gave him pause, and he followed them suspiciously, cudgel raised as he rounded the bench¡­


    Crysk lay there on the floor, in a wet, gleaming stain.


    Grogdish stared down at his motionless form. Then he snorted in disgust, and kicked the body.


    It gargled, faintly.


    He looked at the nearby broken ale barrels, which were oozing their dark contents all over the floor, and stood for a moment, considering.


    Then finally he shrugged, tossed his weapon aside and dunked his head into the nearest barrel.


    * * *


    He wished the part about Carmine being here hadn''t been a lie. He needed to hold her, to lose himself in her touch, to forget about everything but the two of them. Closing his eyes, he comforted himself with the knowledge that she was safe and well in Sel Varence, waiting for him¡­


    someone to hold on to. Not so Sirannor and Cimmeran. The Captain of his own choosing, perhaps, but Cimmeran¡­


    Hawk glanced back at the servant trailing behind them. His head was bowed, shoulders slumped, feet dragging through the sand, the saddest creature Hawk had ever seen. Cimmeran had made no eye contact with anyone since the Presence had released him from its grasp, as though embarrassed and ashamed of what he was.


    "Arzath is a right bastard," Hawk muttered aloud.


    "The sadism of the Human race knows no bounds," Sirannor said.


    "I wouldn''t grace someone like that with the title ''Human''," Hawk replied, scowling. He glanced uncertainly at the Captain. "Are you still gonna take him back to his master?"


    Sirannor paused for a long moment, not looking at Hawk. Finally, he replied, emotionlessly: "No. He has suffered enough. As have we."


    They walked on in silence for a time. They were nearing the old wall that separated the Old Quarter from the city proper. The din of the awakening city drifted to them on the breeze: the clatter of cartwheels and horses'' hooves and blacksmiths'' hammers and living voices. Hawk thought there was nothing so wonderful as the hustle and bustle of peaceful, everyday life.


    A short way ahead, Sirannor came to a halt. So engrossed was Hawk in thoughts of collapsing onto a nice bed that he barely noticed. He continued walking until Cimmeran''s sharp cry jolted him out of his reverie, and his skin. "What''s going on?" He whirled in alarm, hand on the hilt of his sword.


    Sirannor was peering through a gap in a ruined wall. "There was a shadow..." he murmured.


    Cimmeran scurried towards Hawk and tried to hide behind him, shivering like a frightened child. "It, it''s the Presence!" he whimpered. "It''s coming back for me!"


    Sirannor stepped away from the wall and held up a hand for them to stay where they were. Then he moved silently back the way they had come, keeping in the shadows, until he reached the end of the wall, and looked around the corner.


    After a moment, he gave a grunt and straightened. He glanced back at Hawk and Cimmeran. "Have no fear," he assured. "It is not the Presence." He pointed to something in the ruins, hidden from their view.


    Hawk came forward. The wall fell away to reveal a beautiful black mare standing a few yards away, still in her saddle and bridle, reins trailing in the sand, eyeing them warily.


    Letting out another cry, this time one of astonished joy, Cimmeran darted out from behind Hawk, running to the horse. He threw his arms around her neck, burying his face in her mane. The horse nuzzled him affectionately.


    Sirannor folded his arms. "Ardance," he remarked.


    "He seems attached to that horse," Hawk said, smiling.


    "I expect," Sirannor replied, "that without the sky, a swift steed is the next best thing."


    * * *


    Grisket Trice threw his hat in the dirt, swearing at the Muron footprints that led nowhere. Behind him in a grove of ti-trees he had found the remains of one of the creatures, torn to pieces, the flesh stripped from its black bones. Despite a thorough, fearful search, he found no other bodies.


    Flies buzzed everywhere. He swiped at them in frustration, trying to ignore the foul stench that lingered in the air. The Muron had not been dead more than a few hours. Clearly, it had been killed by one or more of its own ilk: no other creature was capable of such decimation. He guessed it had been the crippled one, judging from the trail: he couldn''t imagine it would have travelled this far on foot unless it was injured.


    ? Why hadn''t they killed him, out of sport if not hunger? They wanted him alive for some reason, they had taken him off somewhere¡­


    He turned to look at the distant mountains. Might it have something to do with his magic? Had they sensed it? Did they think they could make use of him, somehow?


    All along, Ferrian had wished to meet a sorcerer. But not like this!


    The Barlakk Mountains were a hazy shadow lining the horizon from north to south, a giant wall separating the Coastlands from the Outlands. A wall that encircled half of Daroria. Somewhere within those thousands of miles of grey stone, Ferrian was at the mercy of a pack of Murons and a sorcerer with unknown intentions.


    He had just passed within the shadows of the trees when something hit him hard in the back of the head, pitching him forward and sending blackness sweeping across his eyes.

 Chapter Forty Nine

    Whitest steed and blackest night


    In Winter''s eye a shocking sight.


    The darkness roared. Like an enraged beast, silver claws flashed from the black sky, cutting everything in their path, beating the once-parched earth into silty submission. Lightning punctuated the madness, splitting trees like twigs, sizzling in the drowned air. Through it all a fierce globe burned and streaked through the night, its blue-white light reflecting off the flooded ground and glistening leaves.


    Suddenly, out of the darkness in the ghostly lingering wake of the light lunged a great white mare, hooves shattering the stream. Sleek neck and long legs fully extended, mane streaming water, she pounded up the mountainside as though the storm was a real beast snapping at her tail. Upon her back, a rider in a blue cloak crouched close over her neck, guiding her, urging her onwards with whispered arcane words that only a horse''s ears could hear. Not far behind her a second, darker horse galloped, struggling to keep up. Both horses should have broken their necks at the insane pace they were racing over the treacherous ground, but bright runes glowing on their hooves saw that their footing was safe and sure.


    Requar and Flint had been riding for hours. The weather had dropped on them suddenly, violently, halfway through the Valewood Forest, as though they had passed through the leading edge of a wave into a chaotic, freezing world. There they found themselves following forest trails turned to rivers, and trees and rocks slick with ice. The darkness in the sky over the mountains held a foreboding presence that both men felt as a heavy weight in their stomachs, but neither of them spoke of it. They did not speak at all as they rode: Requar intent on getting them to their destination as quickly as possible and Flint content merely to trust and follow.


    Requar was sure that the ex-Bladeshifter was having plenty of misgivings about his decision to tag along, but he had not voiced them, as yet. They had stopped only once, at the base of the mountains, to rest and eat and cast a few protective spells on the horses, and Requar had caught the unmistakable glimmer of doubt in Flint''s shadowed eyes then. Perhaps it was pride or stubbornness that kept the stocky man struggling doggedly after him, towards an uncertain and probably dangerous future. Perhaps some unknown agenda. There might even be some remnants of his original assassination plot still floating around in his head.


    Or perhaps he was simply afraid of being alone.


    Requar knew what that felt like.


    They were now well into the pass that led to the valley, only an hour or two away from the castle by Requar''s reckoning, though he had only his own instincts to judge the time. Moon and stars were a forgotten memory, and even his seeking spell was just an indistinct haze in the distance. The rain had thickened into a heavy curtain of sleet that slanted directly into his face, freezing his eyelashes and skin, coating clothes, harness and horse in slick frost. He was forced to keep wiping his eyes to prevent them from sticking shut and blinding him.


    He scanned the darkness periodically, but nothing leapt out to attack them except the rain and wind. There was a high likelihood that many of Arzath''s minions still resided in the valley. Requar didn''t think any of them would dare to attack with magic blazing all around, but it didn''t hurt to be watchful.


    But the leaden snake of unease that had twisted itself around his gut ever since he made his first stunning contact with Ferrian was constricting further with each stride of his horse. He could not determine the source of it, and that made him anxious.


    Why then was he so convinced that something terrible waited to welcome him home?


    His thoughts plummeted with the temperature, and before long the sorcerer was lost in a semi-conscious daze, lulled by penetrating cold, and weariness that sank even deeper. His grip became slack on the reins, and his seeking spell drifted further and further ahead. His beautiful white mare, Serentyne, continued galloping loyally through the near pitch blackness, though fatigue was laying claim to her, too, as she strove for footing on the steep mountain path. Water gushed over her hooves, trying to sweep her legs out from under her, but the fading agility spells etched on them still held her steady.


    Suddenly she crested a rise and leapt downwards through a narrow break between a clutch of boulders, and there upon the other side would have plunged into catastrophe if Requar''s instincts had not snapped him out of his torpor at the last second. With a gasp he yanked heavily on the reins, bringing her to a sliding, panicked halt.


    A few moments later Flint''s horse came barrelling down the same break, nearly colliding with them, but Requar''s hasty intervention spell turned it aside, throwing them both backwards against the boulders. Flint would have fallen from his saddle, except the defile was so narrow that the boulders caught his fall. Instead, he was left wedged between a squirming horse and an icy rock wall.


    Requar leapt from his seat and part ran, mostly slid down to his companion. "Are you all right?" he yelled, grabbing the reins of Flint''s frantic mount before it crushed its rider into the wall.


    Flint responded with a curse and Requar felt relief flood through him. In Flint''s language, that was as good as a ''yes.''


    As Flint righted himself, Requar stroked the horse''s nose and whispered to it, trying to calm it down. The animal was terrified, shivering, and seemed to be limping on its left front leg. Igniting a small glow of white fire in his fingers, he crouched down to examine it. He could not see any obvious injuries, but it was hard to be certain in the darkness. He traced over the all but vanished spells on its hooves, reinforcing them, and felt a little more of his own energy seep away as he did so. For a moment, he remained crouching, seeking comfort from the slight shelter of the horse''s warm body. Sleet pounded on his back like hammers and trickled off his hood and nose. He wanted desperately to close his eyes and rest, but was afraid that if he did so, even for a second, exhaustion would take him completely.


    Above him, Flint was still muttering and cursing, obviously not thrilled with how the journey was turning out. "What''s the hold up?" he called down. "Why did we stop?"


    Requar pushed himself to his feet with an effort. He summoned his seeking spell back from where it had wandered off and it came blazing around the cliffs to halt, hovering over the seemingly impassable obstacle before them.


    What was usually, in the summer months, a gently trickling series of rapids was now nature at its most wrathful. The valley above them was disgorging its flooded river into the pass. The spray leapt to shoulder height, even atop a horse.


    "Ah," Flint said. "That''d be a good reason¡­"


    Requar did not reply. He walked back to Serentyne and mounted.


    Requar looked at the thundering mass of foam leaping and lunging over the rocks like a living thing. Like a great fist ready to grab him and scatter his bones and Serentyne''s all the way down the mountainside.


    I don''t have a choice.


    Ferrian is waiting for me.


    "We can make it," he said.


    But Flint was shaking his head. "No way."


    Requar turned to stare at him. "You don''t trust me?"


    Flint stared back through the rain. Icicles were dripping off his hat. The Justifier was an almost unrecognisable piece of ice sculpture stuck to his back. "Look," he said. "I''ll admit that I''m curious about the Winter kid, but I sure as hell ain''t gonna break my neck for him. All this magical business, it''s got nothin'' to do with me!"


    He lowered his head for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. He turned his horse back to the break. "Shoulda stuck to my original plan and gone to Sunsee! All that sun, all that sea! All this¨C" he waved around at the storm, "I don''t understand any of it! It ain''t right, it ain''t natural, and it ain''t my problem! You don''t need me: I''m just bogging you down!"


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    Requar continued to stare at him for a moment, then nodded slowly and looked away. "I wish you luck," he said.


    Winding his hands in Serentyne''s reins, he edged her towards the raging river until her nose was almost touching the foam. She obeyed his commands without panicking. She was a good horse. He reminded himself to thank the Freeroamers, when he could, and return her to them safely.


    Or failing that, perhaps the Gods would someday thank them on his behalf.


    Taking a deep breath, he withdrew his Sword of Healing from its sheath. He placed the flat of the blade firmly against Serentyne''s flank. The blade rippled with blue light like water in a crystal pool as he began to augment her energy with his own. The Sword of Healing could be used not only to heal damage, but also to increase vitality far beyond natural levels, if need be. Requar did not use it for this purpose very often, as the after-effects could be detrimental, but in this circumstance he needed to give her every chance of survival. With his free hand, he began to construct a shield around them both.


    When he was satisfied that all his spells were in place, he guided Serentyne into the stream.


    "Wait!" Flint cried suddenly. He was stumbling over the rocks towards Requar. "You''re really gonna do this?"


    "It is not my choice, Flint. I promised Ferrian that I would help him, and I don''t intend to let him down."


    Flint shook his head. "Why do you care about this kid so much? It''s not just his magic, is it? You know somethin'' about him, don''t you?"


    , he thought.


    His hand tightened on the hilt of his Sword. "I need to do this," he replied. "I have my reasons." For the first time in a long time, it was he who could not meet another''s gaze.


    Flint squinted at the raging torrent, then back at his own horse, then back at Requar. Finally, he sighed. "Listen. Uh¡­ my horse has a lame leg. It''s not gonna survive that crossing, magic or no." He hesitated. "I''ll be lucky if it even makes it back down the mountain¡­"


    Requar switched his Sword to his left hand, and held his right out to Flint. This time, he did meet the other man''s eyes. "You were wrong before, Flint," he said. "Everyone needs a friend."


    Flint stared at the offered hand, at the water dripping off the long fingers. Then a sudden gust of freezing wind seemed to make the decision for him. Wordlessly, he reached out and took it, and Requar helped him climb up onto Serentyne''s back.


    "Have a little faith," he called to Flint over his shoulder. "I don''t die easily."


    "Yeah," Flint grumbled. "You don''t need to remind me."


    Despite himself, Requar smiled a little as they stepped out into the rapids.


    Any other rider would have been smashed to pieces in an instant, but the white mare kept her feet. Requar''s shield absorbed the impact of the waves and deflected them over their heads in great cascading arcs. Like a ghost passing beneath a shimmering curtain of water, Serentyne crossed slowly and delicately, oblivious to the chaos. Then suddenly they were through, clambering over the rocks on the opposite shore and without further hesitation galloped away on the final stretch of the journey home.


    "At least he left a fire on for us," Flint said, huffing his breath out in a cloud. Hugging himself against the cold, he peered at the column of smoke drifting invitingly upwards from one of the chimneys. There was no need to shout any longer, the wind and rain had died away completely, as though they had entered the eye of the storm. The clouds still flashed around the mountain peaks and thunder boomed like a ring of giant drummers encircling them, but the Sorcerer''s Valley was wrapped in a cocoon of eerie silence. Even the night sky had reappeared: diamond stars winking awake between the clouds and a three-quarter moon spilling its light throughout the valley. Only a few gentle snowflakes continued to float down from the cold heavens.


    Requar was too tired for conversation. He slid from his saddle to land beside Flint, ice crumbling off his cloak as he did so. Taking Serentyne''s reins, he led her through the deep drifts of snow to the stables abutting the north wall of his castle. They had not been used in some time; he had once owned a few horses and other animals, but Arzath had slaughtered them all in one of his countless senseless attacks and he hadn''t had the heart to replace them. The building was clean and dry, however, and it was better than leaving the mare standing outside in the unpredictable elements.


    Snow showered over him as he tugged the stubborn doors open and led his horse into the nearest stall. He lit a couple of torches and took a few minutes to unharness and brush the ice off her. He fetched the rainwater bucket from outside and used a little magic to melt the crust of frost off the surface, then filled her empty trough. Then he let her be and walked back around to the main entrance where Flint was poking curiously at the castle shield, watching the air ripple.


    "Don''t do that," he said, and walked into the shield without pausing. It melted aside as he approached, Flint hurrying quickly through as it closed again behind them. Requar stepped up to the doors, turned the handles and went inside.


    And then he stopped.


    And stared.


    "Whoa¡­" Flint breathed, entering behind him and staring around.


    Requar walked quietly into the middle of the hall. The moon cast a hazy glow through the frosted-over stained glass window above the doors, bathing the interior of the foyer in dim blue light.


    Like an ice cave.


    Everything was frozen. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the staircase, the furniture, the chandelier. Everything was covered in a thick, glistening layer of ice. The castle was still and silent: even the grandfather clock was dead within its frosty encasement.


    "Something''s wrong," Requar murmured.


    "No kidding," Flint remarked.


    "No," Requar shook his head slowly, frowning. "Not the ice. I expected as much. Something else¡­"


    He turned in a circle, examining every corner of the hall, concentrating on the shadows. His gaze lingered on the dark balcony for a long moment, but nothing moved there.


    And yet¡­ something was ominously out of kilter. He had felt it the moment he opened the doors, as though someone had dropped a leaden mantle upon his shoulders. He had built this castle; he had lived here, when not on other sojourns, for half a century. It was his home. He knew it like his own skin. Something in the fall of the shadows and the chill of the stone was whispering to him to be cautious.


    His behaviour was making Flint nervous, as well. "Could someone else have gotten in here?" the ex-Bladeshifter asked.


    "No," Requar said abruptly. He shook his head again. "No one could have breached the shield without alerting me to their presence, and I would have discerned their identity straight away. There is no one in here besides ourselves and Ferrian." As though determined to prove his point, he strode towards the closed door at the far end of the room, from beneath which a dim orange glow leaked onto the icy floor.


    He paused for a moment with his hand on the handle, listening, but there was nothing to be heard from the room beyond. Slowly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open, although it required several hard shoves as it was iced shut. "So much for subtlety," Requar muttered to himself as he finally broke through.


    The dining hall beyond was empty, save for a fire blazing brightly in the hearth at the opposite end of the room. It filled the room with warmth and light ¨C the frost ended at the edges of the glow ¨C and the walls were alive with dancing shadows. Requar walked slowly around the long table and down the length of the hall, looking around carefully. Nothing seemed out of place, everything was exactly how he had left it. The tall windows on his left mirrored the movements of their lord as he passed them.


    Then he reached the end of the table, and stopped.


    Ferrian was sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, legs drawn up to his chest, staring into the fire. He did not move or look up at the sorcerer''s approach.


    "Ferrian?" Requar said.


    The boy did not respond.


    Very slowly, so as not to startle him, Requar moved towards Ferrian. He crouched beside him and drew back his hood. "Ferrian, it''s me," he said softly. "Lord Requar."


    Ferrian continued to stare unblinkingly into the fire. There was frost in his hair, despite the heat. His skin was shockingly pale, his lips bloodless. Requar placed a hand on Ferrian''s forehead.


    Behind him, Flint slumped against the dining table. "We''re too late," he sighed in dismay, and shook his head. "Poor kid¡­"


    He took Ferrian''s face in his hands and lifted his chin off his knees so that he could stare into his eyes. Deeply he delved into their mirror-like depths, searching¡­


    You''re still in there, aren''t you? You don''t need to be afraid any more. You don''t need to run, or hide. I am here to help you. I am sorry I took so long to find you¡­


    Still Ferrian did not respond. Switching to Mind Vision, Requar reached deeper with his magic, beyond the eyes, into Ferrian''s mind, searching for the little sparkles of light that were his thoughts¡­


    Suddenly a bright white light flared out of the darkness, obscuring his Vision. Rapidly it intensified until, like a freezing whip, it lashed out of Ferrian''s mind and into Requar''s own, causing him to recoil in shock.


    He picked himself up off the floor a few moments later, when his eyesight had returned, in time to see the white glow fade from Ferrian''s eyes. Then the boy collapsed.


    "What happened?" Flint asked in alarm.


    "Ugh¡­" Requar clutched at his head and clenched his eyes shut to try and ease the throbbing pain. The backlash of magic had cut through his mind like an ice cold knife. "He is dead¡­ in a sense," he answered finally. "His magic appears to be the only thing keeping his body alive. His consciousness may or may not still be intact: I cannot be certain without a more thorough examination." He winced. "And a great deal more protective spells."


    He stood up, then gathered Ferrian in his arms and picked him up off the floor. "In the meantime, I need to move him away from this fire. It''s doing him more harm than good." He turned and began to stride back down the hall.


    "Can''t you use that healin'' sword an'' fix him," Flint asked, hurrying after, "like you did with me an'' Nightwalker?"


    Requar shook his head. "I only wish it were that simple. The Sword of Healing requires a life force to work on. Without one, its magic is unfortunately useless."


    "So, what are you gonna do?"


    "I''m not¨C" Requar stopped dead, the remainder of the sentence fleeing back down his throat.


    mistaken.


    Someone now standing at the top of the staircase, dressed in familiar dark clothing, staring down at him.


    Someone that he had never, ever expected to see again.


    "Hello, Requar," Arzath said, grinning. "Welcome home."

 Chapter Fifty

    Brothers finally reunited


    Face a dagger evil blighted.


    The first sliver of semi-rational thought that slipped through Requar''s mind was that he was hallucinating. Surely, he was far wearier that he had realised, and was in reality still riding up the mountain pass in the storm, slumped unconscious upon Serentyne''s back.


    The memory of the last time he had laid eyes on Arzath flashed before his eyes.


    He had pushed him...


    He had looked over the edge to see Arzath''s body lying horribly on the rocks.


    He had wept into the grass, feeling as though it had been himself who had broken up inside.


    This cannot be real¡­


    Beside him, Flint was fumbling with his Justifier, but the weapon was a useless chunk of ice. He threw it onto the floor and kicked it, cursing.


    The loud noise jerked Requar out of his dream haze. Staring at Arzath, his eyes widened like a child coming to the terrible realisation that the monster under the bed was real.


    "You cannot be alive," he gasped. It was all he could manage to say.


    His last words were a scream that rang throughout the hall.


    "Goddess have mercy," Requar whispered. His legs gave out completely and he dropped to his knees, Ferrian tumbling out of his arms onto the floor.


    "Don''t take another damn step!" Flint said suddenly. He had drawn, of all things, one of his knives, and was poised as if to throw it at Arzath.


    "Flint, no," Requar said weakly.


    The ex-Bladeshifter ignored him, taking another few steps forward. Requar wondered, not for the first time, if Flint was inhumanly brave, or simply incredibly stupid.


    But the reins were not his to take.


    Gathering white fire in his hand, Requar threw it at Flint''s knife and it exploded into twisted metallic fragments that scattered tinkling across the icy floor. Flint leaped backwards with a cry and turned to him angrily. "What''d you¨C"


    "Flint." Requar cut him off with a hard glare. "Do you remember that night in Hillbank? Don''t make the same mistake again. Arzath¨C" his brother''s name caught in his throat, "Arzath is just as powerful as I am, and he will not stop at destroying your weapons, do you understand?"


    He got to his feet, scooped Ferrian up off the floor and handed him to Flint. "Take him into the other room and lock and barricade the door behind you," he said. "I need to speak with my brother alone. You must not intervene, no matter what happens. You must not come out until I tell you it is safe."


    He took a deep breath, struggling to keep his composure as waves of emotion crashed over his head, threatening to break him apart. "Please," he whispered, placing a hand on Flint''s shoulder. "Promise me you won''t¡­" His voice cracked and broke, but Flint seemed to understand. He nodded his head, albeit reluctantly, still casting dark glances at Arzath.


    "I won''t let anyone hurt the kid," he said. "You have my word."


    Requar nodded. "That''s all I ask."


    Flint turned and went back to the dining room door, carrying the unconscious Ferrian with him. He stopped on the threshold and looked back at the two brothers with a look of mingled fear, confusion and frustration and then went inside and closed it firmly behind him.


    When he had gone, Requar closed his eyes and let his breath out slowly. He closed his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Arzath being alive changed everything. Or, more accurately, it changed things back to the way they were before the accident, the way they had been for nearly two centuries. The guilt of his brother''s death had been almost too much for Requar to bear, but it had also been a release. It had enabled him to leave his castle for the first time in years, to advance the plans he had put on hold for so long. Or so he had thought. Now, all of his dreams had been whisked away again in the blink of an eye.


    It was a cruel joke. It was as though his entire life was some kind of twisted drama being played out for the amusement of the Gods.


    And in that moment, the puppet strings finally snapped, having been pulled too tight for too long.


    Anger welled up inside him. It was a feeling he was unused to, and it shocked him, but he let it sizzle through his veins, giving him energy, because the only other alternative was to crumble in a heap and weep himself dry.


    He whirled suddenly on Arzath, his blue eyes dark with fury. "All this time," he quavered, "all these weeks, you let me believe that you were dead! That I had killed you! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW THAT MADE ME FEEL?"


    Requar''s anger vanished instantly as the blue light revealed his brother''s features. His skin was almost as pallid as Ferrian''s. He was hunched and shivering in his cloak, his hands skeletal and his face sunken. Only his eyes burned as brightly as they always had, but there was more than rage and hatred in them, now: there was pain and anguish.


    Forcing back tears, he swallowed and whispered: "What are you doing in my castle, Arzath? What do you want from me?"


    Arzath staggered forward a few steps. "I already have what I¡­ came here¡­ ugh¡­" He dropped suddenly to one knee, clutching at his chest, and coughed violently. Blood dripped from his lips onto the floor.


    "Arzath!" Requar gasped, and started quickly forward.


    "S-stay aw-way from me!" Arzath stammered, trying to get to his feet. Requar ignored him, reaching over his shoulder and withdrawing his Sword.


    Arzath waved an arm at him unsteadily, as though to blast him with magic. "I''m¡­ warning you, Requar, don''t you¡­ DARE TOUCH ME!"


    Requar grabbed the outstretched arm, slapped the flat of the blade into Arzath''s palm, and forced his fingers around it. "You are my brother," he declared fiercely, "and you are going to receive my help whether you want it or not!"


    I am trying to help you, damn it!"


    Arzath''s eyes narrowed venomously. "Go to HELL!" He reached out and seized Requar''s throat in both hands.


    Requar plunged the Sword of Healing into his chest.


    Arzath released him with a scream, his hands going to the hilt instead. Requar glared at him. "It''s for your own good," he said, and sent magic flooding down the blade. Arzath shrieked as though Requar was killing him and fought harder, but he was pinned to the balustrade. His struggles didn''t last long. As the magic overpowered him, he grew weaker. Requar could see him fighting every inch of the way, but finally he lapsed into unconsciousness.


    Careful not to break contact with the Sword, Requar let him sink gently to the floor. He sighed wearily, but his work was not yet done. Grasping the hilt firmly with both hands, he closed his eyes and concentrated.


    He was lying once again on the rocks at the bottom of the waterfall. He could hear the rush of it as a dim echo in his ears, and speckles of water droplets hung in the cool dark air, against a backdrop of an even brighter firmament. Stars, millions and more, stared down at his limp body; the eyes of the Gods, glaring at him for being so weak and useless. He was an insignificant speck of dust beneath them, a tiny mote, his brief glimmer of life barely worth the effort it had taken to create it in the first place.


    He stared back at them, because he had no choice. He could not move his head. He was paralysed.


    How long he had been lying there, he did not know. Perhaps forever. Perhaps he was not even Human, but just another one of the time-worn rocks.


    But he knew that he had been here before, at some time, and this time it was different. This time, he could remember who he was and how he had come to be there.


    His name was Arzath, and his brother had ruined his life.


    He hated him.


    The hatred churned and boiled inside him, with no release. He wanted to scream at those bright eternal eyes of the Gods, wail at the injustice of it all. But he could not.


    Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to die.


    A gentle humming caused his eyes to open again. A woman was sitting there, on the ground beside him. She was holding a porcelain decanter ¨C her favourite one with the blue roses ¨C and gently pouring warm water over his body. He was aware suddenly that there was a gaping wound in the middle of his chest, and she was washing away the blood. Her lovely eyes were cool and breezy, like glimpses of a summer sky from within a shadowy room. Black pearls were strung about her face, glimmering with opalescence amidst long silken white hair that fell to her waist. She wore a white lace gown that made her look ethereal in the moonlight.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Mother, Arzath tried to say, but his lips would not work.


    Lady Fyona smiled reassuringly. Leaning forward, she kissed him on the forehead, then lifted his head gently off the ground and embraced him. Arzath wanted to cry.


    I''m sorry, he whispered in his mind. I''m sorry, mother¡­


    The world turns in ways we do not understand, she told him, but we must learn to accept them. Neither you nor Requar should blame yourselves, or each other, for my death.


    Please, do not fight with him any longer. It happened so long ago, and it is time for you to move on, as I have moved on. You must live your lives without me, and be the beautiful children that you are and were always meant to be. I love you, my sweetheart.


    Her hand trailed across his cheek as she laid him back onto the rocks.


    Mother!


    But Lady Fyona was gone. In her place sat Requar. He looked so much like her, but he was nothing like her. His eyes were deceptive, a peaceful mirage beyond which lay only darkness and destruction.


    Listen to her, Arzath, he said, and he was smiling. Picking up the decanter, he continued to pour, but it was not water that fell from its brim, but blood.


    Arzath tried desperately to move, to stop him, but could do nothing. He could only lie there helplessly as the blood flowed over him, dark and slippery, sinking into him, staining his skin, staining his soul¡­


    He screamed.


    And then something sparked deep inside him, like dry kindling catching alight. The blood fuelled it, caused it to grow quickly into a roaring flame. Arzath felt the life returning to his body wherever the fire touched, felt a fierce rush of invigoration.


    Without warning, he sat up with violet light blazing from his eyes.


    Arzath''s eyes snapped open.


    He was back in the main hall of his brother''s castle, surrounded by ice and blue-stained moonlight. Requar was still there in front of him, clutching not a decanter of blood but his Sword of Healing, which was protruding from Arzath''s chest. Blue light rippled in steady waves along the silver blade. Requar was bent over it, head lowered, eyes closed, frowning slightly in concentration. Strands of his long hair had worked their way free from his cloak and hung down to his waist, just like Lady Fyona''s.


    Nothing like her.


    Arzath''s arm shot out and grabbed his brother''s throat. Throwing his body weight forward, he slammed Requar into the floor, his skull impacting with an audible crack. He yanked the Sword out of him, breaking the connection and threw it aside where it clattered on the floor, its magic fading.


    He raised his free hand and snapped his fingers. A flash of blue-violet light ignited between them and leapt crackling around his palm.


    "Now that you''ve had your fun," he said, grinning, "it''s time for me to have mine!"


    Like a striking viper, his hand snatched Requar''s face, and he sent a wave of lightning magic burning into him.


    Requar screamed. His body shuddered and convulsed, his hands bending into claws. His pain made Arzath giddy. He had not felt the buzz of magic through his body for a long time, but now, finally it had returned. He felt alive again. He felt whole.


    He felt better than whole.


    The only thing that he had ever really wanted was right here beneath his hands, for him to do with as he pleased.


    Requar was not going to stop him, this time.


    He kept the surge of magic up until Requar''s clothing started to smoke, then released him. He did not want to kill him, not yet, anyway. He had only just started.


    Twitching violently, Requar curled over, clutching at his face. Arzath picked him up and with the force of his magic threw him across the room, where he smashed into the clock and fell in a heap on the floor in a shower of ice and wood splinters.


    Arzath walked after him unhurriedly, straightening his clothing and brushing his hair out of his eyes with a sweep of his hand. He had been waiting for this encounter for a very long time, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.


    There was nothing quite so satisfying as beating someone up in their own home.


    Especially if it was Requar.


    He stopped before his brother and folded his arms, regarding him with his head on one side. "Oh, now really, Requar," he said. "You''re not even going to fight back? How very boring."


    Requar was in too much pain to reply.


    Smirking, Arzath picked him up by the neck and threw him across the hall again where he crashed into some furniture.


    This time he did not follow, but strolled back to the staircase. Six steps up he reached behind the balustrade and snapped free the object he had earlier concealed there in the ice. The boy''s Winter was proving to be highly useful. Walking back down the stairs, he tapped the dagger on the railing, dislodging the remainder of the ice from its lethal edges. Keeping it hidden on his person would have been too risky. Requar would have found it or at least sensed its presence, and it would have inhibited the magic of the Sword of Healing in any case.


    He came to the middle of the foyer and stopped, watching in amusement as Requar picked himself up out of the debris, staggering around like the aforementioned moth with his wings burnt off.


    Arzath lifted an arm and with a flick of his wrist yanked Requar back to the floor, dragging him across the ice until he slid to a stop at his feet. He kicked him onto his back and then cursed.


    Requar''s eyes were badly damaged. He had been a little overzealous with his torture, and blinded him.


    Arzath stared at him in dismay and disgust. He had wanted Requar to behold the beautiful irony of his own death. He had wanted to see the terror in his eyes, had wanted to be staring into them when his life force finally trickled away forever. Now that indulgence was denied to him, and he was annoyed.


    He reached down to grab Requar''s throat again, but at that moment, his brother disappeared.


    He gasped, grabbing at the spot where he had been, but there was nothing there. Standing up, he kicked at the floor, but his boot encountered nothing.


    "DAMN YOU!" he yelled, whirling furiously, but the hall was empty. Summoning his magic was much more difficult when in direct contact with the trigonic dagger, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and ripped it forth, throwing bursts of lightning throughout the room. Turning in a circle, he destroyed everything in sight until the air was hazy and acrid with smoke and pieces of charred furniture littered the floor.


    He stopped, panting heavily, wincing with the agony raking up his arm from the dagger. But he refused to release his hold on it. As long as he was extremely careful not to cut himself with it, it could do him no serious harm.


    He stayed still for long minutes, searching the swirling smoke, listening.


    Crunch.


    It was a small sound, but in the silence of the lofty hall, it was clearly audible.


    Arzath spun, lightning leaping from his hand, but he let his momentum carry him around in a full circle, moving to one side as he did so to avoid the brilliant white fireball that blazed out of nowhere and released his magic in the opposite direction to the sound.


    He was rewarded by a sharp cry.


    Requar slumped against the main doors and slid to the floor, his camouflage spell disintegrating, clutching a smoking burn wound on his shoulder. Giving the trigonic dagger a twirl, Arzath sauntered towards his stricken brother.


    "You¡­ know me¡­ too well," Requar whispered hoarsely as he approached.


    Arzath leaned down to him. "Better than you think," he hissed. He curled his fingers into Requar''s collar and dragged him physically into the middle of the foyer again. There he dumped him onto the floor and dropped on top of him with his knee pressed against his throat so that he could not move.


    "Now," he said bringing the dagger close to Requar''s ruined face, "would you like to guess what I am holding right in front of your face, or shall I tell you?"


    Requar shook his head. "What does it matter?" he croaked. "One weapon is the same as any other."


    Arzath leaned closer. "Not this one," he whispered. "Not the only one you never found a cure for."


    The blood drained from Requar''s face. He went very still, even his breathing stopped, but his heartbeat increased a thousandfold in his chest. "N-no," he stammered. "You¡­ you wouldn''t¡­ not even you could be that cruel!"


    Arzath laughed. "Pity you don''t know me as well, then!"


    Requar''s expression turned from fear to anguish. Even without his eyes, his distress was plain to see. Suddenly, he seemed to gain a surge of energy. An agonised cry tore from his throat and his hands lunged upwards to lock on Arzath''s arm. White fire burned from his fingers, his hands shaking with the effort, but his magic was weak and feeble in such close proximity to the trigonic dagger, and he was already drained of strength from his healing attempt and the injuries he had suffered.


    Arzath watched his attack disinterestedly, content to let him exhaust himself completely. Finally, Requar''s hands slipped away in hopelessness. His head turned to one side, and he began to sob silently.


    "Why?" he whispered. "Why are you doing this to me? Why do you hate me so? What have I done to evoke such wrath from my own brother?" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Is it the School? Are you still angry with me for that?"


    you have ever done!"


    Requar swallowed. "Listen to me," he said. "Let me explain. No matter what you may think of me, I did not engineer the destruction of the School. It is true that I acquired the trigon: I even made the orbs. I needed to study it, to test its destructive potential. I needed to learn everything I could about it in order that I might find the secret to curing its effects. But I had no intention of using the orbs as weapons. It is true that I disliked the School intensely, but I had no wish to see everyone there killed! I had no wish to see the art of sorcery as the world knew it extinguished!"


    He paused for breath, and then went on: "The assassination plot was not mine. It was the Enchanter''s son. He had always longed to succeed his father as head of the School, but he was becoming impatient. He and a handful of his supporters had been devising their plan for years. Somehow, they discovered that I was in possession of trigon, and they attempted to buy it from me. When I would not be bribed, they stole the orbs from my study.


    "I tried to get them back, I searched high and low for them, but I could not find where they had been hidden. I could not expose the group, either, because the trigon would have been traced instantly back to me, and I would have been made the scapegoat for the entire conspiracy.


    "So I kept their despicable secret to myself, all the while trying to think of ways to stop them.


    "Ultimately, I failed.


    "Finally, despite all the threats and blackmails and risks to my own life, I went to the Enchanter with what I knew. I even showed him a map where I had deduced they were most likely to set the orbs for the greatest number of casualties. The Enchanter did not believe me. He refused to accept that his own son was involved in something so heinous.


    "I do not know why I was not expelled. Perhaps because there were some who believed that my research into trigon was invaluable. In any case, the Enchanter brushed the whole matter aside as though it were a silly game."


    Requar sighed brokenly. "The assassination plot was carried out, and I could not prevent it from happening. I had not the power to protect everyone at the School, only you and myself. I used an untested trigon counter-spell that I had created, but that was all it was; just a counter-spell, not a cure. But it saved both our lives when everything else was reduced to burning ruins¡­" his voice finally trailed off.


    "Why the hell are you telling me all this now, after all these years?" Arzath demanded. "Why should I believe you?"


    Arzath stared at him. The shaft of moonlight flooding over them cast a dark jagged slash of shadow over Requar''s face from the cruel blade poised only inches above the bridge of his nose. Arzath wanted to slice his face open. But there were still truths left unsaid, still the biggest lie of all yet to be exposed. He was going to kill Requar this night, but he was going to tear his soul out first and shake every single piece of him out onto the floor.


    I don''t believe you?" His free hand tightened sharply around Requar''s throat. "Because I know


    Requar choked. "I don''t¡­ understand!"


    "Forgotten her, have you?" Arzath snarled. "Is that how little she meant to you?"


    "Wh-what?"


    "MOTHER!"


    Requar struggled to breathe. "Is that¡­ what this has¡­ all been about? Gods¡­ Arzath, it was so¡­ long ago! You¡­ know that I did¡­ everything I possibly could to¡­ save her life!"


    "STOP LYING TO ME!" he screamed.


    "I am not¡­ lying to you!"


    "Goddammit!" he cried. "I saw you! I saw what you did!"


    "What? What are you ¨C"


    "I was awake that night, standing at my chamber window! The yard was flooded with moonlight: I could see EVERYTHING! I saw the figure in the black cloak flee out of the house, saw it discard the knife on the grass ¨C THIS KNIFE ¨C saw its panic-riddled face, its distinctive white hair!" His glare burned into his brother''s blind eyes. "It was not some homeless urchin that broke into our house that night, WAS IT?


    "IT WAS YOU!"


    Requar did not respond. Arzath shook him, slamming his head into the floor. "IT WAS YOU, WASN''T IT?"


    Requar was so still and silent for so long that Arzath began to think he had choked him to death. Then a single tear, mingled with blood, leaked from one of his scorched eyes and rolled down his cheek.


    Finally, almost imperceptibly, Requar nodded his head.

 Chapter Fifty One

    Good and evil, choices made


    Hearts are torn by fated blade.


    The force of Arzath''s backhand blow cracked Requar''s nose, but he wasn''t satisfied with that. With the butt of the knife, he slammed his fist into the burn wound on his hapless brother''s shoulder.


    Requar cried out as, once again, a wave of pain surged through his body, and struggled to keep from passing out. He was so weak with his expenditure of magic and the fight that he had barely the strength left to lift a finger, let alone attempt to throw Arzath off. The worst pain was in his eyes. Every tiny little movement of his head sent shards of excruciating agony through his skull, as though razorblades were being shoved forcefully into his eye sockets. He might have been able to scrape together enough strength to heal them, or at the very least regain some vision, if he had had access to his Sword of Healing. But Arzath had thrown it away on the other side of the hall, beyond his reach. He would never allow Requar time to use it in any case, even if he could somehow manage to summon it to him.


    There was another blow to his head, this time from the other side. Requar shuddered as he was knocked even closer to unconsciousness. For a moment, he wavered on the edge, wondering if it would be best just to let himself sink into the blackness and disappear. He was quite certain that if he fainted, Arzath would not bother to wait for him to wake up again.


    He was certain, also, that all the pain he was experiencing was nothing compared to what would happen if Arzath used that dagger on him. He had been around trigon long enough to understand that anything it came into contact with inevitably became corrupted and befouled...


    Images faded in and out of his mental vision, washed-out, colourless, like paintings left in the sun too long. They were memories of his childhood, from a time so long ago that it felt as though they belonged to someone else. But one of them was a stark black and white scar etched on the inside of his skull.


    The memory of one cold, moonlit night when he was eleven years old.


    That one mistake had been the catalyst for all the horrendous events that had happened afterwards. A slap in the face by Lady Fate, that had sent him reeling into calamity. He understood, finally, why Arzath had been desperate for some kind of revenge or retribution all these years. He had never known that anyone, let alone his brother, had witnessed the attack. He thought it had been his terrible secret alone to bear.


    He should have been more astute. He should have realised the truth much earlier.


    He wanted to cry, but the throbbing pain in his head was too intense for tears. He wanted to apologise, but no words he spoke would ever be enough. Arzath had not come here, to his castle, with death in his eyes and hand, for forgiveness.


    Yet, he still had not used the trigonic dagger, despite many opportunities to do so.


    Why? Why am I not dead, if Arzath is so intent on spilling my blood?


    "Arzath¡­" he whispered.


    , haven''t you?"


    "It does not matter¡­ what you do to me," Requar replied painfully. "I am so tired of fighting with you. I am so tired of my own thoughts, my own guilt, my life. Nothing that you do to me will bring her back. Or the School. Or your lost Sword. It is¡­ all gone. Forever. Only I am left: your only remaining family. If you kill me, you will be¡­ alone."


    "I would rather be alone," Arzath said cruelly, "than continue to allow Mother''s blood to run through your putrid heart!"


    "Then at least hear my final words. Know that I never meant to hurt her: I loved her as much as you did¡­"


    !" Arzath cried. "She was the only person who ever loved me in return! Brannon cared nothing for me, he did not even consider me a son! To him I was merely a nuisance, a worthless dog to be kicked aside and scolded for getting in the way! I was not good enough for the School of Magical Studies, I was not good enough to serve duty on his precious Middle Isle, I was not useful even as an errand-boy!


    Requar sighed. "You are wrong. Yes, it is true that Father wanted me to follow his example, to become an esteemed and respected officer, but I was never interested in becoming a soldier. A lifetime spent spilling blood on a pile of rocks already drenched in it was to me abhorrent, even at that young age.


    "But he cared nothing for my wishes. He dragged me away from my books and shoved a sword in my hand and forced me to train with him, determined that I would become what he wanted and expected me to become.


    "I did everything that he ordered me to do, but I could not summon up the enthusiasm or passion necessary to excel as a fighter. He saw this, and it frustrated him. Eventually, it made him angry. Instead of trying to motivate me, encourage me he turned to fear and humiliation. He would often invite some of his colleagues from the Middle Isle to watch our training sessions. He would make me fight him naked, so as to better show the bruises on my skin, to the amusement of his soldier friends. He tried to place the injuries where my clothing would hide them in the hope that Mother would not find out.


    "But she did find out, and she did not believe his excuses for my sore and sorry state. She confronted him, demanded that he stop the training sessions. So, he beat her as well for trying to protect me.


    "Thankfully, he was only at home for two months of the year. The rest of the time he spent on duty on the Middle Isle. I am sure that he preferred to spend time away from us. I believe that he resented us. Fyona, because she had the courage to stand up to him, you, because he could not control you¡­ and me, because I had no desire to carry on his legacy.


    "We were all disappointments to him."


    "One day, when Father was not at home, I was walking to market to buy some garlic for Mother, and two of Father''s soldier friends stepped out into my path, blocking my way. They said they wanted me to carry out a task for them. They told me they wanted me to steal some items from my house, just inconsequential items that would not be missed. My family was wealthy, they said. We did not need them.


    "I was afraid, but I tried to be strong, like Mother. I refused to do what they asked.


    "They shoved me against a wall and placed their swords at my throat, and told me that they had seen my brother wandering around the city alone. They knew where to find you, they said. If I did not do as they asked, then they would catch you and hang you to death from one of the watchtowers. And then they would go to our house and find Mother¡­" His voice wavered and he swallowed heavily. After a moment he continued.


    "I was only a boy and did not know what to do. I was terrified, too afraid to fight back, despite all my training. So, I agreed to fetch the possessions for them, if they would leave my family alone. They gave me their word that they would. They told me that they would never harass me again, but they were grinning strangely as they said it.


    "Then they handed me a sack and a knife. A sinister black knife. I did not like the weapon or want to touch it, but they made me take it. They made me promise that I would take it with me when I went to fetch the items. They said it would keep me safe. They told me to use it on anyone who tried to stop me.


    "I do not know how the soldiers obtained a trigonic dagger or if they knew what it was capable of, but I suspect that they did. I believe that it would have amused them to see Brannon''s impudent young son destroy his own family."


    Requar''s lips quivered as truths he had never told flowed freely from them. "I took the knife. I thought that I might¡­ use it against the men if they tried to hurt you or Mother. A part of me¡­ w-wanted to use it against Father, when he returned. I¡­ I became angry, after the encounter with the men. I decided that I would carry out their demands, not simply because of their threats, but also because I knew that a theft from our mansion would reflect badly on Father, and I wanted¡­ I wanted to show him up for a fool for all the pain he had caused to us.


    "S-so that very night, I donned one of Father''s old black cloaks and crept into our living room, while everyone else was asleep in their chambers. I started to fill the sack with trinkets and crockery, but in my nervousness, I knocked a plate off a shelf. Immediately I ran for the door, but as I opened it, I found someone standing there, holding a lantern, come to investigate the noise. In panic, I lashed out with the dagger, dropped the sack and fled down the hallway and outside, into the yard.


    ¡°Terrified that I would be caught with the weapon, I dropped it onto the grass and ran around to the back of the house. I climbed in through the kitchen window and scurried back to my room, and into bed, and pretended to be asleep.


    "I¡­ thought that no one had discovered the identity of the thief. The two soldiers, Father''s friends, disappeared, perhaps called back to the Middle Isle. I never saw them again. I thought that no harm had been done.


    "But when Mother fell ill a few weeks later, I knew that something was wrong. Then Lord Etheron came to visit us and identified the knife as a trigonic dagger and I knew then¡­ I knew that somehow I had to fix what I had done¡­"


    Requar took a deep breath, having finally ended his tale. He waited for Arzath''s reply, or perhaps another blow to the head, or the sharp bite of the cursed dagger.


    No reply came.


    Lying on the cold floor, he listened to the silence, but nothing could be heard. He knew that his brother was still there, he could feel the weight of him on his chest. He wondered if he should try speaking again. He wondered if he had the energy to do so¡­


    Then, all of a sudden he felt a hand grab the front of his shirt and rip it open, exposing his bare chest to the chilly air.


    Requar''s breathing intensified. His hands clenched as he felt something touch his skin, on a spot directly above his rapidly pounding heart.


    His lips moved in a whispered prayer as he braced himself to meet his fate.


    He waited.


    Nothing happened.


    He lay there for what seemed like an entire turning of the world, and still the dagger did not move. It remained poised above him, just touching his chest.


    Then Requar heard a very quiet sound, like a soft exhaling of breath. After a few moments, he heard it again.


    It was then that he realised his brother was crying.


    He did not move, just listened to the quiet sobs. Then the point of the dagger lifted away and there was a clink on the floor beside his left arm. He felt Arzath''s body weight shift off him, but still he did not dare to move. He could not see his brother, could not tell what he was doing.


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    Finally, when no attack was forthcoming, he pushed himself up, very carefully on one arm. The effort sent pain exploding through his head and shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and endured it. He sat for a few moments, breathing heavily, waiting for the throbbing to subside and nausea to settle. Then he gathered together the remnants of his magic and invoked his Mind Vision.


    It was weak and hazy, pulsating in and out in sync with the blood pounding through his brain, but at least he could see something. Surrounding him, filling the hall in a silvery mist was Ferrian''s Winter. On the floor to his left was a small, yet piercing black shadow, a knife-shaped hole in the ether. The ambient magic swirled and twisted around it, seemingly attracted to its edges.


    In front of him sat the silhouette of his brother. Arzath''s life-force emanated from him in a scintillating green-gold aura, rippling with bursts of violet-blue. He was hunched over with his face in his hands, weeping. Requar looked at the sparks of thoughts swirling around in his head. They were the colour of anguish, of guilt, and regret.


    Tentatively, Requar reached out and touched his shoulder. He expected Arzath to cringe away or react violently, but surprisingly, he did not.


    "You knew it was me all along and you kept my secret," Requar said softly. "Why?"


    Arzath removed his hands from his face, but did not lift his head. "Because," he sobbed. "Because you¡­ you are my brother, and I believed that you could save her!"


    Requar stared at him through his magic-enhanced vision.


    You are my brother.


    Swallowing back a sob of his own, he shifted over and put his hand gently on Arzath''s shoulder. His brother did not look at him, but neither did he flinch or pull away.


    "I¡­ I am sorry," Requar whispered. "None of this should ever have happened. I am sorry I ruined both our lives. I am sorry that I never told you the truth, the most important truth that you deserved to know. I am sorry for my own cowardice. I am sorry I failed you, and Father, and Mother. I am sorry¡­ for everything." He looked up into the mist swirling around them, as though searching for some meaning to life in its glimmering motes.


    "I know," he went on, "that you may find it difficult to forgive me for her death, and for all of the other atrocious things that I have done. But¡­" His free hand lowered slowly to the floor, touching the dagger that lay there beside them. Prickles crept through his fingers as he curled them around the black hilt. "Please¡­"


    He lifted the knife. "Please forgive me¡­ for this."


    Then he turned the trigonic dagger in his hand and plunged it into his own heart.


    He heard Arzath''s cry as though from a great distance, and was vaguely aware of him grabbing his shoulders. His Mind Vision blurred. The colours of the ambient magic mixed with Arzath''s brilliant aura, leaching and running into each other like vaporous paint. He felt the knife run through him, felt his heart fail and his lungs constrict with the shock. Strangely, there was no overwhelming surge of pain, as he had prepared himself for. Instead, a frigid numbness spread outwards from his chest through every part of his body.


    It was not horrifying.


    It was peaceful.


    The numbness washed over his head, sweeping away all emotion and dissolving his thoughts like grains of salt in an ocean. As his head fell back, his lungs expelled his last breath as a whispered sigh. Then a shadow like cold black velvet descended over him and wrapped him in oblivion.


    "REQUAR!"


    Heedless of his own safety, Arzath grabbed the dagger, trying to pull it back out of his brother''s chest. He did not have time to stop and wonder why he was so desperate to save Requar''s life when just a short time before he had been so determined to take it from him. All he knew in this moment was that something monstrous was happening to his brother, and he could not allow it to happen.


    Requar had slumped to the floor. The skin around the embedded dagger was losing colour and darkening slowly to black. Arzath wrenched at the cursed weapon, but it refused to come free. It pulsated strangely beneath his grip, as though it were a living thing, a leech. He was almost certain that it was trying to bury itself deeper.


    Quickly he invoked his own Mind Vision, and then stared in horror. Requar''s life-force and magic-force were not dispersing as they normally would in death. Instead, they had collapsed in on themselves, into a glowing mass that twisted around the black blade like brambles.


    And it was being absorbed.


    "No!" he cried. "You will not take any more of my family from me!" Bracing his knee on Requar''s torso, he pulled with all his might.


    But the dagger was just too powerful.


    At that moment, there was movement across the foyer as a door opened. It was the strange man named Flint who had accompanied Requar to his castle. Completely disregarding the sorcerer''s instructions, he stuck his head warily around the doorframe to see what was happening.


    "HELP ME!" Arzath screamed.


    The man jerked in shock. Then he flung the door open and raced across the hall, sliding to his knees at Requar''s side. Not wasting time with pointless questions, he grabbed Arzath''s wrists and the two of them strained on the knife.


    Finally, the blade began to tear free. But then Flint released his grip suddenly and fell back on the floor, shaking his head.


    "What the hell are you doing?" Arzath cried, glaring at him.


    "We''re gonna¡­ rip his heart right out of his chest," Flint said.


    "He is going to die if we do not get this dagger out of him!"


    Flint looked at him sadly. "He''s already gone," he replied quietly.


    "You do not understand! He is not merely dying, his soul¡­ aaaaauuuAAARRGGHH!" With one last, immense heave Arzath pulled the dagger free.


    Then he recoiled in shock.


    Long black tendrils of trigon had grown out of the blade. Glistening and writhing in agitation, they whipped about, flicking blood over the two men''s faces. Denied their primary meal, the tendrils sprang backwards and pierced Arzath''s hands instead.


    Gasping in pain and horror, the sorcerer smashed the dagger into the floor, trying to release his grip on it. But the tendrils only burrowed deeper into his skin and wrapped around his wrists, trapping his hands on the blade. His skin started to turn grey, the agonising flash of pain dimming to prickling paralysis as the dark, insidious power seeped in through the wounds.


    "AAAARRGGH!" Arzath cried.


    Flint grabbed at his arms, trying to help him, but Arzath screamed: "NO, YOU FOOL! Don''t touch it! Get out your knife!"


    Fumbling at his belt, Flint yanked out a small blade. Arzath placed his hands on the floor between them, breathing heavily in fear. He tried to brace himself, feeling the numbness creeping up his arms. "Do it!" he ordered, grimacing.


    The other man''s eyes widened. "Are¡­ are you sure?"


    "JUST DO IT! CUT THIS GODFORSAKEN THING OFF ME! DO IT NOW!"


    Obediently, though with a shaking hand, Flint brought his knife close to Arzath''s wrist, just above the constricting tendrils. He pulled back the sleeve. Arzath''s skin was the colour of ash, with blackness seeping visibly through his veins, like ink.


    Taking a deep breath, Flint lifted the knife¡­


    Just then, the tendrils contracted back into the dagger, releasing Arzath''s hands. He dropped it immediately and in fury kicked it spinning across the hall. Gasping and shaking, he looked down at his punctured, blood-streaked hands.


    Then he remembered Requar.


    Both he and Flint turned to look at the once handsome, white haired man lying lifeless on the floor. There was blood everywhere. It flooded out of the gaping, ragged wound in his chest, soaking into his clothing and hair, spreading out in a dark pool across the frost-dusted floor.


    For the first time, Arzath noticed how cold the foyer was.


    Flint sat beside him quietly, averting his eyes from the body, his face stricken.


    "No," Arzath said suddenly. Ignoring the tears springing to his eyes, he got to his feet and looked around the hall until he glimpsed what he needed. He ran over to the Sword of Healing, snatched it up, then ran back. The pool of blood rippled in the moonlight as he sank to his knees and placed the Sword flat upon his brother''s chest. He forced one of the limp hands around the handle. "Wake up, damn you," he demanded fiercely.


    Requar lay still and pale.


    Arzath grabbed his chin. "Please¡­" he pleaded.


    Blood leaked in a dark line from Requar''s mouth, running over his fingers.


    he thought.


    He had thought he wanted to kill Requar. For most of his life, he had convinced himself of that fact, and had built all his plans around it. But Requar had been right. His death changed nothing. Now Arzath was alone, the last of his family, the last of a forgotten culture. His future opened up in a great chasm before him ¨C dark and empty and devoid of meaning or hope.


    He realised now, too late, the truth that he had successfully managed to deny to himself: that he had never wanted Requar to die. He had only wanted answers. He had only wanted Requar to accept responsibility for what he had done, to know how greatly he had hurt everyone with his actions. But Arzath''s anger had been misplaced; he should not have directed it at his brother, but at Lord Brannon, for it was his father''s wretched arrogance that had ruined them all. But his father was long dead. He had drowned himself out of grief shortly after Fyona''s death. He had been buried at sea: there were not even any rotting bones left to dig up and unleash his vengeance upon.


    And that hell-forged trigonic dagger! He hated that object with every mote of his being. He wanted desperately to destroy it, to smash it or burn it to ashes, to pound every last piece of it into the dirt until it was gone. But trigon was indestructible. That retribution too was denied him. He was sickened that he had ever sought to take advantage of its vile power.


    He sat down in the blood beside his dead brother and stared at his hands again, at the black blotches covering them where the trigon had infected the puncture wounds. He curled them into fists, forcing the blood to flow from them, grinding his teeth at the pain. Now he could not even follow his family into death. In a few months, he would change into a demon-wraith. The process would be much quicker than it had been with Fyona, considering he was a sorcerer and was imbued with a plentiful supply of magic as well as life-force to feed on. Perhaps Requar''s fate had been the more desirable one, after all. Surely, oblivion was preferable to an eternal half-life of madness and despair?


    He let his gaze drift across the floor until it came to rest on the dark glinting shape lying amid the glass shards of the grandfather clock that he had thrown Requar into earlier. The thought of touching the dagger again made him feel ill. The memory of what it had done to Requar made him shudder. But he had no other choice.


    Slowly, Arzath got to his feet and began to walk towards it. His cloak and footsteps left a trail of blood on the floor.


    Flint realised what he was intending and scrambled to his feet. "Hey!" he shouted. "Don''t do anything stupid, man!"


    . Why should my death be any different?"


    "Y''know, your brother cared a whole hell of a lot about you!" Flint said. "I saw the sorrow in his face when he talked about you, when he thought you were dead. Me, I thought you sounded like a right evil bugger. Maybe I was wrong."


    Arzath paused, and half-turned. "The trigonic dagger is evil. Everything else is simply¡­ choices."


    "Yeah, and you''re about to make one that all of us are gonna regret." Flint nodded in the direction of the dining hall. "There''s a kid in there who''s still cursed, and you''re the only person left who knows anythin'' about magic. You kill yourself, and you''re condemning him to an equal fate!"


    Arzath snorted a laugh. "You think I care about Ferrian?" he said coldly. "Just because I wanted my brother to live does not mean I have any interest in the rest of the boot-scrapings known as Humanity. I am not Requar!" He turned away, his expression bitter, and crouched by the dagger. "Besides," he added, "it is my understanding that the boy is already dead."


    Behind him, he heard Flint muttering and cursing, no doubt regretting his error in judgement. Arzath couldn''t care less what the man thought of him. He didn¡¯t care about anything any more, except the need to die as quickly as possible.


    There was nothing in this world left for him. He had lost everything that ever mattered.


    Staring down at the dagger, Arzath''s expression turned from bitterness to intense grief. He had not felt pain like this since Mother had died.


    Damn him! Why did the stupid fool kill himself? Why did he leave me here alone, with NOTHING?


    Fresh tears followed the paths already traced through the blood on his face. He looked over his shoulder, back at Requar''s body, and invoked his Mind Vision again. He wasn''t sure why he did so. Perhaps as a last vain grab at hope, that he might be mistaken and some tiny glimmer of Requar''s blue life-force might have escaped the devouring pull of the trigon ¡­


    There was nothing to be seen in the space where his brother lay, but his attention was drawn to something beyond him, at the opposite end of the hall.


    It was far too big to be standing where it was, but the castle''s architecture rose through the Dragon''s ghostly form as though it were not there. Its eyes were polished silver like Ferrian''s, and they were staring right at him.


    Arzath froze in astonishment.


    The Dragon began to fade, and a much smaller figure appeared superimposed on top of it.


    The outline of a sixteen-year-old boy.


    His silhouette was strange ¨C not dark with a surrounding colourful aura as was normal, but filled with pure white light. The light blazed out of him, so bright that Arzath was forced to banish his Mind Vision in order to see properly.


    Ferrian stood in the doorway, his eyes revealing the white glow shining within him. Wordlessly, he walked into the middle of the foyer where Requar lay. He knelt beside the body and took the handle of the Sword of Healing in his hands.


    Flint glanced in puzzlement at Arzath, but the sorcerer was just as bewildered. Momentarily forgetting the dagger and his own fate, he got to his feet and came forward to watch.


    Ferrian lowered his head a little and just sat there, completely still, holding Requar''s Sword on his bloodstained chest. Then, without warning, blue light flared down the blade.


    Flint blinked in surprise. "Is that possible?"


    "No," Arzath replied in a shocked whisper. "It isn''t¡­ the Swords can be bound in blood only to one wielder. He cannot¡­"


    But despite his words, magic was coursing down the blade.


    Mesmerised, Arzath walked forward.


    But as he approached, the blue light turned white and a new layer of frost surged out of Ferrian. It swept over Requar''s body, freezing him like a white shroud. The white light increased in intensity and the floor began to tremble, icicles erupting from it around Ferrian. The wind outside returned in a sudden gust that rattled the windows and doors. Flint and Arzath backed away quickly as the frost flowed towards them.


    "What''s happening?" Flint yelled.


    Arzath did not reply. The light was now so bright that it obscured Ferrian and Requar from view, and was filling the hall.


    And then no further thoughts or words were possible as the light invaded the two men''s heads and swept their consciousness away like feathers in an icy storm.

 Chapter Fifty Two

    Eyes of fire, eyes that see


    Truth or nightmares yet to be.


    In the middle of a distant sea, a vast red dome curved against a cloudless blue sky. Sunlight reflected off it like glass, yet ships and waves and wheeling seabirds passed through it as though it did not exist.


    But the Aegis was very real.


    It was exactly one thousand years old, created in an almost forgotten age by ten of the most powerful sorcerers of their time. Each of the sorcerers infused a large crystal with their chosen magic, inscribed it laboriously with spells and sunk it into the seabed, evenly spaced around the circumference of the volcanic island they called the Middle Isle. The magical energy within the hearts of the crystals had then ignited, flared and connected, forming a perfect, unbreakable barrier over the entire island.


    They had done this for one purpose, and one purpose only:


    To keep half a dozen Dragons imprisoned inside.


    To put an end to a savage war that had lasted for centuries.


    And it had worked; despite their terrible rage and bloodlust, the huge winged creatures could not escape. No matter how fiercely they threw themselves at the Aegis, it would not let them through. The sky, for them, was to be forever crimson, the air perpetually filled with cinders and dark with smoke.


    Sometimes they slaughtered the Humans who came to pick and peck at the rocks ¨C their rocks ¨C splashed their blood out of hunger or pure vindictiveness. Whenever presented with the opportunity, the Dragons picked off those stray puny lice who hadn''t already destroyed themselves with their own petty wars, but it did little to sate their ravenous desire to reclaim the world of Arvanor as their own.


    But Dragons lived a very long time, and they were patient.


    And they remembered.


    And they saw everything.


    Deep within the dusty, blasted peaks of the Isle, a distinctive bright redstone ridge cut an impressive spine against the blood-tinted sky. Over the years, many Humans had tried scaling this ridge, or attempted to stick sharp implements into it, or build watchtowers upon it. All had disappeared, mysteriously, without a trace.


    A section of stone suddenly split apart with a slight shower of dirt. Previously hidden behind the pitted surface was a bright molten orange glow, like a globe of fire. A slitted pupil, the length of a man''s forearm, swivelled to look at the sky.


    There was nothing there, only passing cloud shadows.


    Nevertheless, the eye watched them.


    It watched, and waited.


    * * *


    Hundreds of miles to the north-east, a perfectly straight bolt lanced into the clouds, so high that no Angel or bird had ever reached its summit; at least, not by mortal means. The rising sun glittered on windows of green and gold that wound about it like a string of gemstones, and traced the mesmerising geometric pattern that spiralled upwards into breathtaking infinity.


    At the tower''s root, waterfalls streamed from within lush jungle shadows over a perfect, semi-circular cliff. As they fell, the glittering streams struck bells, chimes, golden waterwheels and all manner of wondrous musical instruments embedded into the cliff face. Each created a divine silver melody that rang off the rock walls to be heard over land and sea and sky alike, until finally the aqueous symphony concluded in the applause of the sea.


    These cliffs were known as the Singing Cliffs, and the tower that stood conductor above them was Caer Sync, the Heavenly Spire, the Axis, and many other names in many other languages.


    In the heart of the great sky spire, at the place where it began its deep plunge into the ground, in the middle of an echoing chamber, stood three massive winged statues. The right arm of each god-like figure was outstretched, fingers flat, palms upward. Balanced delicately on the tips of the statues'' fingers, tiny beneath their blind, all-knowing gazes, sat a tetrahedral mirror.


    The Aurellian Sync.


    Ambassador Tek''Hari floated in front of the artefact, fiddling with his glasses, nervous as he always was before a Viewing. The beautiful symphony of the Singing Cliffs filtered up through the windows, muted into distant echoes by the thick stone walls. Otherwise, only the swish of his golden-brown wings and the clunking of the huge clock on the ceiling dared disturb the reverent hush.


    Beneath his feet, there was no floor: the chamber fell away into immeasurable blackness save for a decorative circular metal grate about fifty feet below him. Tek shuddered as he glanced down at it.


    The gate to the Dark World.


    In ages past, when that gate had been opened, foul things had flooded out of it and Arvanor had nearly fallen into chaos, but the Seraphim ¨C the three statues that loomed now around him ¨C had driven them back. It was said that anyone who ventured deep enough could enter the realm of Death without dying, and that the evil substance known as trigon had originated from there. Many things were said about that pit¡­


    The Angel lifted his gaze quickly from the soul-eating black depths and fluttered a little closer to one of the statues, as though seeking the giant stone guardian''s protection. Normally, he did not dwell on what lay beneath the Dark Gate, but the recent images he''d seen revealed by the Aurellian had him rattled. He was glad he had managed to retain his composure during his meeting with the King of Daroria. It had not been easy, especially since the King had appeared even more ignorant and inadequate than he''d feared¡­


    Placing his small round spectacles carefully back on his nose, he looked up at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows above the heads of the statues. Eight triangular, glassless holes ringed the chamber in carefully calculated intervals, mathematically positioned to catch the sun at different times of the day and in different seasons. It was the alignment to the south-west that he looked to now, with a mixture of trepidation and impatience.


    Above his head, the great clock ticked slowly: a reminder to all who entered the chamber of their own mortality.


    A minute later, the beam appeared. The instant it hit the reflective silver face of the Aurellian, the mirror turned transparent, revealing a complex, crystalline interior which threw the light around in mysterious ways before projecting it onto the wall between two of the statues.


    Tek watched the vision unfold with a hard knot in his stomach. The visions had first started appearing six months ago, but in the past few weeks had become much more detailed¡­ and much grimmer.


    The Aegis disintegrating. Fire and confusion. Dragons rampaging across land and sea, leaving terror and destruction in their wake.


    To his knowledge, the Aurellian had never displayed prophetic images before. It was designed to reveal events happening in the present moment, anywhere in Arvanor but specifically the Middle Isle.


    But these were clearly scenes of the future.


    But perhaps, he reasoned, this was how it was supposed to work, to provide advance warning of the imminent failure of the Aegis.


    It was an extremely old artefact. There was a possibility it could be malfunctioning, that these scenes would never occur. Yet, there was no way to know for certain; there were no sorcerers left to inspect the crystals in the seabed around the island, to check if they were still functioning. Even more worryingly: there was no one left who could repair them.


    The Ambassador put his face in his hands, a draught chilling the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his skin.


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    If the Aegis truly was failing, then there was nothing anyone on Arvanor could do to prevent the visions in the Aurellian from coming true.


    Slowly, he removed his hands from his face. The final image on the wall showed the great forest of Arkana both freezing and burning, Fleetfleer in ruins¡­


    And something else. Something cold and dark and devastating that slipped into Arkana amid the chaos. Something far more monstrous than the Dragons¡­


    And then the vision faded.


    Trembling, Tek lifted his gaze to the giant six-winged statues surrounding him, looked up into their blind, three-eyed faces. Nothing anyone could do. Except¡­


    Bowing his head and placing his hands against his chest, he began to pray.


    * * *


    Grisket Trice regained consciousness slowly, his heart pounding in steady time to the pain crashing into the back of his head.


    Groaning, he opened his eyes.


    The first thing his blurry vision managed to focus on was a ground littered with bark: grey and soft like old skin. The second thing he noticed was the flies: little black dots buzzing everywhere in a chaotic frenzy. The third thing he experienced was the smell. It hit him with almost as much force as the blow that had knocked him out.


    Retching, he lifted an arm to swat away the flies crawling over his face, and his hand brushed something wet on his cheek. Further investigation revealed that the source of the dampness was at the back of his head; naturally, where the pain was coming from. He winced at the blood on his fingers. Whoever had hit him hadn''t used a blunt object, but something sharp. There was a nice gash back there.


    But he was still alive, so they hadn''t wanted him dead.


    At least not straight away, he thought darkly.


    Slowly and carefully, as his stomach was threatening to release its contents at any moment, he pushed himself up on his elbows and peered at his gloomy surroundings. He thought at first that dusk had fallen, but there were slivers of white-hot light between the gnarled ti-tree trunks.


    Ti-trees.


    Grisket groaned again. He was back in the clearing where he''d found a slaughtered Muron and lost Ferrian''s trail. My attacker has a disturbing sense of irony, he thought, and then wondered, irrationally, if it was Nightwalker¡­


    Half-heartedly, he reached for his knife, and was surprised to find that it was still there. Staggering to his feet, he turned on the spot, then gave a start.


    A Muron was standing directly behind him, completely silent, staring down at him, its slanted eyes lantern-like in the gloom.


    Despite his sudden surge of fear, Grisket cursed. "You bloody creatures don''t know when to quit, do you?" Even as he spoke, two more of the black winged monsters prowled out of the trees, enclosing him in the small clearing.


    The Commander of the Freeroamers sagged. There was no way he could take on three of them. If Sirannor had been with him, perhaps it would have been possible, but the Captain was not here, he was in Sunsee. All of his Freeroamers were elsewhere, Aari was ill, Ferrian was Gods-knew-where and probably dead by now, and he was alone. There was no one around to scrape him out of this one. He could see the remainder of his woefully fragile lifespan stretched out before his eyes, about to be snapped.


    He stared at the Murons bitterly. After all the battles and struggles he''d been through, after he''d worked so hard for so many years to keep the Freeroamers together and scrub the Outlands clean of scum like the Bladeshifters... it was all going to end as an afternoon snack for a bunch of pitiless beasts.


    Eltorian Nightwalker would be in stitches if he knew. Grisket himself snorted a laugh. Too bad you''re not here, Nightwalker.


    "I ain''t tellin'' you where Cimmeran is, so don''t even bother," he growled at the Murons.


    The first Muron stared at him unblinkingly. "We are no longer interesssted in the sservant," it said. "We grow bored with the ssearch."


    "Oh yeah? And what''s your Master gonna say about that?"


    "We do not care. We are not hiss ssservantss. We were never hiss sservantsss. We do ass we wissh."


    Grisket raised his eyebrows. "You seemed pretty damned interested in Cimmeran a few days ago."


    One of the other Murons said: "We have ssince disscovered that Lord Arzath iss not who he claimss to be."


    Despite his impending death, Grisket was curious. "Well, well, that is interesting," he said. "How''d you find that out? You''re a long way from your castle."


    The first Muron narrowed its eyes and flexed its long claws, clearly annoyed with the questioning. Nevertheless, it explained. "Muronss possess the ability to communicate with each other over vassst disstancess," it hissed. "Our brethren at the casstle passsed on sssome fasscinating newsss."


    For the first time in a long time, a small spark of hope flared inside the dark cavern of the Freeroamer''s soul. He grinned. "It didn''t have anything to do with the Winter, by any chance?"


    One of the Murons kicked at his leg, with such force that Grisket''s kneecap cracked and his leg buckled, sending him crashing to the ground. He let out a cry of agony.


    "Your chattering attemptss to prolong your own pitiful exisstance are amussing, Human," he heard one of them say through his pain. "But we would prefer to lissten to you sscream."


    And with that, the Muron in front of him stabbed its talons through his foot and raised its arm so that Grisket was hanging upside down by his broken leg. He tried not to scream again, but the pain was excruciating and he could not help himself. But he did not intend to go down without a fight. He kicked out viciously with his good leg at the Muron''s head, chest and arm in a futile attempt to make it let go. The Muron did not even blink at the blows. It continued to hold him aloft, like an angler watching a crippled fish squirm in its grasp.


    Grisket could feel blood running down his leg beneath the cloth of his trousers. Worse than that, blood was rushing to his brain, making his vision swim. One of the Murons was saying something to the others in its own snarling language. In his imagination, Grisket translated it as something along the lines of: "Who wants the first bite?"


    He wondered what had taken them so long. He supposed they had already eaten and were just playing with him, like cats.


    Gritting his teeth hard, he blinked the sweat out of his eyes and took a firm grip on his knife, determined to stick it deep into the first Muron eye that came within arm''s reach¡­


    Then the Muron holding him screeched. He thought at first it was some sort of bloodlust cry, but craning to look up he saw the creature scrabbling at a twelve-inch feathered black yew shaft protruding from its eye.


    The Muron ripped its claws out of Grisket''s foot, dropping him to the ground and yanked the arrow out of its head, along with a stream of black blood. Furious, it whirled, teeth bared and wings flared in aggression, searching for the attacker.


    Dazed, panting and shaking with pain, Grisket looked for the attacker as well. He was reminded at once of his previous battle with Murons, which had taken an eerily similar course, and exhilaration coursed through his veins. Perhaps Sirannor had come back, after all! But his old friend was not known for using black arrows¡­


    The injured Muron was agitated. It barked something at its companions and then stalked off into the trees to find and tear apart whoever it was that had dared shoot it in the eye. One of the other Murons crept away as well, scanning the thick undergrowth that circled the grove. The remaining Muron half-crouched beside the Freeroamer, watchful.


    Then another arrow whirred out of the trees from a completely different direction, glancing off one of the Muron''s wing spikes. With a snarl, the creature sprang upwards into the canopy.


    There was a brief, frenzied thrashing in which leaves and bark rained down, followed a moment later by the Muron, which almost landed on top of Grisket. The Freeroamer was stunned to see blood pouring out of a neat perfect hole in the top of its head. It convulsed, gurgling horribly, blood leaking everywhere, and slowly died.


    There was more rustling and snarling from the trees around him, but still Grisket could see no one. It was as though the Murons were being attacked by a ghost.


    An unbelievably daring ghost with an impossibly keen weapon.


    One of the other Murons crept back into the clearing: slowly, purposefully.


    Hunting.


    When it caught sight of its dead companion, it stopped. It turned to Grisket, black jaws gaping menacingly.


    The Freeroamer raised his pitifully inadequate knife for the last time. He took a deep breath, glared back defiantly at the face of death and braced himself.


    It lunged at him.


    It almost had him when another, smaller black shape dropped out of the treetops, landing on the Muron''s back. There was click, a swish and something long, silver and lethal protruded through the back of the creature''s throat between its gaping jaws, the blood-smeared tip of the spike halting inches from Grisket''s astonished face. An instant later, it retracted with another strange click.


    But no sooner had that Muron fallen than the last one burst out of the trees behind the newcomer. Swift and graceful as a pirouetting eagle, the darkly-clad attacker spun, dodging the swiping claws and thrust his silver spike through the Muron''s chest, piercing scales, flesh, bone and muscle alike. The Muron continued to thrash wildly, screaming and stumbling until it grew too weak and collapsed in a bleeding heap.


    In the silence that followed, the Commander of the Freeroamers stared at the collection of corpses around him.


    "Hells bells!" he gasped finally.


    Mekk''Ayan extracted a handkerchief from the pocket of his green jacket and wiped the blood off the two-foot long spike in his gloved hand. "I think I shall call this... hmm...''Muron Dancer''." Twitching his hand, the spike shot up his sleeve into its hidden casing with a metallic shing. A bow was slung over one shoulder and a quiver of black-feathered arrows at his belt.


    Grisket laughed in part relief, part amazement. "Black-feathered arrows," he panted, shaking his head. "I... should''ve guessed sooner! And where... the hell''d you get that mean piece of silver?"


    "Silvertine, actually," the black-winged Angel replied. "Hardest known metal. Indestructible. No wonder those old sorcerers used it for their Swords."


    He shrugged nonchalantly and knelt by the Commander''s side. "Just something I picked up in Selvar. If I have to kill, I''d prefer to do it in style."


    Grisket accepted the water canteen that Mekka offered him and went to shake the Angel''s hand, then thought better of it and patted him heartily on the shoulder instead. "I haven''t seen you in years, lad! What are you doing in these parts? And I owe you my thanks and much more besides!"


    "Think nothing of it," Mekka replied, casting a concerned eye over Grisket''s injuries and producing bandages, a herbal potion and other items from a travelling satchel. "But I fear that I bear dire news. By the way," he added, handing over a mud-caked shiny object, "I believe this belongs to you."


    Grisket turned it over in his hand. It was his Commander''s badge. He had forgotten he''d left it by the side of the highway; incredibly, the Angel must have seen it glinting from the air. "And this, as well." Mekka passed him a rather dusty and crumpled-looking feathered hat.


    Staring down at the broken feather, Grisket''s face fell. Noticing his expression, Mekka''s handsome, serious face turned even grimmer. "It appears I''m not the only one with a dark tale to relate," he said.


    Grisket carefully folded the orange-white feather ¨C the one that poor Aari had given him not so long ago ¨C and stashed it in his pocket. "No," he sighed. "No, you''re not."

 Chapter Fifty Three

    Cold the light that round him sweeps


    Colder still the one who sleeps.


    It was peaceful, in the light. Neither warm nor cool, simply bright.


    Ferrian was lost, but he didn''t care. He did not want to be found. The light was his saviour, his protector. It filled him with pure, coruscating emptiness. He knew that beyond the fringes of the wonderful glow were things that circled like predators, seeking to grip him with freezing grey hands.


    Darkness. Coldness. Despair.


    But if he stayed still, he would be safe from their gelid grasp. If he refused to listen, he could not hear their wailing voices. Nothing could harm him while he was here, in the light. His memories, his cares, his dead and useless body: he had abandoned them all for this blinding infinity.


    But he was not alone. The lilting lullaby trickled all around him, now so familiar that he could hum along to the words. He sat cross-legged in the very heart of the white void, staring up like a little child in wide-eyed fascination at the scintillating diamond on its pedestal. Twice before now, he had touched it, and both times it had broken and caused him terrible pain. He was wiser, now. He must not give in to curiosity, or he would suffer for it.


    So he simply watched, and listened, and hummed, and was at peace.


    Keep our Mother safe and cold, he murmured.


    I am your mother, a glimmering voice sang in reply.


    Ferrian nodded in acceptance. Yes, she was his mother. The Dragon was his mother. The Dragon protected him. The Dragon was the one who had brought the light to embrace him. The Dragon would not let him die. The Dragon loved him.


    He would never question her word.


    After awhile, she spoke again, and this time, her voice was different, more urgent:


    Someone approaches.


    For the first time in an uncountable measure of existence, Ferrian removed his gaze from the crystal. He was confused by the Dragon''s words. Who could be approaching? Nobody knew he was here. Nobody could reach him. This place belonged to him. Him and the Dragon.


    But there was somebody there.


    Climbing to his feet, Ferrian stood dappled by the rainbows flickering out from the crystal and watched the figure approach. It was etched black against the glare, features impossible to distinguish, walking steadily towards him.


    Ferrian felt strangely unsettled at the sight of it. The back of his head prickled, as though his memories were scratching at him, trying to return.


    The figure came closer and then stopped, arms folded, staring at him.


    Ferrian squinted uncomprehendingly through the glare. Who are you?


    The silhouette did not reply. Instead, it lifted its head to address the white light streaming around them. Return his memories. Now!


    A jab of vexation pierced Ferrian''s peaceful cocoon. Who was this intruder, and what right did he have¨C suddenly the soft chanting song warbled into a babble of voices, and the white light changed into a chaotic kaleidoscope of colours and images. Beside him, the diamond flickered crazily.


    The question is¡­ not why I am interested in you, but indeed, why the Commander of the Freeroamers is interested in you¡­


    I''m sorry, boy; it''s not your fault¡­


    I think I''m dead¡­


    YOU''RE A CHARLATAN!


    Are you all right? You look kind of... pale¡­


    Try harder! The magic is there, inside you! Let it out! Stop holding back!


    Eventually, the sickening, spinning sensation slowed and the images and voices coalesced, contracted into the form of the man standing before him, so that Ferrian now saw him with perfect clarity and recognition.


    Arzath! he gasped.


    The sorcerer spread his arms in a mock greeting. Oh, you remember me at last! I''m touched.


    Looking around at the ghostly, fading remnants of Ferrian''s memories, he added: Nice show. You''re even more pathetic than I could possibly have imagined¡­


    What are you doing here? Ferrian interrupted, annoyed. How did you get into my mind?


    The white light had turned into glowing snowflakes, drifting silently all around them.


    Arzath laughed. I''m a sorcerer, you fool. Human minds present no barrier to someone of my considerable talents. Admittedly, yours was a little more difficult to penetrate with your Dragon watchdog standing in the way¡­


    She''s protecting me, Ferrian said, feeling defensive, for some reason.


    Arzath snorted. Protecting you? Is that what you call it? How sweet.


    Ferrian ignored him. I thought you''d lost your magic?


    To his surprise, Arzath did not retort with an arrogant comment. Instead, he turned away, staring down at his gloved hands, which he clenched into fists. I¡­ got it back, he replied finally.


    You don''t sound very pleased, Ferrian said. I thought that''s what you wanted?


    Arzath spun back, a familiar look of contempt returning to his face. Shut up! I was forced to waste an obscene amount of energy attempting to get inside your wretched head, and I''m hardly convinced it was worth the effort¡­


    Why did you bother then? Ferrian shot back. He didn''t appreciate being belittled inside his own mind. He was already embarrassed that Arzath had witnessed all of his deepest memories, his darkest thoughts, his private moments. It felt worse than standing naked in front of him. Why do you care what I do to myself?


    Oh, make no mistake, Arzath sneered. I couldn''t care less what you do to yourself. He inclined his head. Look at you. You''re pitiful. You cannot find a way to deal with your fears and uncertainties, so you choose instead to forget they exist. You lock yourself away in this cosy little void, while the Winter continues to rage unchecked around you. What are you afraid of? The truth?


    Ferrian stared at him. His words were like ice shards cutting into his skin, but they were all true. The¡­ the Winter¡­ he stammered.


    The Winter is hardly the worst of it! Arzath strode over to Ferrian and seized him by the collar. Do you have any idea what you have done?!


    His expression was terrifying, but Ferrian wrenched himself out of his grasp. Maybe if you''d helped me find a cure for the Winter instead of being so obsessed with killing your brother, we''d all be in a happier place right now!


    Arzath''s eyes narrowed. I did help you, or have you conveniently forgotten that, as well? I taught you a concentration spell. I gave you my Sword. You were the one who was stupid enough to drop it in the river.


    Ferrian glared back at him resentfully. You were never interested in helping me. You just wanted to save your own backside. At least Requar pretended to care¡­


    A strange look came over Arzath''s face at the mention of his brother''s name. Something flickered deep in his eyes, like a ghost, and he turned quickly away. I can''t imagine why, he muttered, and strode towards the crystal.


    Sensing his intention, Ferrian lunged towards him. No! he cried, but Arzath dodged smoothly aside, catching the boy''s arm.


    Enough of this nonsense. I want answers.


    And he slammed Ferrian''s hand down on the faceted surface of the diamond.


    It exploded.


    The real world slammed into Ferrian with shocking impact, as though a great fist had knocked him backwards onto a hard pavement. Pain shattered through his head, awakening him with a jerk and a cry. He lay for a minute gasping with his eyes shut tight until the pain subsided into a dull thumping.


    Then he opened his eyes again, slowly.


    Gone was the brilliant glow of magic, replaced with equally familiar, but far less comforting grey light. Gradually, his vision cleared to reveal a circular diamond-paned, snow-covered window. The Winter howled and thrashed against it, like a hungry wolf trying to get inside.


    Ferrian shuddered, blinked and peered around.


    The room he was lying in was a small, sparsely furnished bedroom, with white stone walls that did nothing to brighten the gloom; instead, shadows leached like ghostly ink across their pale surfaces. There was a biting draught, so cold he might as well have been outside, and he noticed with dismay that the hearth was not even set. Indeed, it looked as though the ornate, pristine fireplace had never seen a lick of flame, ever. Only a single candle flickered on the bare mantle, reflected in a frost-dusted mirror.


    Staring at the mirror, Ferrian saw a shadowy movement reflected in it. Turning his head, he saw Arzath rise from a chair beside his bed. Without a word or a glance at Ferrian, he swept to the door and went out.


    "Hey¡­" Ferrian struggled to push himself up. "Hey! Arzath!" But his words fell unheeded upon the sorcerer''s trailing cloak.


    Ferrian scowled at the open door. "Thanks," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. "Don''t bother telling me what''s going on. I''m sure I''ll figure it out myself." He noticed that a smear of charcoal came off on his fingers, and stared down at it in puzzlement.


    "Whoa, you''re awake!"


    Ferrian looked up, startled, to see a man he did not recognise standing in the doorway.


    The stranger came inside, picked up a damp cloth from a water-basin beside the bed, and handed it to Ferrian. "Might wanna scrub them creepy-lookin'' markin''s off yer face," he advised. "Arzath''s bin scrawlin'' spells all over you, tryin'' to wake you up." He shook his head. "Didn''t think you was ever gonna snap out of it. We was about to give up."


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Ferrian stared at him warily. "Uh, do I know you?" he asked, racking his brains in case he''d met the man somewhere before, and simply forgotten.


    The man offered a stout, callused hand and a smile. "Starshadow Flint."


    Ferrian hesitated, taking in his black, metal-studded outfit, which did look disturbingly familiar.


    Noticing his suspicion, Flint sighed wearily. "Geez, I need to get meself some new gear," he grumbled. "Look, long story short; I used to do Nightwalker''s dirty work, till he screwed me over. Now I''m finished with the Bladeshifters."


    Ferrian thought he looked only slightly trustworthier than Arzath, but until he found out more about the man decided he had no choice but to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had no one else to trust at the moment.


    So, reluctantly, he took Flint''s hand and smiled back. "How did you get in here, anyway?" he asked, wiping the itchy charcoal runes off his face. "I thought no one could pass through the shield¡­ or¡­ did Arzath let you in the secret way?" He felt a quirk of danger in his stomach again. If the man was an acquaintance of Arzath''s, Ferrian definitely couldn''t trust him¡­


    Flint hesitated. "I uh¡­" he said slowly, "I came in with¡­" he made a vague gesture with his hand, unwilling to finish the sentence.


    "Arzath?" Ferrian guessed, his suspicions rising again. I knew it¡­


    But the ex-Bladeshifter shook his head, a deeply troubled look crossing his face beneath his floppy wide-brimmed hat. "Requar."


    Ferrian''s head jerked up in astonishment. "Lord Requar?" he gasped. "He¡­ he''s here?"


    "Whoa, kid, steady there!" Flint said, catching him. Ferrian had flung off the covers and leapt out of bed so fast that he''d tripped, fallen into a side table and knocked the water basin onto the floor with a clatter.


    Attempting to right himself on the table, Ferrian cursed. He had forgotten that his body was not alive, and no longer behaved normally. His legs, through lack of circulation, had become dead weights.


    "Can you stand?" Flint asked.


    Ferrian could ¨C just. He looked up at the other man excitedly, a torrent of questions flooding from his lips. "Where is he? When did he arrive? How long have I been asleep? Why didn''t he come in here to wake me up? He couldn''t possibly be more obnoxious than¡­" his voice trailed off.


    Flint''s look was grim. Ferrian searched his face for a clue to his uncertainty, but his initial exhilaration was sinking rapidly into a depressing empty hole. "Something happened while I was unconscious, didn''t it?"


    Flint nodded.


    Ferrian swallowed. If his heart had been working, it would have been pounding at his ribs in growing panic. "Something bad."


    Flint nodded again, then turned away and went to the wardrobe, taking out Ferrian''s clothes and placing them on the bed. Ferrian''s hands gripped the table behind him. The Winter wailed mournfully and the candle flame shivered in the silence.


    "How bad?"


    Flint didn''t answer him. "You''d better get dressed, kid."


    Ferrian made no move to do so. He couldn''t move. He felt as though he had turned to pure ice. "He''s dead, isn''t he?" he whispered.


    The other man''s failure to reply was all the confirmation Ferrian needed. He sank to the floor.


    Flint walked over to the stricken boy and knelt in front of him. He put a hand on his shoulder. "The thing is, kid," he said slowly, "we¡­ we don''t know."


    "You don''t know? How could you not know?" Ferrian wanted to cry, but he had no tears. He wanted to flee back into his mind, escape the horror of what was happening around him. He wanted to be alone, in blissful oblivion. Yet, Arzath''s words still cut at him: Look at you. You''re pitiful. You cannot find a way to deal with your fears and uncertainties, so you choose instead to forget they exist¡­


    A cold, burning fury began to leach through the frozen floorboards, through his bare knees, through his pallid skin, up into his still heart. Arzath finally got what he wanted, he thought. He killed Requar. The man only came back here because of me, and he walked straight into his brother''s trap. And I was too afraid to warn him. I was afraid, and I fled and let it happen¡­


    Death. Death and darkness and suffering. Everywhere I go, those are the footprints I leave behind.


    He got up suddenly, forcing his legs to move. He snatched up his clothes and began to dress. "I want to see him," he said. He didn''t, really: he couldn''t think of anything worse than seeing Requar lying dead¡­ or whatever terrible fate had claimed him. But he refused to run away again.


    He was determined not to prove Arzath right.


    Flint simply nodded, saying nothing. Once Ferrian had finished pulling on his boots, the ex-Bladeshifter led the way out into the hall.


    As they passed down the long passage, Ferrian was momentarily distracted by the ice. It gleamed everywhere, covering the walls and floor in thick layers, hanging like stalactites from the vaulted ceiling. Clumps of crystal rose about him in odd, sculpture-like formations. Ferrian stood and stared at it all blankly until Flint urged him to keep moving.


    They climbed a flight of stairs that passed several landings. Through one of the windows, Ferrian caught sight of Arzath''s burnt-out castle on the other side of the valley.


    It was black and silent and covered in snow.


    Ferrian hoped the Griks had all perished, and the Murons along with them.


    At the top of the stairs was square space like a small hall or foyer with a large round window set in the southern wall. The same sun-like crest that was displayed on the floor of the entrance hall below them was inlaid in contrasting marble here, as well. Flint walked over it and stood by a pair of double doors opposite the stairs.


    He hesitated, looking at Ferrian. "You¡­ sure you wanna see this?"


    "Yes," Ferrian replied. No, he thought. I want Lord Requar to be well. I want him to greet me with a cheerful handshake and tell me that he has a cure for my Winter, that he can restore my body to how it used to be, that he can help Aari and Cimmeran and get my friends back. I want him to tell me everything will be fine¡­


    Then the door was opening in front of him, and Flint stood aside to let him enter first.


    Ferrian''s wishes melted away like snowflakes. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.


    Polished stone gave way to soft carpet. The chamber was spacious and tasteful, though his semi-deteriorated vision would not let him see the colours, only a spectrum of grey, which deepened the gloominess. A thick blanket of heat fell over him, and he saw that there was a fire in this hearth; a large, roaring brightness to his left. It made him feel oddly queasy and shivery.


    Arzath stood at the window on the far side of the room. He did not turn around as Ferrian entered or acknowledge his presence in any way. He might have been a black indecorous statue in the corner.


    Ferrian let his glare settle on the sorcerer''s back for a moment, then looked away in disgust and turned his attention instead to the bed.


    He didn''t know how he managed to make himself move forward, but he did.


    A long, lean figure lay there, so pale as to be almost invisible on the sheets. Ferrian had never before laid eyes on Lord Requar, and was still no wiser to his identity, for his entire face was swathed in bandages. Only a slit for (optimistically, perhaps) breathing was left over his mouth. Most of his torso was wrapped up as well, leaving his naked arms lying at his sides on top of the blankets. His hands were long and elegant and aristocratic, like Arzath''s. Strands of white hair slipped free from beneath the bandages around his head.


    Ferrian stared down at the stain of blood in the middle of his chest, and at his upper arms and neck where his veins stood out starkly black against his skin.


    The noxious trigon infection was seeping inexorably through him.


    Ferrian felt pins and needles all over, as though he could feel the trigon running through his own body. The urge to be sick was overwhelmed by the horror that anyone could inflict such a terrible blight on another Human being.


    His hands curled into balls. "You did this, didn''t you?"


    He didn''t bother to glance up at Arzath, and the sorcerer didn''t bother to reply.


    "YOU DID THIS TO HIM, DIDN''T YOU?!"


    "You presume that I struck him with the trigonic dagger," Arzath answered finally, still staring out of the snow-speckled window with his hood pulled over his head. "Understandable, perhaps. But you are wrong." He paused. "Requar took the dagger from me and plunged it into his own heart."


    Ferrian was so furious he was shaking. "Oh, sure. He stabbed himself! Why the hell would he do that? Do you honestly expect me to believe you?"


    "I know it''s hard to believe, kid," Flint had come to stand by the foot of the bed. "But he''s tellin'' the truth."


    Ferrian whirled on him. "And why should I believe you, either? I don''t even know you!"


    Over by the window, Arzath removed one of his black gloves and turned, lifting his hand so that Ferrian could see it clearly. "Because," he replied, his voice bitter and ironic, "I tried to save him."


    His hand was covered in dark splotches, like savage bruises.


    Ferrian fell silent, shocked. He sank down on the bed, staring at Requar. I never even got a chance to meet him personally, he thought. He had answers for me: he said so himself. Now, I''ll never know what they were¡­


    "There must be¡­ there must be something we can do," he said desperately. "We can''t just let him die!"


    Arzath came forward. "Did you not listen to anything I told you?" he snapped. "Requar spent his entire life searching for a cure to trigon! He was obsessed with it! He knew everything there was to know about it, and all to no avail!"


    But Ferrian was shaking his head, denying what Arzath was saying. He could not accept there was no hope. Not yet. "If we can just wake him up," he continued. "You could enter his mind and force him to come out, like you did with me¡­"


    Arzath glared at him. "What the hell do you think I''ve been doing these last few days, while you''ve been blissfully snoozing? I''ve been conducting Mind Sweeps! And guess what I found!"


    Ferrian didn''t need to guess. He already knew the answer.


    "Nothing!" Arzath cried. "Emptiness! Not a spark of thought or shred of memory anywhere inside that ruined head! The trigon has destroyed his mind, consumed his life force, his magic, his essence, everything! His heart still beats, only to pump trigon through his veins! He is gone!"


    Ferrian was stunned, both by Arzath''s words and his reaction to them. Here was a man who had hated his brother so badly he had wanted to murder him with his own hands, and now he appeared grief-stricken at his death. Meeting his brother again appeared to have changed something inside him, something deep and fundamental.


    Perhaps he had finally woken up to himself.


    Perhaps too late.


    Arzath turned away, presumably to conceal the fact that he was dangerously close to tears.


    "Then why are we keepin'' him alive?" Flint stated bluntly. "Why not stop his heart, here an'' now, stop this trigon from spreadin'' further before he turns into one o'' them wraith things?"


    "Perhaps you should ask the boy that question," Arzath said with undisguised vehemence. Striding over to the fireplace, he snatched a long, gleaming sword from the mantle and tossed it contemptuously onto the bed, as though its touch was anathema.


    For a heart-jerking moment, Ferrian thought that Arzath had retrieved the Sword of Frost. This blade looked almost identical; the same dimensions, the same beautiful design, the same black and white snakes winding up from the hilt. The only difference was in the hilt, with embedded gemstones in place of the dagger-shaped recess.


    Both Flint and Arzath were staring at him as though waiting for elucidation.


    But the only thing the boy could give them was a look of confusion. "I''ve never seen this before," he replied.


    "Oh, I believe you have!" Arzath snapped.


    "You don''t remember?" Flint said.


    "Remember what?" Ferrian said exasperatedly. "I don''t know what you want from me! The last thing I remember is sitting in front of the hearth in the dining hall, staring into the flames. Then I must have fallen asleep, because I had another dream about the crystal. Then Arzath showed up and woke me and you brought me here! That''s all I know!"


    Arzath made a sound of disgust and paced away irritably while Flint briefly explained everything that had taken place since he and Requar had arrived at the castle three nights previously.


    "The White Dragon," Ferrian said after a brooding silence. "She must have taken control of my body¡­"


    "Dragon?" Flint looked half-alarmed, half-puzzled.


    But Arzath knew exactly what he was talking about. "She took control of you because you were too weak to do it yourself!"


    Ferrian leapt off the bed, his anger returning in a surging, freezing wave. Deep within him he felt his magic stir, felt the white light threaten to explode out of him again. Behind Arzath, the big circular window rattled ominously and the fire shrank and danced wildly. Flint took an apprehensive step backwards as the carpet beneath Ferrian''s feet turned white with frost.


    Ferrian didn''t care. He was tired of Arzath''s taunts and jibes. He was upset about Requar''s death and confused and depressed about everything in general. The Winter and the Dragon could do what they wanted. He wasn''t even sure if they were the same thing or separate entities inside him, but it didn''t matter. He was fed up trying to control them or suppress them. If the Dragon chose to command him for whatever reason, then so be it. If she wanted to smash this room to pieces, he would gladly allow her to.


    "Stop it," Ferrian burst out. "Just¡­ shut up. Stop calling me weak! You''re not the one who has to live with a terrible cur¨C" He caught his breath, but it was too late. The horrific mistake had been uttered.


    A deathly silence fell across the room, filled only with the sound of the storm outside. Nobody moved.


    Then Arzath flung up his arm.


    Before Ferrian could blink, he was slammed into the wall behind him with such force that lights erupted before his eyes. Across the room, Arzath''s outstretched arm trembled as he held the boy pinned to the wall. His high cheekbones shimmered with sweat in the firelight, and his face was twisted with both anger and agony. "If using my magic didn''t¡­ cause me such¡­ great pain," he gasped, "I would burn you¡­ to ashes!"


    Releasing Ferrian, he swept to the door past a startled Flint, who leapt hastily aside to let him pass, and slammed it behind him.


    In the painfully awkward silence left behind, Flint muttered: "Kid, that was¡­"


    "Stupid," Ferrian finished. He was sitting on the floor where he had fallen, with his arms folded on top of his knees and his head lowered on them. "Really, really damned stupid. You don''t need to say it."


    Tactfully, the ex-Bladeshifter changed the subject. "So, er, if I''ve got this right¡­ some sort of Dragon took over your body?"


    Ferrian nodded, and repeated the conversation he''d had with Arzath several nights before, describing how the sorcerer had discovered a cursed crystal along with a Dragon corpse in the mountains above Verlista. "The Dragon must have hidden a piece of her soul in the diamond," Ferrian surmised. "When Arzath broke it, both the Winter and the Dragon''s spirit lodged in me."


    Flint frowned in thought. "And somehow this Dragon used Requar''s Sword?"


    Ferrian nodded again. "I suppose she thought she could save him."


    "How''s that work, then? I thought no one could use them Swords except their rightful owners."


    Ferrian shrugged. "I don''t know. Maybe Dragon magic is capable of anything." He gestured ironically to his own cadaverous physique. "Look what it did to me."


    Flint stared gloomily at the bandaged, diseased and mindless body lying on the bed, the remains of a once talented, impossibly handsome and uniquely good-hearted sorcerer. "Didn''t do him much good, did it," he sighed. "Didn''t heal none of his wounds, let alone that bloody trigon."


    They fell into despairing silence. Out in the snow-swept valley, the wind wailed a requiem.

 Chapter Fifty Four

    Raven wings, shattered feathers


    Friendship broken now forever.


    The sunset was a beautiful one. All traces of the storm front that had swept the Coastlands the previous week had long since disappeared over the western horizon, leaving a hot, bright sun that sank over the white roofs of the city and dipped into the sea. Directly before the golden orb, like an ember birthed from its brilliance, a smaller patch of brightness floated on the molten waves.


    A column of smoke, entwined with the fragrance of eucalyptus leaves, carried the remains of Sergeant Aari''Zan of the Freeroamers skywards for the last time. Seagulls wheeled high above, flashes of white dancing amid the emerging stars. A single large, snowy crane circled with them; flown overland, perhaps, from Barquilla, riding the back of the storm on some unknown migration.


    Some, amongst those gazing from below, wondered. Some thought the very tips of the great bird''s white wings glimmered like fire, but it was too far away and too lost in the glare to tell.


    A small crowd had gathered on the sea wall. Behind them, the city of Sunsee went about its evening business as usual. Few of its citizens had any interest in watching another sad funeral. Soldiers died all the time: the waves of the Cerulean Sea were littered with their ashes. Everyone knew someone who had been killed on the Middle Isle, taken by starving Dragons, forced to die for a decadent King. Only a few were aware that the body that lay consumed on the pyre was that of an Angel, though it might have made interesting gossip if it had been made public. But by now, rumours had spread wings of their own. Some of the fishermen ¨C and in particular, their wives and daughters ¨C were curious at the striking image of a stranger that stood knee-deep in the breakers out on the bay.


    One dark eye gazed at the burning pyre, the other was hidden behind a black patch. A loose white shirt rippled in the sea breeze. Glossy black wings arced over his back like twin eclipses against the setting sun.


    Mekk''Ayan had arrived in Sunsee with Commander Trice two days previously. From the moment he had learned of Aari''s death, the black-winged Angel had ¨C with the Freeroamers'' permission ¨C taken over organisation of the funeral. He alone knew the correct ceremonial procedures, the prayers and traditional rites to be performed for one of his kinsmen. He had taken care of everything with efficiency, discreetness and grace. Only now, as was obvious to everyone who watched, had he at last allowed himself freedom to grieve.


    Hawk stood a little out from the sea wall and its collection of quietly whispering observers. He felt cold inside, despite the warm sand blowing around his feet and the last kiss of the sun blazing off his polished blood-red breastplate. He was dressed in full ceremonial attire, which included long crimson and gold robes over armour that was much more ornate than he normally wore in battle, and a rather pompous plumed helmet that he hated. Sirannor had assured him that such formalities were unnecessary and that, indeed, Hawk was under no obligation to attend the funeral if he had military or other duties to attend to. The young soldier had reminded the veteran that he was on leave and that he wanted to pay his respects, in any case.


    And deep inside him, though he wouldn''t admit it to Sirannor, he still felt an unshakeable regret that his distraction in the infirmary had been the catalyst for Aari''s death.


    He turned his eyes sadly to where two battle-worn figures stood side by side on the beach, halfway between the sea wall and where Mekka stood alone, reciting prayers in the foam. Captain Sirannor was as tall, straight-backed and implacable as ever. For the first time that Hawk could remember, he was not wearing his favourite long dusty coat, but a brand new black and blue Freeroamer uniform, tailored in very short time by the local seamstresses. He presented a proud and peaceful image.


    It would have been prouder, were it not for the shackles clamped about his wrists.


    Hawk sighed. The Watch had been waiting for them when he, Sirannor, Cimmeran and Ardance had emerged from the Old Quarter. Half a dozen of them in their shiny armour and blue cloaks, loitering around like stupid sheep unwilling to enter the slaughterhouse. There was undisguised relief and surprise on their faces when the exhausted fugitives marched out of the haunted ruins straight into their midst.


    Hawk would have laughed, if he hadn''t been ready to collapse and fall into a coma on the pavement. Sirannor had had an explanation prepared, but before he could open his mouth Cimmeran stepped forward and confessed, took responsibility for everything.


    The Watch had taken the servant into custody and Sirannor as well: the latter under the pretence of accessory to murder. They hadn''t a shred of evidence against the Captain ¨C indeed, Hawk was a credible witness to testify against it ¨C but facts didn''t matter to them. They despised the Freeroamers and would have made up any ridiculous excuse to arrest him. After many hours of intense and unnecessary questioning, they had decided instead on a charge of trespassing in a forbidden zone.


    But it was still enough to have Sirannor thrown back into the Royal Dungeons.


    They had questioned Hawk as well, though mostly as a formality. He was with the Darorian Army, and no one wanted to get on the wrong side of General Dreikan. So they had cleared him of any wrongdoing and set him free.


    Hawk was furious. It wasn''t justice. The Watch didn''t know the meaning of the word. They locked up whomever they damn well didn''t like, and there was nothing that could be done about it.


    At least, Hawk thought, they allowed him to attend Aari''s funeral. Probably their way of pretending to show compassion.


    Not so Cimmeran, however, who was locked up at this moment in a very dark cell.


    Hawk gave the Watch officers on the wall a black look and trudged through the sand to stand next to the Captain. He did not speak. There was nothing left to say. Instead he simply watched the fire flickering on the water and the sun bleed into a golden line along the edge of the world. Out in the gently receding tide, Mekka suddenly sank to his knees, putting his face in his hands.


    Tossing aside his petty quibbles with the Angel, Hawk started forward, but Sirannor held him back.


    "Leave him be," the Captain said. "For now."


    Hawk stared at Mekka. The Angel he knew was always so cool and composed, so in control of himself. To witness such unrestrained emotion from him was unsettling: the young Freeroamer Angel''s death had affected him more deeply than Hawk had imagined. "They knew each other well, then?" he said. "He and Aari?"


    Sirannor nodded. "They were childhood friends. I believe it was Mekka who inspired Aari to leave Arkana."


    "That guy is full of mysteries," Hawk said. "He''s never spoken about Aari, never mentioned him once. At least, not to me. He might''ve told Car." He shook his head. "Then again, Mekka doesn''t talk much at the best of times."


    "They weren''t on speaking terms." It was Commander Trice who had spoken. Both Hawk and Sirannor turned to look at him. It was the first coherent thing he had said since Sirannor had broken the news.


    For the past two days, Grisket had rooted himself in one of the taverns, refusing to eat, speak, sleep, or do anything except attempt to drown his sadness. Since Sirannor and Cimmeran were locked away in the Watch House and Mekka was busy making funerary arrangements, it had been up to Hawk to keep an eye on the Freeroamer Commander.


    He had not responded well to companionship and even worse to sympathy. Eventually, he had become so violent that Hawk was forced to remove him from the establishment at swordpoint, at the angry request of the tavernkeeper. A fight in the middle of the main street had ensued, ending abruptly when the Watch materialised. Blind drunk and heartbroken as he was, Grisket would have turned on them as well, had Hawk not ushered him away from the scene with great rapidity, calling back assurances to the Watch. His military status ensured they kept their distance.


    But one more step out of line and Grisket was going to find himself sharing a cell with Sirannor.


    He''d told the older man as much, but the Commander didn''t seem interested in listening. He had instead fallen asleep on a bunk in the barracks, where Hawk left him.


    Grisket had turned up to the funeral late, a little more sober but no less haggard. He was slumped now on the crutch supporting his broken leg, looking utterly defeated. He was staring not at the pyre, but at a round glinting object in his hand: Aari''s badge.


    "They had a falling out some years back," Grisket continued quietly. "Aari confessed about it, once. Told me that Mekka left Arkana for his own reasons, but Aari missed him too much and took it upon himself to follow.


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    "He tracked Mekka all the way to Trystania, where he''d taken up residence. The Sirinese are more amicable towards Angels than most Darorians are. Indeed, in Siriaza they are revered as a superior race. Eventually, Mekka found the attention a little too much to bear and moved back to Sel Varence to be closer to his homeland. But for a few years, he lived in the great eastern city with Aari."


    Grisket shook his head. "The two of them couldn''t have been more unalike. Mekka was the quiet and reclusive sort, tried to keep himself inconspicuous. Aari was brash and outgoing and talked to anyone he met on the street. He was also restless and adventurous, constantly seeking new thrills and mischief to keep himself occupied. He was barely a teenager at the time, younger than Ferrian, and Mekka only a few years older. Aari always had something of a temper, as well.


    "Hardly a surprise, then, that even Mekka''s ineffable patience grew gradually thinner and thinner. One night, after he was forced to bail Aari out of Trystania''s imperial gaol due to yet another misdemeanour, it snapped.


    "They had a terrible row, in the middle of a public square as it happened. In the heat of the moment, Mekka accused Aari of dishonouring his family and his country by abandoning them. Mekka himself was an orphan. Apparently, that was his own justification for leaving Arkana.


    "Aari was shocked enough by that statement, but his older friend added insult to injury by declaring he didn''t want anything more to do with him.


    "He told Aari that he was ashamed of him."


    Grisket paused, his eyes flickering with tears. "Of course, young Aari was wounded by his best friend''s words. He left Mekka that night, fled west with no supplies and no idea where he was going. He lived on charity for months until he finally wandered over the border into Daroria. Didn''t take him long to learn of the Freeroamers.


    "He was a scrawny little thing when he showed up at the door of the Guard House. Nothing to his name but the clothes on his back: not even a weapon. He was angry and half-starved, but determined. He had a fire about him, and his wings offered an invaluable advantage against the Bladeshifters. We knew nothing of his history or why he had left Arkana, but that was of no consequence. The Freeroamers are about second chances, and this kid looked like he needed one. We inducted him at once.


    "About six months later, a black-winged Angel blew in in the midst of a storm, sodden and dishevelled and looking for Aari. He was an ominous looking figure, brooding and dark, but there was worry in his one good eye.


    "But mysteriously, Aari had disappeared. No one could find him anywhere, and he wasn''t scheduled for any missions. We thought the worst. We were about to launch a full-scale search, when, several days later after the storm had abated, he returned safe and well. Apparently, he hadn''t been lost at all: he''d simply been avoiding Mekka. The look of resentment and surprise on his face said quite obviously that he''d expected the other Angel to be gone by then.


    "Aari refused to speak to Mekka or even look at him. Mekka attempted to apologise for what had happened between them, only to receive doors slammed in his face.


    "At last, Mekka gave up. He was becoming angry himself. But before he left, he met with me in private. He begged me to look after Aari, to protect him, guide him and see that he did not wander astray. He told me that Aari needed a father, and discipline that he himself did not have the skills to give. He also asked that I never reveal this conversation to his young friend.


    "I gave him my word."


    His voice quietened to a whisper and trailed off into silence. His expression was pained as he looked at Mekka kneeling in the surf.


    Hawk thought how strange it was that everyone who had known Aari ¨C even those who hadn''t ¨Call felt in some way partly responsible for his death. He wondered if the Angel ever knew how many lives he had touched. That he was now gone was so tragic, so pointless. But then, he brooded, there''s nothing written on life that says it''s supposed to make any sense. Death comes with no assurances.


    Sirannor picked up the conversation. "I do not think that Aari was truly angry with Mekka," he said. "I think perhaps he was more angry with himself. Angry that his friend had been so honest. Ashamed that he had left Arkana without thought to the consequences.


    "He sat on the roof of the Guard House for days after Mekka had departed, staring to the north as though wishing to fly after him. I eventually managed to persuade him to come down."


    "By insulting him," Grisket said, and there was the barest flicker of a sad smile on his lips.


    Sirannor nodded. "I riled him into such a fury that he leapt off the roof and attempted to punch my lights out."


    Hawk raised his eyebrows. "I bet that went well."


    Sirannor coughed. "Well, once I had him pinned nicely in the dirt, I forced him to admit that he was being a fool, and would not let him go until he promised to apologise to his friend." He snorted. "The stubborn little seagull conceded that he would apologise only if Mekka came back first."


    He fell silent and the three of them stood in the growing darkness, watching the black-winged Angel rise from the water and turn away from the embers of the pyre, his head lowered disconsolately.


    "But he never did," Hawk finished in a murmur.


    Sirannor shook his head.


    "Pride kept them apart¡­"


    "Pride," the Captain sighed, "will be the downfall of us all."


    "Sirannor told me about that kid you''ve been trying to help," Hawk said into the darkness. "The one who brings winter wherever he goes¡­"


    He and Grisket were seated on chairs outside Hawk''s dorm in the barracks, beneath a silver blaze of stars. Neither of them had been able to sleep. Hawk had shed his cumbersome armour, stripped off everything except his pants. He swilled a cup of tea absently in one hand.


    Grisket''s tea sat cold and untouched on the ground beside him. His splinted leg was propped out before him, his head bandaged beneath his featherless hat. His arms rested on the sides of the chair and his eyes stared directly ahead at nothing. "What of him?"


    "Well, you''re gonna need someone to go¨C"


    "No."


    Hawk''s tea stilled. "What?"


    Grisket was silent.


    Hawk stared at him. "You''ve given up on him?"


    Grisket said nothing.


    "You''re just gonna leave him to the Murons, or some crazy sorcerer?" Hawk went on incredulously.


    The Freeroamer waved a hand at his crippled leg, as though that answered everything. "There''s no one left, Hawk," he muttered bitterly. "No one left to get him back. Sirannor''s in prison. Aari''s dead. Forthwhite''s a good fortnight''s ride away. By the time I get back to the Guard House to arrange a search party¡­ who knows what that bloody sorcerer will have done to him!"


    He glared at the younger soldier through the shadows angling over them. "He''s just a kid! Just a frightened kid! He doesn''t know how to fight! He just wanted some answers, wanted to know what the hell was wrong with him! I promised I''d help him¡­" He looked away, shaking his head. "Another promise I shouldn''t have made¡­"


    He sagged back in his chair. "We don''t even know where the damned valley is."


    "We could go see Cimmeran," Hawk suggested. "There''s still time to get a map out of him¡­"


    "Cimmeran," Grisket snarled, "can rot in Hell. The sooner he loses his head, the better."


    Hawk fell silent, staring morbidly at the opposite side of the compound, where the sounds of a jovial card game were filtering out of one of the other dorms. He wished he were in there, amongst his carefree comrades. The inviting oblong of light spilling from the open door seemed as distant as the sun.


    In the Darorian Coastlands, those convicted of murder were normally publicly humiliated and executed. But because Cimmeran had immediately confessed, shown remorse and vindicated the innocence of those who had witnessed the crime (Hawk and Sirannor), the judge had granted him a relatively merciful choice between lifelong imprisonment or a more dignified private execution.


    Apparently, Cimmeran felt that he''d already spent most of his miserable life imprisoned, and chosen the latter option.


    The sentence was scheduled for five days hence.


    Hawk wished it hadn''t come to that.


    "We''ll find it some other way, then," he said determinedly. "And if you need someone to find Ferrian, then¡­ I''ll go."


    Grisket shook his head. "You have responsibilities here, Hawk."


    The young soldier stood up suddenly, flicking the remains of his tea into the sand with an angry gesture. "Screw the army! Look at this¨C" he indicated the featureless white-domed buildings of the military complex surrounding them. "What''s it all for? What am I fighting for? What am I sacrificing my life for? What did I train my arse off for years at the Academy for?" He whirled back on Commander Trice. "Rocks! Flamin'' rocks!


    "Do you know what I do every day, on the Middle Isle? I stand in a watchtower, hour upon hour, choking on the ashes belching out of those mountains, scanning the sky for Dragons! Dying, starving, pissed-off Dragons who are just trying to scavenge some kind of hopeless existence like the rest of us!"


    He gripped his teacup tightly in his hand, wishing he had the nerve to smash it over General Dreikan''s head. "I wanna do something useful. Something meaningful. Something that''s gonna make a difference!"


    Grisket regarded his outburst in silence.


    "I wanna¡­" Hawk took a deep breath. "I wanna do something that''ll make Carmine proud of me."


    "You don''t need to be a hero to make her proud, son."


    Hawk shook his head, scowling, his scruffy hair flying around like an irate bird''s nest. "This isn''t about heroics, or adventure. It''s about resolving this magic thing. There are sorcerers out there, and they''re screwing around with people, and it''s not right! It''s not¡­ right¡­" He couldn''t get the image of Cimmeran''s back out of his head ¨C the scarred stumps of his wings, the evil tattoos down his spine. He would never forget the way the servant had cried in confusion and despair when Sirannor had confronted him after he''d slashed Aari''s throat. The poor guy hadn''t even known why he''d done it.


    "Commander," Hawk sighed. "Forgive me for speaking frankly, but you need a new sergeant, don''t you?" He came forward and dropped to his knees by Grisket''s chair. "You want to help Ferrian, right? You need someone you can trust, someone who can fight, someone who won''t let you down, yeah?"


    The Freeroamer Commander regarded him in silence for an indefinably long moment. Hawk held his gaze unblinkingly, pouring all his fierce determination and belief into his expression. He wanted to join the Freeroamers. He had wanted it for a long time now, only for Carmine''s sake had he never enquired. He knew that if he became one of them, she would surely wish to join as well. And that would lead to an inevitable and very awkward clash with her father, something that Hawk had desperately (and so far, successfully, thank Gods) tried to steer her away from.


    But since the events in the Old Quarter, things had changed. Despite his enthusiasm, a part of Hawk felt wretched, as though he was deliberately taking advantage of Sirannor''s imprisonment, Aari''s death and Ferrian''s misfortune in order to maintain his own sense of purpose. He hoped Grisket didn''t see it that way. He simply wanted to help. He was here, and the Freeroamers needed him: that was all there was to it.


    Grisket had taken Aari''s badge out of his pocket and was looking at it, tracing its contours with his thumb.


    "I''m not¡­ I''m not trying to take Aari''s place," Hawk said, feeling more uncertain the longer Grisket remained silent.


    But it seemed the Commander was simply measuring the depth of his commitment. At last, he leaned forward, took Hawk''s hand and pressed the badge into it. "You are more like Aari than I''d care to admit," he said quietly. His hand tightened over Hawk''s. "You carry, with this badge, the memory of someone I cared for deeply. Don''t dishonour it."


    "I won''t, sir," Hawk replied. "I promise you."


    Grisket nodded. "Then welcome to the Freeroamers, Sergeant Hawk."

 Chapter Fifty Five

    Deeper, colder, fire grows low


    Ultimately: Stay or go?


    Serentyne shivered mournfully in her freezing stall. Flint had done his best to take care of her, piling all the blankets he could scavenge from the castle onto her back, cracking the ice off her water trough every morning and making regular visits to brush and comfort her. They didn¡¯t have much food to give her, though. As Requar had indicated, his pantry was fairly scarce; mostly dried and preserved foodstuffs, along with some grain and flour. There was enough to last all of them about a month with rationing (at least those that could or would actually eat, which was mostly Flint), but food was soon going to become a problem. Their firewood was also running low.


    And the Winter was deepening with each passing day.


    Ferrian stroked the horse¡¯s silky white nose, trying not to look at his hand as he did so. She was a beautiful mare. She didn¡¯t deserve to suffer like this.


    Ferrian wasn¡¯t sure he could stay at the castle any longer. Yet... riding away and leaving the others here felt like a betrayal. He wasn¡¯t sure why. He didn¡¯t even know these people. Arzath wandered around the frozen halls like he was already a wraith; Ferrian couldn¡¯t care less what became of him. Flint he wasn¡¯t sure about, especially since the man had confessed his assassination attempt on Requar some weeks previously. But Flint had never appeared hostile or threatening to Ferrian. He often made an effort to appear jovial or lighten the mood, but underneath was clearly very sad.


    And Requar... Gods. Lord Requar he hadn¡¯t even had a chance to meet; his only contact a single conversation through the damned shield, the shield that had dissolved along with most other castle spells as soon as its creator¡¯s life blood spilled out onto the marble floor...


    Ferrian sighed. Why did he care? And yet... he was gutted at the loss of the white-haired sorcerer. Flint appeared to feel the same way; apparently they had shared some sort of friendship on their travels to find Ferrian. Ferrian felt slightly jealous, but again, he didn¡¯t know why...


    ¡°Winter¡¯s gettin¡¯ worse,¡± a voice commented unnecessarily from the doorway.


    Ferrian looked up. Flint was bundled in as many cloaks and scarves as he¡¯d been able to find, along with his huge hat. The outermost cloak was made of exquisite velvet, clearly pilfered from Requar¡¯s personal wardrobe. It looked ridiculous on Flint, so long that it trailed in the snow. Didn¡¯t suit him at all.


    Ferrian felt irritated, then sick as he remembered that Requar probably wouldn¡¯t be wearing it ever again.


    ¡°Thinkin¡¯ of clearin¡¯ out?¡±


    With a shrug, Ferrian returned to stroking the horse. ¡°I don¡¯t have much choice. If I stay here, we are all going to freeze and starve to death. Well,¡± he gestured at himself, ¡°maybe not me, but the rest of you!¡±


    Flint stared gloomily into the shadowy depths of the stable. It was so cold that it had stopped snowing; a row of icicles lined the top of the doorway like glass daggers just above the top of Flint¡¯s hat. Outside, the wind raced around the valley and sang horribly eerie tunes in the tall spires.


    ¡°Where are you gonna go?¡± he asked finally.


    The expression on the ex-Bladeshifter¡¯s face made Ferrian feel depressed. He turned away and picked up a brush, busying himself with Serentyne¡¯s coat. ¡°Where I should have gone in the first place,¡± he replied, sounding more confident than he felt. ¡°To Grath Ardan.¡±


    ¡°Grath what?¡±


    <div>


    ¡°Grath Ardan!¡± Ferrian replied, irritated again. He felt strange and slightly feverish, and wasn¡¯t sure if his thoughts were actually coherent. ¡°A Freeroamer told me about it. Aari. An Angel. It¡¯s an enchanted library that records every word ever written. If there¡¯s a cure to be found anywhere, it has to be there.¡±


    ¡°A cure for the Winter or a cure for...¡± Flint nodded grimly in the direction of the castle, ¡°...that?¡±


    Ferrian hesitated. ¡°Uh... both? Either? I don¡¯t know. It doesn¡¯t matter! I have to go!¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Flint replied, folding his arms as best he could in all the cloaks, ¡°and where is this place, anyway?¡±


    This time, the awkward pause was even longer. Ferrian avoided Flint¡¯s gaze, concentrating on brushing down Serentyne¡¯s slender legs. Eventually he said: ¡°Arkana.¡±


    He didn¡¯t look up, but clearly heard the intake of breath that was to precede a comment of some incredulity. ¡°You don¡¯t need to say it!¡± Ferrian interjected hastily, ¡°I already know¨C¡±


    But Flint was determined to explain it to him anyway. ¡°Ho!¡± the man exclaimed. ¡°HO! Arkana! A ride of some several weeks I reckon! Assumin¡¯ the Angels even let some random boy through their gates, which they won¡¯t, an¡¯ assumin¡¯ they let you look at their secret, sacred library, which they definitely won¡¯t, an¡¯ THEN you gotta search through every word ever written to find the answer to sommink that prob¡¯ly don¡¯t even exist¨C¡±


    ¡°Alright!¡± Ferrian said loudly. ¡°I told you that you don¡¯t need to tell me!¡± He stood up, glaring at Flint, only to find the other man glaring back. ¡°But I have to try something! I¡¯m not just going to sit here and wait for you all to die!¡±


    Flint¡¯s expression changed then, and immediately Ferrian felt as though he¡¯d spoken harshly. But Flint simply said: ¡°Fair enough,¡± and walked back out into the snow.


    Ferrian fidgeted with the horse brush for a moment, listening to Flint¡¯s crunching footsteps amid the keening wind, then went to the doorway. ¡°Flint!¡±


    The other man stopped in front of the main doors, looking back.


    ¡°You... um... you can come with me,¡± Ferrian offered, uncertainly, ¡°...if you want.¡±


    Flint did not reply.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to stay here... with,¡± Ferrian gestured at the castle, ¡°...them.¡±


    You don¡¯t have to stay here and die, the unspoken meaning hung in the frigid air between them.


    Flint stared at him for a moment, as though considering his offer. But then he sighed and shook his head, his big hat flopping around as he did so. ¡°Nah,¡± he replied. ¡°I can¡¯t leave. Don¡¯t feel right.¡± He paused, as though debating the truth of his own words, then shook his head again and repeated: ¡°Don¡¯t feel right. Can¡¯t leave Lord Requar like... that. Someone¡¯s gotta stay.¡±


    Ferrian felt wretched, as though he were abandoning them. ¡°Arzath will probably try to kill you,¡± he said finally.


    To his surprise, Flint actually smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll consider it a compliment!¡± Then he touched the brim of his hat in a final farewell gesture to Ferrian, opened the door and disappeared inside the castle, leaving Ferrian standing outside alone, staring at the snow-stricken valley before him.


    Later that afternoon, Flint went out to check on Serentyne, as he usually did before night fell, but opening the front door of the castle told him everything he needed to know.


    A line of nearly-obscured hoofprints lay across the snow, heading in a southerly direction, towards the river and the valley entrance.


    Still, Flint trudged over to the stable anyway, just to be sure. Then he returned to the castle doors, and closed them carefully behind him.


    Staring into the ruined, dark and draughty foyer, Starshadow Flint felt unaccountably sad and alone. For a moment he regretted not leaving with the boy, or even just packing up and going his own way. But his decision had been made, and he would not be changing it.


    He didn¡¯t expect Ferrian to return, but hoped that if the boy ever did come back, it wouldn¡¯t be to a dusty castle filled with corpses and broken ghosts.


    He wondered, as his heavy footsteps echoed on the marble floor, across the dead marble sunburst design, if it already was.


    He entered the warmth of the dining room, while the rest of the castle slept in cold darkness.


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    The gloom moaned mournfully around Ferrian, shivering the pine trees on their perches as Serentyne struggled through the deep snowdrifts along the valley bottom. It was mid-afternoon, but the cloud cover was so thick that the day had not brightened past a chilly, dark grey. He tried to remember the last time he had seen the sun. When the Muron had flown him over the mountains, perhaps? He dimly remembered catching a glimpse of the valley sparkling in a warm afternoon, but it seemed difficult to imagine, now.


    The thought of the Murons caused him to look over his shoulder. He had kept alert for any sign of the black-winged creatures or the Griks as he made his way down the valley, but there was nothing to be seen. Already, the two castles were lost from sight behind the grey cliffs and the fog.


    He turned forward again. He was aware, unhappily, that leaving the valley would remove the Winter''s protection from the castles. He hoped that if any of Arzath''s minions were still alive, they would not try to attack those left in Requar''s keep. There was no shield protecting the castle any longer, and Arzath appeared not to have the energy or inclination to construct one. The Murons could sense magic: did they also understand what trigon was? Would the horrible poison coursing through the bodies of both of the sorcerers be enough to dissuade the Murons from killing them?


    Ferrian hoped it would, but it was not much consolation.


    A small part of him knew that he would probably not be able to return to the valley in time to save Requar, if that was at all possible, but he refused to allow the thought to speak louder than a whisper. He had a purpose now, and he was determined to carry it out, no matter what. He would find a cure for both the trigon and the Winter in Grath Ardan.


    He had to.


    To think otherwise was to sink back into despair, and that was not a place he intended to visit again any time soon.


    You cannot find a way to deal with your fears and uncertainties, so you choose instead to forget they exist¡­


    No. The Winter was his now. No longer would he run from it. He would carry it with him until he found a way to be rid of it.


    But he was alone again, now. No Freeroamers to accompany him on his long journey. No one to share his thoughts with. No joking around the fire with Aari. Just himself, and Serentyne. And the Dragon¡­


    The white mare huffed and snorted as she pushed through the drifts, then suddenly burst out onto a flat space. Ferrian brought her to an abrupt halt.


    The river.


    It stretched as a flat white expanse before him, covered in snow like solid ground. Vividly, Ferrian remembered the last time he had tried to cross this stretch of water; the ice bridge, the freezing cold that had swallowed him, crushed the life out of him¡­


    This river killed me.


    The cold no longer bothered Ferrian, but an unpleasant shivering sensation passed through him nevertheless. He didn''t want to cross this thing again, but he had no choice: the only path out of the valley lay across its frigid back.


    Reluctantly, he climbed down from Serentyne and approached the ice. Likely, it was frozen solid by now. The wind threw the snow up in dancing eddies across its surface.


    The river seemed to be taunting him, daring him to cross it again.


    What''s the worst that can happen? he thought. I''m already dead. He glanced up at Serentyne worriedly. But my horse is not...


    Taking a deep breath even though his lungs no longer worked, he stepped carefully on to the ice.


    It was firm and unyielding.


    He put his full weight on it just to be sure, then took Serentyne''s reins and led her slowly across the ford.


    He was halfway across when something strange happened.


    The ice did not break, but a curious quiver passed through his foot and up his left leg, and was gone.


    Frowning, Ferrian stopped and glanced down. Nothing else happened, so he shook his head, dismissing it as yet another strange side effect of being dead, and continued walking.


    The quiver came again, stronger this time, trembling through his whole body. He gave a start and looked down at himself, then around him.


    His and the horse''s footprints trailed behind them, shadowy imprints in the snow. But one of them was emitting a faint, ghostly glow.


    Confused and a little anxious, Ferrian walked back to it, then dropped to his knees before it and swiped his still-bandaged hand across the snow.


    There lay the Sword of Frost, deep underneath the ice, reposing peacefully on the bottom of the river in its frozen coffin. The blade shimmered with a misty, ethereal glow.


    Astonished, Ferrian stared at it. It called to me! The Sword called me to it!


    It wants you to have it, he thought. It wants you to pull it out of the ice and claim it, as you are its rightful owner¡­


    Ferrian frowned again, wondering. Sometimes he could not tell which were his own thoughts, and which were the Dragon''s, and that was worrying. Still, he supposed he could not just leave it lying here. When the river thawed, anyone could come along and pick it up.


    He regarded the Sword gloomily. Apparently, he was the only one who could use its magic, but that big Grik had cleaved through a statue with it effortlessly, while trying to kill Arzath. One thing was for sure: this was a dangerous weapon and allowing it to find its way into the hands of the Griks, Murons, Bladeshifters or anyone else with malicious intentions would definitely not be a good thing.


    I never wanted to be a sorcerer¡­


    Arzath''s words floated back to him on the wind: You made your choice when you sought to claim something you did not understand! Now you must accept the responsibility!


    Sighing deeply, he got to his feet and followed the trail of footsteps back to the river''s edge. There he hunted amongst the snow-covered rocks along the riverbank until he found a suitable one. Prising it free with some effort, he carried it back to the glowing patch on the ice. Then he knelt, raised the stone above his head and began to smash through.


    * * *


    Devandar Hawk, newly appointed Sergeant of the Freeroamers, peered around the corner of the laneway. The door to the Watch House had just opened, one of the guards rushing out in great haste. Hawk smirked, watching the unfortunate man disappear stumbling down a side street.


    The herbs he had slipped into their evening meals back at the tavern appeared to be taking effect, right on cue.


    Stepping out of the alley, Hawk sauntered across the street, glancing casually about, but there was no one in sight. He straightened his pristine uniform as went; sword at his side, Aari''s badge gleaming, freshly polished, on his blue left sleeve. This uniform was far more comfortable than his old armour had been: he was glad to have ditched it. He felt lighter and freer than he had in years; he hadn''t realised just how much that armour had weighed him down. Of course, he reflected, it also made him far more vulnerable ¨C the cobalt sleeve was basically a cheerful banner declaring: I''m a criminal! Arrest me!


    But Hawk could live with that. It made life a little more exciting.


    And he despised the Watch.


    He walked through the open door of the gaol.


    The officer behind the desk leapt up immediately at the sight of Hawk, hand on his sword. ¡°What business have you here?¡± he said with undisguised contempt.


    ¡°To release Captain Sirannor,¡± Hawk replied.


    ¡°Where are your papers?¡±


    ¡°Right here,¡± he answered confidently.


    Then he punched the Watchman squarely in the face.


    He hadn''t gotten rid of quite all of his armour. The steel gauntlets came in handy, sometimes.


    He hurried around the desk and retrieved the keys from the unconscious guard, then paused for a moment, looking down thoughtfully. A metal bucket stood near the desk, filled with¡­ ugh. Well, this guard had been slightly more prepared than his companion. Hawk picked it up and dumped it along with its stinking contents over the guard''s head.


    ¡°And that''s my signature,¡± he added.


    Quickly he went to the barred gate leading to the cells, unlocked it and passed through.


    Beyond stretched a white-walled corridor, lit dimly by a single lantern on the far wall, beside a stairwell that led down to a deeper dungeon. That was where the more serious criminals were incarcerated, and where executions were carried out ¨C and where Cimmeran was locked up. The hallway he was in now was lined with heavy iron doors on both sides. Hawk moved swiftly to each one in turn, glancing through the small barred windows to check who was inside.


    They were all empty.


    Finally, he reached the end of the corridor only to find, to his surprise, that the door of the last cell was standing open.


    There was no one in there.


    Confused, Hawk examined the cell from the doorway. Surely they haven''t moved him? he thought, frowning. Surely they haven''t carted him off in a wagon to the Royal Dungeons already? The Watch had given Sirannor permission to attend Cimmeran''s execution, and that wasn''t due to take place until tomorrow at midday.


    Hawk felt his guts begin to twist in a strange knot of anxiety. What''s going on?


    Turning away from the empty cell, he hurried down the curving stairs to the lower level.


    The corridor here was very dark: there were no lanterns lit. It was also ominously silent; Hawk had a feeling that all the cells here were empty, as well. The only light came from a thin, bright shaft of moonlight spearing in through a cell at the very end of the hall. There, too, the door was standing open.


    Feeling the knot of anxiety in his stomach deepen into a cold, hard ball of dread, Hawk ran to the end of the hallway.


    Cimmeran lay there, unmoving on the floor. Moonlight glinted on a dark, red pool that spread out across the flagstones. His golden eyes were eerie, unseeing gleams in the darkness.


    His throat had been cut, in exactly the same way that he had killed Aari.


    He was dead.


    Hawk slumped against the door, shocked, the blood draining out of him like the man on the floor. It didn''t look like a suicide; there was no weapon to be seen and the door to his cell had been left wide open.


    Someone had come down here and murdered him.


    Hawk shook his head, dismayed and disbelieving. Why? He was going to be beheaded the following day anyway. What was the point? Someone was so desperate for Cimmeran to die that they couldn''t wait any longer? Or had they wanted to kill him with their own hands?


    Hawk dropped his face into his gauntleted hand.


    Sirannor.


    He couldn''t fathom why Sirannor would have done such a thing, after everything they had endured in the Old Quarter, after all the fears they''d been forced to face. Had the Captain only pretended to forgive Cimmeran, because it was the only way to get them all out of there alive?


    Or could it be, sitting alone in his cell after Aari''s funeral, in the cold, hard light of reality, the old man had simply changed his mind?


    Hawk shook his head again. No, he couldn''t conceive of it. Sirannor never broke his word. Ever. Indeed, he often went to extreme lengths not to break it. So, who then? There were at least two other people who were looking forward to Cimmeran''s death: Grisket Trice and Mekka. But Hawk could not believe that either the Freeroamer Commander or the Angel would have done this either.


    On the other hand, Mekka had gone missing these last few days. Hawk was worried about him. He had never seen the black-winged Angel so shattered. Mekka was a spy and naturally stealthy and it was quite possible that he could have found a way to slip in here and slit Cimmeran''s throat. He had the right sense of dark irony for such a death, as well.


    But no. Again, Hawk could not believe it. Mekka was more likely to be depressed than go on a wrathful quest for vengeance. And it did not explain Sirannor''s disappearance.


    Then suddenly, another possibility occurred to him.


    That this was a set-up.


    He lifted his face from his hand, eyes growing wide. He, himself had just broken into the gaol, punched out a Watchman and was now standing here, armed, at the doorway of an open cell with a murdered prisoner right in front of him.


    ¡°Dammit!¡± he swore.


    With a final, sad glance at Arzath''s former servant, Hawk sprinted for the stairs.


    He made it out of the Watch House before anyone came back.

 Chapter Fifty Six

    Wings of blood and wings of white


    Wings of black to chase the night.


    Hawk burst through the door of the tavern room where Grisket Trice was currently lodging, and closed it quickly behind him. The Commander looked up, startled, from his seat by the window. The expression on his face told Hawk that he clearly hadn''t been expecting to see the younger man again so soon.


    ¡°Sirannor''s gone!¡± Hawk gasped, panting for breath.


    ¡°Gone?¡±


    He shook his head, sweat plastering his hair to his face. ¡°Not in his cell. And...¡± he took a deep breath. ¡°Cimmeran''s dead.¡±


    Grisket stared at him for a long moment, then scowled. ¡°Dammit,¡± he growled. ¡°Killed himself I suppose.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Hawk walked to the window and studied the street outside to see if the Watch had followed him, but all was quiet. ¡°He was murdered.¡±


    Grisket was silent for another long moment. ¡°You think Sirannor did it?¡±


    ¡°Yes. No! I mean¡­ Argh!¡± Hawk clutched his hair in exasperation, and strode into the middle of the room. ¡°I don''t know! It''s the logical explanation, but...¡± He shook his head again. ¡°He vowed not to!¡± He turned back to look at Commander Trice helplessly. ¡°You don''t know what went on in the Old Quarter. The Captain went through a lot. He forgave Cimmeran, and he was serious. He wouldn''t have broken his word!¡±


    The image of the Angel''s ravaged back still haunted Hawk. And now he would have to live with those eyes as well; those strange, unnerving golden eyes, dead and gleaming like polished coins in the shadows of his cell.


    Hawk had seen dead men before, but nothing like this. Never in his life had he ever encountered anyone so pitiful, whose entire life had turned out so pointless. It was a terrible end to a tragic and miserable existence, and he had successfully passed on all that pain and misery to others. And now someone else had blood on their hands, because of him.


    It made Hawk nauseous, but also sad. Sad because it was such a waste of lives; of Cimmeran''s, of Aari''s and of the unknown murderer''s.


    Please, Hawk prayed silently, let it not be Sirannor¡­


    ¡°It seems to me,¡± Grisket said quietly, breaking the brooding silence, ¡°that this may well have been set up to make it look like Sirannor was the culprit.¡±


    Hawk nodded. ¡°Yeah,¡± he agreed. ¡°That''s what I thought. But¡­ why? And¡­ who?¡±


    Grisket''s expression darkened. ¡°Someone who would like to see Captain Sirannor''s reputation destroyed beyond a doubt.¡±


    There was a pause, then both of them looked at each other and said at once: ¡°General Dreikan.¡±


    Hawk slumped onto the bed. ¡°Hells bells,¡± he breathed. ¡°You think the General has had Sirannor kidnapped??¡±


    ¡°It''s possible,¡± Grisket replied. ¡°If true, it''s likely the Watch were in on it. No doubt they wanted one of us to witness the crime and come to the wrong conclusion.¡± He shook his head angrily. ¡°Trying to turn even the Freeroamers against him!¡±


    Hawk cursed. ¡°I knew it was too easy! Only two guards, and the whole place was empty, apart from...¡± he sighed instead of finishing the sentence. ¡°I messed one of ''em up pretty nicely, though. I don''t think he''s gonna be too happy about that...¡±


    The Commander nodded at him. ¡°You''d best watch yourself, Hawk.¡±


    Hawk nodded, thinking: Guess I''m going to need that armour again, after all¡­


    His plans had been thrown into disarray. He had hoped to rescue Captain Sirannor and then hide out in the barracks overnight. The Watch wouldn''t dare follow him into the military compound. Officially, he had resigned, and his commanding officer had been none too pleased about it, but still, Hawk had a few good friends in there that would watch his back.


    Unfortunately, General Garth Dreikan also had his fair share of loyal supporters, and clearly, one of them had informed the General of Sirannor''s arrest and the circumstances around Aari''s death. And Dreikan had leapt to take advantage of it.


    Hawk made a noise of frustration and slammed his fist into the pillow, sending up a puff of soft feathers. Now he had no idea where Sirannor was. He hoped desperately that the old man wasn''t being tortured, but he knew that Dreikan would seek to inflict as much pain on his long-time enemy that he could possibly get away with¡­


    Hawk sprang suddenly to his feet. ¡°I''ll send Carmine a message. She needs to know about this.¡±


    ¡°She will want to help!¡± Grisket grumbled.


    ¡°Exactly! You need her help, Commander. I''m going after Ferrian and you can''t get to the bottom of this on your own. I would ask Mekka to help you, but,¡± he shook his head anxiously, ¡°I can''t find him anywhere.¡±


    Grisket shook his head as well. ¡°Haven''t seen him since the funeral. Assumed he headed back to Sel Varence.¡±


    Hawk sighed, trying to ignore the dark feeling of uncertainty growing rapidly within him. ¡°I hope you''re right.¡±


    He went to the door and paused with his gauntleted hand on the handle. ¡°Oh,¡± he added, turning back to Commander Trice. ¡°Don''t tell Carmine that I joined the Freeroamers. Good night, Commander!¡±


    He opened the door and went through.


    A couple of seconds later, he opened it again, sticking his scruffy head through the gap. ¡°On second thought: do tell her. I''d rather be a couple of hundred miles away when she finds out.¡± He gave Grisket a thumbs up. ¡°Cheers!¡±


    * * *


    The ride down out of the mountains was long and hard. Ferrian had to stop frequently to rest Serentyne, as she became quickly exhausted pushing through the mounds of snow and freezing wind. Requar had ridden her through the pass in a storm, but Ferrian did not possess the sorcerer''s extensive knowledge of spells that might lend her extraordinary strength or agility. Instead, he was forced to proceed slowly and with great care, and hope that his luck was piled as deeply as the snow around him.


    There were a couple of terrifying moments when Serentyne slipped on the icy rocks, but thankfully she recovered without injuring herself. Eventually, the steep, treacherous trail became a more gentle one, undulating as it wound down through the ridges, and finally flattened out altogether as they entered the Valewood Forest and thick undergrowth rose to greet them.


    Gradually, even at the slow speed they were moving, they outpaced the Winter. The snow and ice drew back, and the raging, tormented wind dropped off into a sullen, chilly breeze, then a dying whisper. Now here they stood, at the edge of the forest, bathed in stunning moonlight.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Ferrian wasn''t sure at first if the snow really had retreated, as he could see only in black and white and the moonlight reflected off the road before him and the gently swaying wheat field opposite with brilliant radiance. The shadow of a fence line was etched across it, sharp and deep like an ink drawing, and everything was so still, apart from the insects buzzing around his face.


    But the air felt too warm, too heavy. It slid over his skin like an oily snake, bringing with it a familiar nauseated, oddly shivery sensation, like when he had sat too close to the fire back in the castle.


    He couldn''t stand the heat.


    Feeling irritated, he swiped at the flies, then happened to glance at the sky. It was well that he wasn''t breathing, for he would have stopped if he had.


    Stars lay strewn over his head, millions and millions of them upon the velvety black, like the shattered dust of a fine, rare crystal, the most exquisite diamond ever to have existed.


    The diamond¡­


    Staring up at the vast stretch of glittering infinity, white moonlight flooding over him, Ferrian realised something fundamental. Those stars were not for him. They had never been his to gaze upon, and the warm, peaceful world they watched over was someone else''s reality.


    He had left the Winter behind, as he had always done. As he had vowed not to do again.


    He closed his silver eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he knew what he had to do.


    Gently, he guided Serentyne into the middle of the deserted road. It ran east to west, following the line of the Barlakks along the northern edge of the Outlands. To the west, some way, lay Meadrun; this was the road he had travelled along weeks ago, before he was captured by the Bladeshifters, before meeting the Freeroamers.


    When he was still alive.


    And when he ran from the Winter, like a hunted thing.


    Not any more.


    Turning Serentyne''s head west, he closed his eyes again, bowed his head and concentrated. Silently he repeated the one spell that Arzath had taught him, to focus his thoughts, to remain calm¡­


    The magic came effortlessly, filling his body in an icy rush. The white light came with it, but instead of overwhelming his mind and exploding out of him, it spread outwards in a gentle, quiet glow.


    When he opened his eyes again, the Winter had returned.


    Snowflakes whirled around him. The wind had come back to life, howling its mournful dirge and thrashing the trees. And the stars were gone, consumed by the heavy clouds that came rolling back from out of the mountains. Ferrian watched the last of them wink out, like eyes closing forever.


    But he did not feel dismayed.


    He felt relieved.


    The insects were blown away; the slimy heat banished, replaced by clean, crisp air. Frost coated his hands and clothing, turning his greyish skin white again, sparkling in the cool glow of his magic.


    He smiled.


    It felt right.


    The road stretched out ahead of him, a straight, pale tunnel through the roaring, dancing storm.


    Let''s go, Serentyne!


    Feeling happier than he could remember in a long time, Ferrian urged the white mare into a gallop. Exhilaration swept through him as the freezing wind raked his hair and snapped at his clothing; he still wore the black servant''s garb that Arzath had given him, now decorated with intricate, fern-like patterns of frost. He had removed his cloak, using it to bundle up the Sword of Frost, which was now tied securely to Serentyne''s saddle.


    And then he noticed something incredible.


    Spreading out to either side of him, seemingly from his own shoulders, were two vast, ghostly wings, delicate and leathery, with long white feathers at the ends leaving rainbow-coloured trails in the air behind them.


    He laughed, spurring Serentyne faster.


    The white horse ran so swiftly, she almost flew.


    Dawn broke over the town of Meadrun, warm and rosy. The sound of birds in the trees and cows coming in for milking echoed through the morning stillness, and people began to venture out of their houses, going about their usual business. The owner of the Bramble Barn tavern unlocked the main door and opened it wide, wedging it in place with a stone in an effort to dispel some of the night''s cloying heat. He was relieved to feel a wash of cool air pass over him.


    Change coming at last, he thought.


    He was just turning away to return to his tasks when a sudden clatter from across the street made him look back.


    A milk maid had dropped both of her pails and was standing stock still, staring at something down the street. Fresh milk leaked into the dirt and over her shoes, unheeded.


    Curious, the colourfully-dressed bartender walked out on to the cobbled pavement outside his tavern to see what was going on.


    He stopped still as the milk girl, eyes widening.


    Everyone else in the street had forgotten what they were doing, as well.


    A monstrous dark bank of clouds was approaching rapidly from the east. Even as he watched, it swallowed the sun, devouring the sky so quickly he could hardly believe what he was seeing. The cool breeze that he had welcomed just moments ago turned into a strong, biting wind as though straight off the mountain peaks.


    A couple of people dropped what they were carrying and started running.


    The barman stood transfixed. People around him were panicking, now. A dog raced past him, whining. The black clouds boiled over the top of the village, plunging it back into deepest night.


    Freezing rain smashed into him, and the buildings around him, but still the tavern keeper stood, staring in horror.


    Something else was approaching in the midst of the storm.


    It appeared to be a ghostly rider on a glowing white horse. Around him swirled a terrible blizzard, advancing like a solid wall.


    The buildings on the edge of the town simply disintegrated as the full force of the Winter smashed into them.


    A terror like nothing the barkeeper had ever felt before passed up through the soles of his drenched shoes, through his body, and seized his brain. He turned and ran back inside the tavern.


    He managed to make it to the trap door in the kitchen when the entire upper storey of his tavern flew apart, ripped asunder and tossed away into the clouds like broken matchsticks. Hammered by sleet, he flung the hatch open but before he could throw himself down the ladder, the wall collapsed on top of him.


    The last thing he heard before the ear-splitting shriek of the storm claimed him, was the endless sound of shattering glass.


    * * *


    The morning sun beamed down on the map in Hawk''s hands. He had been fortunate; immediately after a conversation he''d had with Sirannor in his cell a few days previously, where the Captain had related everything that had befallen the Freeroamers since leaving Forthwhite, and Ferrian''s quest, he had sent a request to the Royal Archive in Crystaltina for a map of potential locations of the Sorcerer''s Valley. He had not really expected to receive a reply at all ¨C let alone one so swiftly ¨C but a courier had arrived just this morning, at first light, as Hawk was preparing to leave the barracks.


    Hawk had been forced to don his military armour again, one last time, in order to leave the city of Sunsee unmolested. He didn''t think the guards had recognised him ¨C they were searching for a Freeroamer ¨C but he had worn his stupid fancy helmet just in case. He had then sold his armour to a merchant waiting in line to have his goods inspected and pay his taxes just outside the city gates.


    Now he was clad in his new Freeroamer uniform again, sitting atop Ardance, Cimmeran''s unruly black mare. It had taken quite a lot of effort to get the horse to trust him ¨C effort he didn''t have time for ¨C but she seemed placid enough now. He supposed he could have chosen another horse, but she was magnificent and had recently lost her owner, and was known to be a fast runner.


    She had also survived the Old Quarter, and had an uncanny knack of turning up at the right moment. Hawk wanted a horse like that.


    Breathing deeply of the cool, salty breeze blowing off the sea, Hawk studied the map.


    At least three or four possible locations were marked on it, a couple of them all the way in Siriaza. But one, in the very centre of the northern arm of the Barlakk Mountains, one or two days from a small town called Meadrun, was circled with a hasty scribble. An arrow pointed down to it, with two words scrawled above: ''Probably Here.''


    Well, Hawk surmised. ''Probably Here'' was a lot better than ''No Freaking Clue'', so he supposed he would go with that. He rolled the map up and tucked it back into Ardance''s saddlebag.


    When he straightened again, a black-winged figure stood on the road, directly in front of him.


    Hawk jumped violently, reaching for his sword, but released it again a moment later, slapping his gauntleted hand to his chest.


    ¡°Hells bells, Mekka!¡± he breathed, trying to put his heart back into place. He scowled at the Angel. ¡°You could just say ''Hello'' like a normal person!¡±


    Mekka stood on the road before him, saying nothing, his black feathers and iridescent green hair ruffling in the breeze.


    Hawk looked back at him, his scowl shifting into an expression of worry.


    Mekka looked terrible. His face was very pale and his dark green eye was rimmed with red and shadowed, as though he hadn''t slept for days. His hair was tied back but was untidy, long strands hanging around his face. He wore his familiar green jacket with its peacock-feather design over black clothing. His bow was slung over one shoulder, his quiver of black-fletched arrows on the other.


    ¡°I wish to come with you,¡± he said quietly.


    ¡°Uh,¡± Hawk replied uncertainly. ¡°Okay...¡±


    Mekka moved out of his way.


    Hawk coaxed Ardance into a walk. The mare tossed her head around and huffed, unnerved by the sight of the Angel. Mekka kept pace with them on foot.


    Hawk glanced at him. The Angel did not return his gaze, just stared ahead, one eye hidden, the other inscrutable.


    ¡°He was a friend to Aari,¡± Mekka said suddenly, by way of explanation, then fell silent again.


    Hawk just nodded, not quite knowing what else to say. After a few minutes of uncomfortable, gloomy silence that had slightly dampened the bright morning, Hawk decided on a bad attempt at humour.


    ¡°You know,¡± he said, ¡°for a moment there, I thought you were a Muron!¡±


    He glanced sidelong at Mekka, but the black-winged Angel did not react.


    ¡°Um...¡± Hawk tried, ¡°you''re allowed to punch me?¡±


    Mekka said nothing, just spread his wings and took off, soaring over the road ahead of Hawk, high into the hazy blue sky where no one could reach him.


    Sighing sadly, Hawk watched him go.

 Chapter Fifty Seven

    A trail of terror, ice and snow


    And broken bodies; death comes slow


    Four days later, Hawk sat on the kelp-strewn rocks beside the sea, eating his lunch. The ocean stretched away before him, wide and grey and restless. Far in the distance, a red, perfectly semicircular shape rose against the brooding western sky, like the ghost of a giant setting sun.


    The Aegis had been there so long that Hawk couldn''t imagine the horizon without it. It would be as though the Barlakks had suddenly vanished: inconceivable. From his vantage point, it looked the same as it always had, and the last time he had been there, a few weeks ago, he had not noticed any sign of it deteriorating. There was weird stuff going on on the Isle, that was for sure; that strange black metal that the miners were digging out that was having unpleasant effects on people, for instance, but Hawk couldn''t see how that was related.


    As the Arkanian Ambassador had said: no magic lasts forever. Perhaps the Aegis was failing now just because. There didn''t have to be a reason.


    Mekka had told him and the Freeroamers about the King''s meeting with the Ambassador in Sel Varence. He had been brief: there wasn''t much to say. The Aegis was failing, and that was that. Everyone was morbidly aware of what would happen when it did, the only question remaining was: when?


    Hawk took a bite of his sandwich, wondering. If there were known to be at least two sorcerers left alive, perhaps they might be persuaded to help? Perhaps the Aegis did not require the full power of ten to be restored: maybe just a little bit of magic would be enough? The shield only needed to keep going for a while longer, until the remaining Dragons were dead.


    He shook his head. No matter how powerful or evil or twisted those sorcerers might be, surely even they would not want to see the Dragons escape? There was a reason those creatures had been imprisoned in the first place. In light of this new information, perhaps General Dreikan''s plan to launch a full scale attack on the Dragons wasn''t so crazy after all¡­


    Of course, he thought, finishing his sandwich, it was easy to be so academic about it when he wasn''t in the army any longer¡­


    A chill gust of wind blew at his back, making him shiver. The temperature had dropped unexpectedly as he travelled north, and the wind had shifted, coming not from the sea but from inland. There was a sharp edge to it, as though autumn had arrived early. Grey clouds had crept in from somewhere and hidden away the sun, giving the landscape a monotonous, gloomy cast that seemed determined to bring Hawk''s mood down with it.


    In any case, the Middle Isle wasn''t his problem any more. Hawk had his own mission, and a certain black-winged Angel, to worry about.


    Frowning, he fed a pebble to the slapping, hungry sea. Mekka had disappeared again.


    Hawk couldn''t work him out. First the Angel had insisted on travelling with him, and then he had flown off to do his own thing. Hawk hadn''t seen him the entire journey, since Mekka had almost spooked him off his horse.


    He sighed, rolling his eyes. Maybe I offended him with that joke, he thought. Again.


    Mekka took everything way too personally. Hawk knew that the Angel couldn''t stand being teased, which is exactly why he did it, of course. But perhaps there was a reason. He wondered if something had happened in his past, in Arkana, to make him this way, to leave him with an intense loathing for other Angels (apart from Aari) and choose to exile himself from his homeland. Perhaps he had lost more than his eye in that place¡­


    Yet for all that, Hawk reflected, Mekka was a decent guy. If Carmine liked him, then Hawk saw no reason not to like him as well. He did his best to get along with the Angel. Mekka just made things¡­ difficult, sometimes.


    He knew why, too: all three of them did. Mekka and Carmine had been close friends before Hawk came along, and that was a sore spot that wasn''t ever going to heal. But Mekka had taught Car a lot and looked after her when Hawk wasn''t around, and did not interfere in their relationship, even though he easily could have. Not many people were so honourable...


    ¡°Hawk!¡±


    The Freeroamer looked up in surprise. As though sensing that Hawk had been thinking about him, Mekka finally appeared, landing gracefully on the cobbled roadway behind him. Ardance danced aside from the rush of black wings and stood some way away, glaring at the Angel suspiciously.


    ¡°Where have you¨C¡±


    ¡°Trouble ahead,¡± Mekka cut him off.


    Hawk sighed and stood up, brushing crumbs off his uniform. ¡°The Watch?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Mekka''s expression was dark, and there was an urgency to his voice. He shook his head and gestured at the highway ahead of them. ¡°It appears a terrible storm passed through here recently, and hit the royal entourage as they were returning from Selvar. There are bodies all over the road.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± Hawk leapt up onto the road.


    Mekka nodded grimly.


    Hawk ran at once to Ardance and mounted as the Angel took off.


    He raced after Mekka.


    A few miles later, he arrived at a scene of devastation unlike anything he had seen before, even on the Middle Isle.


    There were, indeed, bodies all over the road.


    There were bodies everywhere.


    Several royal carriages had been smashed to splinters, the gilded wreckage spread far and wide; across the highway, through the fields, in the sea. Jewellery, fine clothing and other personal belongings lay strewn across the cobblestones like glittering entrails. There were dead horses, dead servants, dead guards, their armour gleaming even in the dull light. Nearby trees and fences had been broken as well, their splintered remains marking a trail of destruction that led all the way to the Barlakks down the road to Tulstan.


    There were survivors too, both men and women sitting beside the road in their finery, weeping or just staring into space. Others milled around, not all of them from the entourage: there were farmers and travellers and townsfolk who had either heard of the accident or had just been passing and stopped to gaze at the horror.


    As yet, there were no looters, everyone simply wandered around in a daze or tried to comfort those who were stricken.


    And Hawk noticed something else, ominous amongst the debris; frost coating the ground, and piles of melting snow.


    Then his gaze came to rest upon a group of people gathered beside some boulders on the seaward side of the road. Some of them were huddled over what was presumably a figure lying on the ground.


    ¡°Gods,¡± Hawk whispered in cold realisation. ¡°The King!¡±


    Quickly, but carefully, he spurred Ardance forward through the mess, until he reached the group, and dismounted.


    ¡°The King,¡± Hawk said to the nearest man. ¡°Is he...¡±


    ¡°Stand aside!¡± The man was one of the Royal Guard, his golden armour battered but gleaming. He stepped towards Hawk, sword raised. ¡°The King is fine! Step away from the King!¡±


    ¡°Don''t be an idiot!¡± Another of the Royal Guard pushed forward, addressing not Hawk but the first man. ¡°The King is not dead, but is gravely injured. You!¡± he pointed at Hawk. ¡°You have a good horse. Go and fetch help immediately!¡±


    Hawk opened his mouth to respond, but a bystander spoke up. ¡°Tulstan is destroyed as well!¡± the man said, face deathly pale. There are no healers for many miles!¡±


    ¡°Then ride to Sunsee,¡± the guard demanded. ¡°Now! Go quickly!¡±


    Hawk hesitated, mind racing. He could not go back to Sunsee. Besides being wanted for assaulting a Watchman, he needed to find Ferrian. Urgently, if his suspicions were correct¡­


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    ¡°Uh,¡± he replied, mounting Ardance. ¡°Right. Um. What should I tell them?¡±


    The guard glared at him, but the bystander spoke up again.


    ¡°Tell them a sorcerer tried to assassinate the King!¡± he said. ¡°A sorcerer on a white horse! This was no storm, it was an ambush! A plot by the Angels! He fled that way, towards Arkana!¡± The man pointed north.


    Hawk nodded at them all. Then he spurred Ardance forward.


    ¡°Stop!¡± the guard screamed from behind him. ¡°Stop in the name of the King!!¡±


    Hawk urged Ardance faster, heading north.


    ¡°Well done!¡± a voice drifted down sardonically from somewhere above Hawk. ¡°You''ve just earned your Freeroamer badge!¡±


    ¡°Yeah!¡± Hawk called back. ¡°Treason! A fine crime! I just left the King to die by the side of the road! I''ll lose my head for this!¡±


    ¡°The King''s life is not the most important consideration right now,¡± Mekka replied. ¡°We cannot allow Ferrian to reach Arkana, if that is indeed where he''s going.¡±


    Gods, Hawk thought. Face grim, he rode hard.


    * * *


    Sunlight reached tentatively through the large, round window set in the balcony doors of Lord Requar''s bedchamber. The panes were arranged artfully in the shape of a sun: but this was a sun that was cold to touch.


    The light made its way across the blue carpet and fell upon a black-haired figure slumped in a chair beside the bed. A book lay open in his lap; one gloved hand rested upon the page, the other hung at his side. Numerous papers, scrolls and other books were scattered at his feet.


    Blinking awake in the unexpected brightness, Arzath lifted his head and squinted at the light in confusion, as though he had forgotten what it was.


    Then remembrance crept slowly through his hazy thoughts. Ferrian has left the castle. The Winter has retreated.


    Arzath didn''t care. Neither the boy, nor the weather, was of any consequence to him. Nothing mattered, any more. The only thing he cared about, in the entirety of existence, was getting rid of the accursed trigon.


    The black poison that was slowly killing him, creeping through his veins like a vile parasite, consuming him, a little more each day. He was beginning to forget things, as he had when he had lost his magic. He could feel bits and pieces of himself slipping away, his thoughts becoming fragmented sometimes, not making sense.


    But he fought it. He would not let it win.


    Yet, he could not defeat it on his own, he knew. He needed Requar''s help. Except that his brother was¡­ gone.


    He looked down at the book on his knees and his black-gloved hand curled into the paper, scrunching it.


    It should have worked! he thought in despair. It should have WORKED!


    In sudden frustration, he swept the book off his lap and climbed unsteadily to his feet. For many days, or weeks, or however long it had been now, he had gone through every piece of Requar''s research that he could find. Any scrap of paper with anything written on it. He had read it all.


    The research was extensive. Requar appeared to have tried everything, thought of everything. He had surely known everything about trigon that there was to know.


    And Arzath had discovered something incredible.


    His brother had succeeded. Requar had known the cure for trigon all along! He had been holding it in his hands the whole damned time!


    It was the Sword of Healing.


    It should have worked!


    Arzath staggered across the room to the mantlepiece and snatched down the Sword. It was nothing but a shiny piece of metal, now. Without its magic, it could not heal a scratch.


    But it was made of silvertine, just as all the Swords of the Gods were. Silvertine was an indestructible substance, like trigon, that could only be obtained from Caer Sync, the Holy Tower in the heart of Arkana. The Angels had once supplied it to the SOMS for the sorcerers to forge into their signature Swords.


    Arzath had gone to great lengths to obtain silvertine for his own replacement Sword. He had captured an Angel and convinced him to steal some from the tower. He had then severed the Angel''s wings so that he could not escape and confess to anyone what he had done. He had not wanted Requar to find out; his brother would have interfered with his plans. He had removed Cimmeran''s memory of the incident as well, just to be sure.


    And because he had not been able to bear the man''s insane screaming afterwards.


    He closed his eyes bitterly. Now he, himself was mutilated, consigned to an horrific fate as though Cimmeran had come back and stabbed him with that dagger himself.


    He regretted what he had done to Cimmeran, but he regretted a lot of things now. In any case, the silvertine had been retrieved. It had come from the upper reaches of the tower; trigon could be found in the depths. They were opposing forces; they cancelled each other out, and the energy released when they did so was immense. That was why Arzath had wanted the trigonic dagger; he had wanted to combine it with his Sword to create a monstrously powerful weapon with which to destroy his brother.


    He shook his head. He had been a fool.


    But silvertine infused with healing magic should have repelled the trigon, should have driven it out of Requar''s body.


    The White Dragon knew, Arzath thought. She knew the Sword should work, and that was why she had tried to use it, through Ferrian¡­


    Requar knew, as well.


    He had also known that it didn''t work.


    Clenching his hand around the sapphire hilt, Arzath realised how frustrated, how maddened Requar must have felt all of these years; knowing the answer and yet, not knowing it¡­


    He turned and stared helplessly at his brother''s body on the bed. There had been no change. The trigon continued to seep through the cor¨C


    NO.


    He looked away abruptly, refusing to think of Requar that way. Ferrian had not been able to accept Requar''s death, had gone riding off to some library to try and find a cure. Perhaps the boy might find one. The answer was so close, it was within reach¡­


    He lifted the Sword and stared at his hand curled tightly around the hilt.


    I WILL make this Sword work. Somehow!


    If only he could retrieve some shard of Requar''s mind, only the barest piece; if only he could be woken up¡­


    Despite what he''d told Ferrian, Arzath had continued to conduct Mind Sweeps on his brother; searching, searching for something, anything that was still intact in there¡­


    He''d found only terrible emptiness.


    But he would not give up.


    A thought occurred to him, suddenly, as he regarded the Sword in his hand. The Swords can be bound in blood only to one wielder¡­


    Bound in blood.


    He and Requar were brothers¡­


    It was unlikely, he thought, but he was desperate...


    He walked across the room to the dresser and started opening drawers, rummaging through them until he found was he was looking for. An ornate letter opener. He dropped the Sword of Healing on the dresser, heedless of the items that rolled off onto the floor, and pulled the glove off his left hand.


    It was awful to look upon: black and rotting away. Only parts of his hand still retained any feeling, but his index finger and a patch of skin underneath it remained pale and undiseased. He swiped the letter opener across it, watching the line of red well up with blood. Then he grabbed the Sword again and strode to the bed.


    Removing his other glove, he lifted the Sword of Healing, gripped it with both hands and positioned it over the body. With a single, quick motion he cut through the bandages wrapped around Requar''s chest. Then, trying not to look at the inky, festering wound beneath, placed the tip of the blade against the ruined skin. He closed his eyes and concentrated.


    His own magic responded, slowly, burning up through him from the depths of his soul, sizzling through his veins. Summoning it was agonising, but he did not let go of it. When the magic reached his hands, it slowed further, but Arzath pushed it through them, through the foul, black morass. The trigon devoured most of it, swallowing his magic like an endless hungry pit, but he managed to force some past and into the Sword. He pressed his cut hand hard against the hilt, feeling pain flare up, but nothing else.


    He concentrated harder, pouring everything he had into the Sword, searching for its magic, willing it to respond, then finally screaming at it in his mind for it to respond...


    Still nothing.


    The pain grew so intense that Arzath felt himself begin to lose consciousness, and then his hands simply released the Sword of their own accord, and he collapsed, dizzily onto the floor.


    His hands twitched violently, sparks jumping off his fingers, but the Sword of Healing lay dead and cold, just like its master.


    Arzath slumped against the bed, head hanging in despair. Blood leaked down his hand and dripped onto the soft, blue carpet.


    Starshadow Flint sat alone at the long dining table, attempting to repair the grandfather clock. He wasn''t sure why he felt the need to repair it, only that it was something to do and the silence was painful. He''d cleaned up the rest of the foyer as best he could, piling the broken and charred pieces of furniture near the hearth for kindling.


    Mopping the blood off the floor had been the worst part, and something that he was trying hard to forget.


    But since Ferrian had left, all the ice had started melting. It ran in literal rivers down the walls and staircases; it was like living inside a melting ice sculpture. Flint had given up trying to deal with all the water, the best he could do was open all the doors and windows and hope the castle leaked itself dry before the real winter arrived.


    The only rooms left that remained reasonably dry were Requar''s chamber, his study, and, mostly, the dining room and kitchen. Flint spent most of his time here beside the hearth; Arzath spent every day shut away in Requar''s study or brooding around the halls...


    Flint looked up as the door at the end of the room opened, and Arzath staggered through. He moved beside the table on the other side of Flint, hunched over and hugging himself, then slumped into an armchair beside the fire, shivering.


    Flint shook his head. He guessed the sorcerer had been trying to use magic on Requar again, heedless of the fact that he was hastening his own death by doing so.


    ¡°Shot a couple of rabbits this mornin'',¡± he said. He gestured at a pot beside the fire. ¡°There''s still some stew left, if you want it.¡±


    Arzath ignored him.


    Flint sighed. Arzath rarely ate, and that wasn''t a good sign.


    He stared gloomily at the disassembled clock spread out across the table in front of him. He wished that Ferrian hadn''t left. Sure, the kid was dead too, but at least you could have a conversation with him¡­


    He picked up one of the cogwheels and turned it around in his fingers. He missed the Bladeshifters, too, sometimes. He''d gotten on all right with most of them, except Nightwalker of course. He''d had some amusing chats with Bloodmoon Grim. But he hadn''t been keen on their style of entertainment, and had never been comfortable in their presence. They had been companions, but they had never been friends, not like¡­


    He closed his hand around the cogwheel, squeezing it so that its teeth bit into his palm.


    It had taken him far too long to admit to himself that Requar had been a friend. Someone he could talk to, someone who would watch his back instead of stick a knife in it, someone who would forgive his mistakes¡­


    Blinking away a sudden flood of emotion, Flint wiped his nose with the back of his hand, tossed the cogwheel back on the table and got up. He picked up his Justifier, strapped it onto his back and went out into the foyer.


    He wasn''t sure why he felt the need to carry his crossbow everywhere he went, but he had gotten used to its weight upon his back. It made him feel safer. He also thought half-heartedly that he might go hunting again.


    His feet splashed as he walked. The foyer was practically a lake. He went out the open front doors and started wandering aimlessly along the bluff.


    The sun had finally returned, but its warmth brought Flint no comfort.

 Chapter Fifty Eight

    A race to catch the Winter storm


    Truth always comes before the dawn.


    Though Hawk rode fast, it took him another two days to catch up with Ferrian. The weather deteriorated as he went; somewhere in the haze of wind and rain he was aware of the road to Sel Varence slipping by; a road to warmth, to safety ¨C to Carmine. But then it was gone and he plunged ahead into deserted, lonely territory.


    This stretch of the highway had not been used in a very long time. Lichen speckled the cobblestones and weeds strove to claim them, but the road was well built and remained level and solid. Fields turned to scrubby gorse and clumps of ti-trees and ancient, grey boulders. The sea retreated beyond a bend in the coastline and the road began to incline gently as it curved toward the Tentaryl Ranges.


    Beyond those mountains lay Arkana: forbidden land of the Angels.


    Hawk tried desperately not to dwell on what would happen if Ferrian ¨C if it was indeed Ferrian he was chasing ¨C were to reach Fleetfleer. The destruction he had already witnessed was bad enough, but it certainly could get a whole lot worse.


    But most of his concentration was focused on battling the ever worsening Winter. The stones beneath Ardance''s hooves became icy, then covered in snow. The wind rose up into a roaring gale, so strong that Mekka could no longer fly. The Angel sat hunched now behind Hawk, on Ardance''s back.


    Darkness fell, black as night but filled with whirling ice that stung their faces. Ardance slowed to a walk, struggling to push through the blizzard. Hawk could not see anything, let alone where they were going, and was beginning to despair when he caught sight of something glowing ahead of them.


    Squinting through the ice lashing his face, he could make out a horse and rider. Both of them were radiating an eerie white glow that lit up the snowflakes around them. But they were not moving very fast: the horse appeared to be just as exhausted as poor Ardance.


    He felt Mekka shift position behind him, then the Angel shouted in his ear: ¡°Get us closer!¡±


    Hawk urged Ardance onwards, but the black mare refused to budge, having reached her limit.


    Ahead of them, the glowing figure began to fade again.


    ¡°Come on Ardance!¡± Hawk pleaded. ¡°Just a little further!¡±


    We can''t lose him now! Hawk thought desperately.


    The black mare tossed her head and became skittery, and Hawk was suddenly afraid that she was about to throw them off, but instead she started walking again, grudgingly.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Hawk said. ¡°That''s it! Keep going, Ardance!¡±


    They moved forward with painful slowness, but they were gaining on the rider. As they drew closer, Hawk could see that the white horse was indeed utterly spent. He wondered if the magic was the only thing keeping her going.


    Then Mekka leaned on his shoulder and Hawk was suddenly aware of an arrow right beside his face.


    ¡°Don''t move!¡± Mekka shouted.


    He released the arrow.


    The wind caught it and threw it into the darkness.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Hawk shouted back as Mekka cursed and strung another arrow. ¡°Don''t kill him!¡±


    ¡°I am not going to kill him! Just distract him! Break his concentration!¡±


    The Angel leaned on Hawk again, struggling to maintain his aim in the furious wind. The arrow leapt forth.


    Again, it missed.


    Cursing louder, Mekka stood up on Ardance''s back and then, to Hawk''s astonishment, leapt off into the wind.


    He disappeared instantly.


    ¡°Mekka!¡±


    Cursing as well, Hawk coaxed Ardance forward. Relieved of one passenger, the mare went a little faster.


    Hawk blinked to clear snow from his vision, and when he looked up again, there was a black-fletched arrow protruding from the rider''s left shoulder.


    At first, nothing happened. There was no scream of pain from the rider, no reaction at all. The angry blizzard continued to pound Hawk, and he was not sure how much longer he could cling to Ardance''s back, or indeed, how much more the horse could endure.


    And then the rider turned his head, slowly, to look at the arrow.


    The wind lessened, a little, its howl dropping into a quiet moan. Hawk used the opportunity to push forward until he was level with the white horse, which had stopped walking.


    Snow continued to whirl around them, but it seemed to have lost its energy. The darkness lifted, seeping away like ink in water, lightening to a dull grey, revealing the snowy landscape around them. The wind pulled back, moving outwards and dying away, leaving the two riders standing in cold silence, snow falling around them.


    The white glow faded and vanished.


    ¡°Ferrian?¡± Hawk asked.


    The boy turned his head and looked at him.


    Hawk caught his breath. Ferrian''s skin was as white as the snow around them, glimmering with a fine layer of frost. His eyes were an extraordinary silver colour, like reflective mirrors, sunken in dark hollows. His lips were colourless, like a corpse, and his pale hair fell across his face where it had been tossed by the wind.


    ¡°Who¡­ a¡­ are...y...you?¡± the boy said with great effort, as though he had forgotten how his vocal chords worked.


    ¡°I''m Sergeant Hawk of the Freeroamers,¡± Hawk replied. ¡°Commander Trice sent me to find you,¡±


    ¡°C¡­ co...mman¡­ der Trice?¡±


    Hawk nodded, glancing in concern at the arrow in Ferrian''s shoulder. There was no blood, and the boy appeared to have forgotten it was there.


    ¡°Look,¡± Hawk said, ¡°Sorry about the arrow, but¡­ we had to stop you.¡±


    ¡°S¡­ stop m...me?¡±


    Hawk gestured down the road behind them. ¡°Do you remember what happened back there?¡±


    ¡°Now might not be the best moment, Hawk.¡±


    Mekka had landed in front of them. The Angel was ruffled, but unhurt.


    Ferrian stared at the black-winged man intently.


    ¡°Mekk''Ayan, at your service,¡± Mekka said, bowing gracefully.


    ¡°Friend of Aari''s,¡± Hawk explained.


    ¡°Aari...¡± Ferrian seemed to come back to himself. ¡°Aari!¡± Eyes widening, he dismounted his white horse. Immediately, his legs crumpled beneath him.


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    Hawk leapt down quickly and helped Ferrian sit up. ¡°Is he¡­ is he all right?¡± the boy asked.


    Hawk felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. He exchanged a look with Mekka, but the Angel just crouched and closed his eye.


    Hawk took a deep, steadying breath. No good time to say this¡­


    ¡°He, uh¡­¡± he shook his head. ¡°I''m sorry Ferrian, but¡­ Aari died.¡±


    ¡°What?! But...¡± The life that had just returned to Ferrian''s eyes drained out again. He slumped.


    A miserable silence followed. ¡°Mekka,¡± Hawk said quietly, after a moment. ¡°Would you get this arrow out of him?¡±


    The Angel nodded, but before he could move, Ferrian ripped the arrow out of his shoulder and threw it onto the icy ground.


    ¡°I''m dead,¡± he said morbidly.


    Hawk stared at him in horrified surprise. Mekka picked up the arrow in a black-gloved hand and frowned at the piece of flesh impaled on the tip. ¡°Interesting.¡±


    The Freeroamer got to his feet, taking another deep breath. ¡°We all need a break,¡± he declared. He looked around. The landscape here was open and barren and littered with boulders. The trees were stunted and weatherbeaten, and everything was blanketed in snow.


    Mekka stood as well. ¡°There is shelter beyond the next ridge,¡± he said, gesturing ahead. ¡°An old traveller''s rest. It is not far.¡±


    Hawk nodded, then knelt by Ferrian again. ¡°Can you walk?¡±


    Ferrian stared at the ground. ¡°Just leave me here.¡±


    Hawk shook his head. ¡°Can''t do that. Didn''t ride poor Ardance near to death just to give up on you.¡±


    Ferrian said nothing.


    Mekka came over quietly and knelt at Ferrian''s other side. ¡°Aari believed that you were worth helping,¡± he said softly. ¡°And so do I, or I would not be here.¡± He nodded at Hawk. ¡°As do the Freeroamers.¡±


    Ferrian did not reply.


    ¡°Ferrian,¡± Mekka said. ¡°Aari gave his life for you.¡±


    The silver-eyed boy lifted his head and stared at Mekka for a long moment, then at Hawk.


    Hawk held out a gauntleted hand.


    Ferrian took it.


    The shelter that Mekka had spoken of was a spacious, sandy-bottomed cave set underneath an overhang in a cliff, right beside the road. At one time in the past, a wooden wall had covered the wide entrance; now only a few grey, weathered planks remained stubbornly clinging to the rock with rusted bolts. The area outside the cave and partly within was crowded with low, scrubby plants and weeds, but it was dry inside and free of snow. Dusty piles of charcoal indicated the remains of ancient campfires, and there was some timber stacked neatly against the back wall.


    The cave was more than big enough for all of them, including the horses.


    Mekka went about making a fire at once, while Hawk saw to their mounts, feeding and watering them.


    Ferrian, strangely, refused to come into the shelter but instead sat outside in the snow beside the road.


    Hawk looked at him pensively, wondering what on Arvanor had happened to the poor kid in that valley. Shaking his head, he went to help Mekka with the fire.


    ¡°How''d you know about this place?¡± he asked the Angel.


    ¡°I come this way sometimes,¡± the winged man replied without looking up. ¡°No people live out here. I like to be alone.¡±


    ¡°You left the firewood?¡±


    Mekka nodded.


    ¡°You left any other supplies?¡±


    ¡°Some food, under those rocks in the far corner,¡± Mekka pointed.


    Hawk was grateful. They were running out of provisions, having intended to stop at Tulstan to resupply, but¡­


    Tulstan is destroyed as well¡­


    A chill passed through Hawk, much deeper than the cold air surrounding them. He looked back out at Ferrian and got to his feet, starting towards the cave entrance but Mekka said: ¡°Leave him. Let him be, for now.¡±


    Hawk hesitated a moment, then nodded, and went to retrieve the food instead.


    Night had fallen, but Hawk couldn''t sleep. Pushing himself up on one arm, he noticed Ferrian still sitting in exactly the same place, out in the falling snow, like a statue. Hawk was troubled. The kid had rejected warmth, food and sleep. What else did living death do to a person?


    He got up, wrapped his cloak around himself and went outside.


    He crunched through the icy vegetation and sat down beside Ferrian.


    With his white skin, shadowed eye sockets and glimmering eyes, the boy looked eerie in the dark, like a ghost. Hawk suppressed a shudder, trying not to look at his shoulder, which was still torn from Mekka''s arrow.


    ¡°Hey, Ferrian,¡± he greeted.


    Ferrian said nothing, just stared out into the darkness.


    ¡°Listen,¡± Hawk began, then hesitated. There''s no good time for this, either¡­ ¡°Do you know what happened back there on the road, while you were riding?¡±


    Ferrian did not respond.


    ¡°Your Winter,¡± Hawk went on, ¡°hit the royal entourage.¡±


    This time, Ferrian turned slowly to look at him, his eyes growing wide. ¡°Oh no...¡± he whispered.


    ¡°The King is alive,¡± Hawk reassured him. ¡°Er,¡± he added, ¡°I hope. But,¡± he shook his head grimly. ¡°It wasn''t pretty.¡±


    Ferrian just stared at him in horror.


    ¡°And,¡± Hawk continued, feeling wretched, ¡°at least one town is destroyed, probably more, if you came all the way from the valley.¡± He waved a hand at the snowy road in front of them. ¡°You''ve left a trail of destruction from here to the Outlands.¡±


    Ferrian looked away, shaking his own head in disbelief. ¡°I didn''t know,¡± he whispered. ¡°I don''t remember any of it! I just¡­ I just remember feeling truly happy¡­ for the first time in my life...¡±


    The boy closed his eyes. ¡°Arzath called me a coward,¡± he went on. ¡°Called me weak. Said I was running from the Winter because I was too afraid to face up to it.


    ¡°So I did. I summoned it and brought it with me, and now look what it has done!¡± His hands curled into fists.


    Hawk stared gloomily into the whirling snow, dancing like tiny wraiths in the cold night. ¡°Can you banish it?¡± he asked quietly.


    ¡°I don''t know,¡± Ferrian replied bitterly. ¡°Maybe. But,¡± he shook his head in frustration. ¡°I can''t! I can''t bear any kind of heat! It makes me feel sick, like¡­ like my body is going to fall apart. I need the Winter to keep me alive! Or dead! Or whatever this is!¡±


    They fell into dark silence for awhile. ¡°I don''t know anything about magic,¡± Hawk said finally, ¡°but perhaps you just need to be more focused? Don''t run from the Winter, but don''t let it overwhelm you, either. Hold it with you, but don''t let it take control. Maintain a balance.¡±


    Ferrian sighed in despair. ¡°I wish I knew how! I should have stayed at the castle! Maybe I could have convinced Arzath to teach me more spells. That was supposed to be the plan. But instead, I was stupid. I thought I could save Lord Requar...¡± his voice started to break, ¡°¡­ even though he is already dead. I know he''s dead, I just didn''t want to admit it! I ran away from him as well, because I couldn''t stand seeing him lying there...¡±


    He began to sob, or tried to. His body no longer contained tears to shed.


    Hawk placed his hand gently on Ferrian''s shoulder. ¡°Who is Lord Requar?¡± he asked.


    ¡°He¡­ he was supposed to¡­ help me...¡±


    ¡°A sorcerer?¡± Hawk guessed.


    Ferrian nodded.


    ¡°Do you want to tell me what happened?¡±


    Ferrian did not reply at once, and Hawk assumed he didn''t want to talk about it, but then the boy started talking, relating everything that had happened to him since walking away from the Freeroamers that fateful, stormy day.


    When Ferrian had finished, Hawk stared back at him, wide-eyed.


    ¡°That''s why I''m going this way,¡± Ferrian finished miserably. ¡°To Arkana. To Grath Ardan. To find a cure for the trigon.¡±


    Hawk looked out into the night, thinking. ¡°Mekka might be able to get us inside the library...¡±


    ¡°He''s already been there,¡± Ferrian told him.


    Hawk raised his eyebrows. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. When he and Aari were young. Aari was too afraid to go into Grath Ardan, so Mekka brought books out for him.¡±


    ¡°Well then!¡± Hawk said, giving Ferrian a smile, and clapping a hand on the boy''s shoulder. ¡°There''s some hope, eh?¡±


    He got to his feet, jumping and rubbing himself to restore the circulation to his freezing limbs, and went back inside. He looked around for Mekka, only to find that the black-winged Angel was gone. Again.


    Hawk let out a loud sigh. ¡°Now where''s he¨C¡±


    ¡°Up there,¡± Ferrian answered from outside. ¡°On top of the shelter.¡±


    Hawk trudged back outside and squinted up into the darkness, but could see nothing. Looking around, he spotted some boulders on the left side of the cave that seemed climbable. He went up.


    A flat shelf of rock formed the roof of the overhang, covered in a thick layer of snow. Peering hard in the dark, he could just make out a shape at the far end, slightly darker than the surrounding boulders. He mistook it as a rock at first as it was so still and covered in snow, like the rest.


    ¡°Mekka,¡± he said, treading carefully across the shelf. ¡°What the hell are you doing up here? I have one companion who''s frozen to death already, I''d kind of not like another¨C¡±


    ¡°Leave me alone!¡±


    There was a suspicious, slurred quality to the words. Hawk had a sudden sinking feeling that Mekka had stashed more than food down there. A dark shape lay in the snow nearby. Hawk knelt beside it and snatched it up.


    One sniff told him all he needed to know.


    ¡°Dammit!¡± he sighed angrily. ¡°Not you, too!¡±


    ¡°Leave me¡­ alone!¡± Mekka got to his feet and immediately staggered backwards against the rocks, snow showering off him.


    ¡°Mekka...¡±


    ¡°Go away! Leave me¡­ alone! You found the¡­ boy, you don''t¡­ need me any more!¡±


    Hawk sighed. ¡°That''s not true. We do need you¨C¡±


    ¡°No¡­ you don''t!¡± Mekka swiped his hand through the air in denial. ¡°You don''t! No one needs me! No one¡­ cares!¡±


    ¡°I care!¡± Hawk retaliated, scowling. ¡°Carmine¨C¡±


    ¡°Carmine has you!¡±


    The words were a slash through the icy air. Hawk felt as though Mekka had gutted him.


    A terrible silence fell.


    There was the wound, lying open in all its gory, painful truth.


    ¡°I...¡± Hawk stammered, feeling weak. ¡°I¡­ don''t know why Carmine chose me,¡± he admitted unhappily. ¡°I''m just a dumb soldier. A stupid oaf. Look at you! You''re handsome, clever, knowledgeable. I don''t know why she didn''t choose¨C¡±


    ¡°She didn''t choose!¡± Mekka cut him off vehemently. ¡°No one chooses!¡±


    They stared at each other through the darkness and gently falling snow. ¡°I''m never around for her, though,¡± Hawk said sadly. ¡°You are. Perhaps it would be better if¨C¡±


    The blow sent a flash of white across his vision, and Hawk suddenly found himself sprawled in the snow. A moment later, a black shape stumbled past him. ¡°You are a stupid oaf,¡± Mekka muttered. ¡°And don''t ever¡­ call me a Muron¡­ again!¡±


    Hawk lay in a daze, listening to the uncharacteristically ungraceful landing as Mekka leapt off the overhang.


    He pushed himself up, checking that his nose was still intact. It was. He got up and staggered over to the boulders, and descended.


    Ferrian was on his feet as Hawk approached the cave entrance. ¡°Is everything all right?¡± the boy asked, frowning.


    ¡°Yep,¡± Hawk replied, clapping a hand on Ferrian''s shoulder and wiping blood from his nose. ¡°Peachy.¡±

 Chapter Fifty Nine

    Long the path, and bleak as snow


    No choice to make where one must go.


    The razor sharp tip of the weapon sparked bright crimson as the sun glanced off it. The bolt was massive, sleek and barbed, made of dark, iridescent metal, colours shimmering down its length like oil. It was set into an enormous ballista which sat on a plateau overlooking a scree-filled valley formed by the meeting of three volcanoes. Two of them were no longer active, the third emitted ominous black smoke and noxious fumes that hung in the air under the baleful red sky.


    General Dreikan paced slowly around the weapon, pleased. No, he was more than pleased: he was elated. Sirannor Vandaris had brought down a Dragon with a weapon very similar to this, and far less formidable, made of ordinary steel.


    But this harpoon¡­ this was something else. And he had not one, but three of them: two others were at this moment hidden on ridges around the valley.


    Completing his inspection, the General strode back to his Lieutenant-Commander, his orange cloak flaring out behind him, red and gold armour glinting.


    ¡°It is more than adequate,¡± he said. ¡°It is¡­ magnificent!¡±


    His second in command looked slightly apprehensive. The man didn''t share Dreikan''s enthusiasm, but nevertheless replied, ¡°Yes, Sir.¡±


    They had wasted an obscene amount of lives making these harpoons and the other weapons and armour. They had gone through so many blacksmiths that the General had been forced to start re-assigning miners to be trained as apprentice metalworkers. Mysterious accidents happened frequently when working with the moltmetal, and anyone who was cut by it, even the barest scratch, developed terrible illnesses, their skin turning black and rotting away. Many committed suicide or had to be put out of their misery.


    It was unfortunate. Dreikan couldn''t stand to see good men dying in such a way: wasting away like that. But ultimately, he believed the price was worth it. The moltmetal was far stronger than ordinary steel, lighter and sharper. It was resistant to everything they subjected it to, including fire and lava.


    For a chance at ridding themselves of the Dragons for good, of taking a piece of glorious history for himself, Dreikan would endure a few bizarre side effects and deaths for a noble cause.


    And no other army would dare stand against a nation who could slaughter Dragons, with black weapons unmatched in all of Arvanor!


    ¡°Everything is in position?¡± the General asked.


    ¡°Yes, Sir.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡±


    The Lieutenant-Commander hesitated. ¡°Except for the bait, Sir. Three cows are standing by. Shall I have them brought up?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± General Dreikan replied. ¡°Leave them.¡± He turned to regard his second-in-command, pale blue eyes glittering in amusement. ¡°I have something¡­ special being delivered.¡±


    * * *


    Carmine Vandaris raced along the road from Sel Varence, her chestnut stallion Foxxin pounding the cobblestones, a blaze of reddish colour on the grey landscape. Freezing rain slashed Carmine''s face, her cloak and sodden red hair snapped behind her in the fierce wind.


    Reaching the Great Ocean Road, she thundered around the corner without slowing, sparing no glance for the old, disused road to Arkana, disappearing into the mist on her right.


    She was unaware that her fianc¨¦e Hawk had passed that very spot in equal haste only a few minutes earlier.


    Her face was set in determination, a shield against the rain. Her father was in trouble, and this time, nothing was going to stop her from finding him.


    Getting yourself kidnapped is no excuse for avoiding me, father, she thought, smirking. You''ll have to try harder than that!


    The foul weather petered out as Carmine travelled south; the clouds broke apart and hot sunshine poured through. Mist rose and wandered along the stones like the ghosts of travellers past, and a warm breeze dried her clothing. Reaching the crossroad to Tulstan, however, she was forced to rein Foxxin to an abrupt halt.


    An enormous mess lay across the highway and surrounding fields. It looked like the scene of a battle. Most of it consisted of the mangled wreckage of several carriages and their contents. And bodies; many of them, scattered about on the gleaming cobblestones, their regalia glittering in the bright midday sun.


    Carmine dismounted, shocked. To her horror, she recognised those carriages.


    They were painted gold and red: the royal colours. The same ones she had seen outside the Angelican embassy just a few days previously.


    This was the royal entourage!


    A huge crowd had gathered. People were everywhere, picking about in the ruins like crows. Tents had been erected in the fields, and caravans and wagons stopped haphazardly beside the road.


    News of this disaster had not yet reached Sel Varence, so it must have happened very recently, within the last day or two.


    What the Gods happened here? Carmine thought in disbelief. And¡­ what has become of the King??


    There were no Royal Guard or Watch to be seen anywhere, or anyone attempting to establish order. Most of the people gathered here appeared to be countryfolk from nearby farms and villages, or opportunistic travellers. Even as she watched, a fight broke out over the spoils.


    It was a free-for-all.


    Taking Foxxin''s reins, she led her horse quickly to the side, into a field where some canvas shelters had been hastily constructed. A young girl was sitting by the shaded side of one of them, in the still-damp grass, looking filthy and downcast. Carmine stopped to ask her what was going on.


    The girl shook her head. ¡°Don''t know, miss,¡± she answered. ¡°Some is saying a big storm, some is saying sorcery. Some is saying that someone tried to kill the King.¡± The girl looked up at her unhappily. ¡°Me and my ma had to flee because our house in Tulstan was destroyed. An'' some other town in the Outlands. All smashed up.¡±


    ¡°Smashed up?¡± Carmine stared at her, aghast. ¡°Whole towns?¡±


    The girl nodded.


    Carmine thought furiously. Could it really be sorcery? And was all of this a horrible coincidence, or was somebody indeed trying to stop the King from reaching Crystaltina? Someone who didn''t want anyone to know that the Aegis was failing?


    But why destroy innocent towns?


    What kind of madness was going on here?


    ¡°Do you know what happened to the King?¡± she asked the girl.


    ¡°Aye,¡± the girl replied. ¡°Some farmer offered his horses, and they took him away two days ago.¡±


    ¡°He''s alive, then?¡±


    ¡°Um, I think so...¡± The girl shook her head morosely. ¡°But ain''t no one been by to give us any help...¡±


    ¡°Have you got any food or water?¡± Carmine asked, concerned.


    The girl shook her head.


    Carmine stood, untied the saddlebag that held her provisions and handed it over to the girl. ¡°I''m heading to Sunsee,¡± she said. ¡°I will send help for you.¡±


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    The girl nodded gratefully. ¡°Thank you, miss!¡±


    Carmine led her horse away, staring around in dismay at the dismal collection of refugees and looters. Some of the people scavenging looked like professional merchants, she noted in disgust. Others were simply ordinary folk trying to salvage what they could, and she could hardly blame them. Especially if they were survivors from Tulstan...


    ¡°Hey, miss!¡±


    She turned to see a scrawny teenage boy hurrying towards her, pushing a wheelbarrow full of fine clothes. ¡°Want to buy somethin'', miss?¡±


    She was about to turn away in distaste, but something in the pile caught her eye. Despite herself, she walked over and started rummaging through the clothes.


    ¡°Fine clothes, miss!¡± the boy said enthusiastically. ¡°Won''t get ''em any cheaper!¡±


    I''ll bet I won''t, Carmine thought darkly. She pulled out a white robe edged with golden embroidery, and displaying the royal coat-of-arms. A nurse''s uniform, she thought, hunting for the headdress. The King always brought healers with him in his entourage. This one had unfortunately met a sad fate, judging by the stain of blood on one side.


    Still, she thought, holding it up, a uniform from an official, royal medical retainer was almost impossible to acquire, and could come in extremely useful. As for the stain, if she tied a sash around it and arranged her satchel just so¡­


    ¡°It''s yours for one treven!¡± the boy said.


    ¡°Look, you little weasel,¡± Carmine said, scowling at him. ¡°You looted these off some poor woman''s body! I''m not going to pay you for them!¡±


    ¡°So?¡± the boy responded defensively. ¡°She ain''t gonna need ''em no more!¡±


    Carmine continued frowning at him, but had to admit, he had a point. And she was planning on wearing a dead woman''s clothing, with her blood still on it, which was hardly less disrespectful...


    Sighing, she fished in her money pouch and tossed him a green javen.


    ¡°Get out of here.¡±


    Grinning, the boy took up his wheelbarrow and ran off.


    Carmine stuffed the robe into her remaining saddlebag, mounted Foxxin, and headed for Sunsee.


    * * *


    Ferrian, Hawk and Mekka made their way steadily into the Tentaryl Ranges. Ferrian kept a close watch as they walked for any changes in the Winter. He could not let it fall behind, but at the same time, he was terrified of summoning it again. Sergeant Hawk''s words had etched themselves into his skull, as though with an ice pick: Your Winter hit the royal entourage¡­ At least one town is destroyed, probably more¡­


    Aari was dead. Requar was dead. The King of Daroria might be dead. And dozens, or hundreds, even, of other innocent countryfolk were dead as well, because of him.


    Hell, even HE was dead!


    Who will be next? he thought morosely. Hawk? Mekka? Flint? Arzath? The Freeroamers he had left behind?


    His feet felt heavy as he trudged along the snowy road beside Serentyne. When he had started out from Requar''s castle, he had felt determined, filled with single-minded purpose. And, perhaps, if he was honest with himself, even a tiny bit excited at the prospect of breaking into a forbidden library, of the secrets and answers it might contain. There had been a flicker of hope.


    But that spark was gone now, extinguished under the weight of guilt and despair, the smoke from its passing having long since trailed off into the cold wind. Now, despite Hawk''s optimism, Ferrian continued on out of a sense of obligation only¡­ and because he simply didn''t know what else to do.


    When the others slept at night, Ferrian sat alone in the snow-filled darkness, resenting the fact that the Winter had taken away even the possibility of ending his own life. It was like some kind of twisted joke.


    He remembered the intense joy he had felt the last time he had summoned the Winter. He had felt at the time that it was right and good, but he knew now that he had been deceived. The Dragon had tricked him into thinking the Winter was a beautiful thing, but it was not. It was a monstrous force of nature, as it always had been.


    A monster that would be forever chained to him.


    But it did appear to be reacting to his will, or perhaps the Dragon was maintaining it for him; he wasn''t sure. The raging, deadly storm did not return, but the sun remained hidden behind clouds as grey as the mountain rock, and snow continued to fall softly around them. The air remained a freezing but constant temperature.


    Ferrian no longer felt the cold. To him, it had become normal; only heat made him feel itchy and ill, which is why he kept his distance from their campfires. He knew it was cold, however, from the puffs of white breath from his companions and the way Hawk jogged and jumped around to keep himself warm, and Mekka huddled underneath his black wings, wrapping them around his body like a cloak.


    Hawk chatted with Ferrian now and again as they travelled. He tried to lift the boy''s mood by making jokes or making light-hearted fun of Mekka when the Angel was out of earshot ¨C and sometimes when he wasn''t. The man reminded Ferrian a little of Aari, though older and with a slightly stranger sense of humour. But Ferrian found himself liking Hawk, even if he could not bring himself to share the Freeroamer''s sense of enthusiasm for their quest.


    Indeed, Hawk seemed to be the only one of their party in good spirits. Even the horses seemed downcast; the poor animals had been ridden hard and were exhausted, including the usually feisty Ardance, so they proceeded mostly on foot.


    Looking at the black mare, Ferrian realised suddenly that he had no idea what had become of Cimmeran. He asked Hawk.


    The Freeroamer avoided his gaze and dodged the question, but Ferrian insisted until Hawk finally sighed, his expression turning miserable, and reluctantly related what had happened in Sunsee.


    When he had finished, Ferrian wished he had remained ignorant.


    He squeezed his eyes shut, as though to block out the world.


    He thought he might well go crazy if he had to hear any more bad news.


    The mountain rock began to twist itself into curious shapes as they wound deep into the Tentaryl. These peaks did not rise as high as the Barlakks, but seemed older and more weathered, the boulders and crags rounded and smooth. Some of the rocks had perfectly circular holes right through them, like windows, or curved intricate hollows, as though carved. Massive chunks of rock balanced precariously on top of needle-thin spires of stone, and some of the boulders simply hung suspended in the air, with nothing supporting them at all.


    Hawk dared them, once or twice, to camp beneath the giant floating islands of rock, but Mekka would have none of it, preferring to perch instead on the snow-covered top, and Ferrian didn''t care. Hawk sighed and folded his arms and called them spoilsports.


    Ferrian knew that he didn''t really want to be reckless with their lives, that he was just trying to shake them out of their melancholy, or at the very least, get some banter going.


    He was largely unsuccessful.


    However, at one point Mekka flew down out of the grey sky and decided to walk beside them for awhile. The Angel explained that they were passing through an area with a very high concentration of natural magic. Such pockets became more common the closer they ventured to Caer Sync, the wellspring.


    Magic permeated the whole of Arvanor, he told them, though in most places it was so diffused as to be unnoticeable. Sorcerers acquired their power by building it up gradually inside their bodies, and using spells to control it, a laborious process that took many, many decades. Those born with magic generally did not survive past infancy, or ended up horribly deformed, like the rocks around them and some of the animals they had passed.


    Ferrian glanced up as a two-headed crow winged away off a boulder as they approached it.


    Guess I got lucky, then, he thought humourlessly.


    They were a little more than halfway through the mountains, following the same wide, abandoned road, when Mekka returned from scouting ahead and landed in the snow in front of their horses.


    ¡°Watchtowers ahead,¡± he warned. ¡°Wait here.¡± Then he took off again and vanished into the rocks.


    Hawk and Ferrian dismounted. Hawk left Ardance in the road and crept forward to a cluster of large hole-pocked boulders, and peered around them.


    After a moment, Ferrian joined him.


    Ahead, the walls of the pass rose into high, smooth cliffs. Abutting the cliffs on either side of the road were indeed two watchtowers, though their architecture was like nothing Ferrian had encountered before. They swept upward from the ground like two tall, elegant, spiralling shells, like organic but symmetrical objects that had grown out of the mountain rock. They were made of a brilliant white stone that reminded Ferrian of Requar''s castle, though these were so seamless they appeared to have been carved out of single, enormous chunks of rock.


    The road carried on between the spires, the carpet of snow pristine and unbroken.


    There was nothing else to be seen save a few drifting snowflakes. Nothing else moved. The pass was quiet and eerie.


    Then a dark shape appeared at the top of one of the towers, starkly black against the white stone.


    It was only Mekka, however. The Angel spread his wings, leapt from the spire and glided elegantly through the pass, landing in front of them.


    ¡°It is safe,¡± he assured them. ¡°There is no one here.¡±


    ¡°Why the dark look, then?¡± Hawk said.


    Mekka''s frown deepened. ¡°Because there should be.¡± He gestured back at the magnificent white towers. ¡°These watchtowers are supposed to be permanently manned. Patrols usually fly regularly over these peaks, watching for intruders. No one is permitted to enter Arkana, as you know. They guard their border fastidiously.¡±


    Hawk frowned as well. ¡°But there are no guards?¡±


    Mekka shook his head. ¡°No. And no bodies, either, or any sign of an attack that I could find.¡± He looked back at the silent pass. ¡°I can only guess that they have been recalled, but for what reason, I do not know.¡±


    He turned back to look at them. ¡°But we should proceed with caution.¡±


    They continued on, watching the sky for any sign of Angel guards, but nothing marred the uniform white-grey expanse save the occasional crow. The grey mountain rock continued its parade of warped, impossible formations. Ferrian had the unpleasant feeling that anything could be hiding amongst those twisted boulders, but nothing showed itself.


    The road began to descend shortly past the towers, the high peaks falling behind them and the rocky cliffs lowering into blunt crags. Then at one point, where the road swerved to run parallel to the peaks along a ridge, the rocks on their left disappeared entirely. A grand view opened up: the whole of Arkana lay spread out before them.


    The land of the Angels was situated on a peninsula and was entirely wooded: the rainforest ran all the way to the sea on every side. Ocean glimmered to the east and west, the far north lost in haze. Ferrian''s Winter claimed their immediate vicinity, but to the north the clouds broke up abruptly into clear sky. There the high, white, floating buildings of Fleetfleer glowed in sunshine, and beyond them Caer Sync split the sky in two, rising in a thin spear to infinity.


    All three of them stopped to behold the view, but it was not merely the beauty of Arkana that had caught their attention.


    There was something else there that none of them had expected.


    Mekka was standing on the very edge of the cliff beside the road, staring in disbelief at the scene.


    Hawk''s eyes widened. ¡°Whoa,¡± he breathed.


    Ferrian simply stared in astonishment. Though his vision would not allow him to see colour, he did not need perfect eyes to recognise what now rose before him: an impossibly huge, transparent dome covering the entirety of Arkana like a protective bubble. The curved surface gleamed like dull glass where the sunlight hit it.


    The Angels had their own Aegis.

 Chapter Sixty

    A moonlit night has gone before


    To wait for heart to break, no more.


    Moonlight entered the chamber, falling across the carpet and bed like a bright shroud.


    Flint sat just out of its reach, in the shadows, his giant crossbow resting on his lap. Staring at the white beam of light in front of him, he wished that it were fake. He wished it was a spell, that at the merest disturbance, Lord Requar would sense his presence and awake, like that very similar night in Hillbank, weeks ago.


    It was ironic, he thought, the situation he found himself in now.


    Ferrian had left the castle to try and find a cure for the impossible. He had offered to take Flint with him, but Flint had refused.


    At the time, he hadn''t been entirely sure why he had not ridden off with the kid, only that some instinct was calling him to stay. Something he didn''t understand.


    But he understood it now.


    He looked sadly at the body beside him. Requar''s chamber had been in disarray when he entered. Flint had tidied everything carefully away, stacked the books and papers that Arzath had discarded neatly on top of the dresser. The Sword of Healing still lay on the bed. Flint had arranged it so that its glittering blue hilt lay at its master''s feet, the silver tip resting on his chest, just below the terrible black wound that had claimed his life.


    Requar''s face was still wrapped in bandages, hidden.


    Arzath was destroying himself trying to bring his brother back, Flint thought. He didn''t like the man, but it was an awful thing to witness. And Flint woke up every day feeling a little darker, the Justifier a greater weight upon his back.


    And his own heart a little more broken.


    Slowly, Flint got to his feet.


    Yes. There was a reason he had stayed.


    He turned to the bed, his shadow blocking out the bright gleam of the Sword, turning it dark.


    Taking a deep, slow breath, he raised the Justifier.


    A bolt was already loaded, but this one was special. This one had Requar''s name etched into it, with great care. This one was Justified.


    There would be no more doubts, this time, no backing out. His hands were steady as he positioned the Justifier so that the bolt pointed down towards the black hole in Requar''s chest.


    Somewhere in there, a heart still beat, only to pump trigon through his body.


    Moonlight slid off the freshly polished wood of his crossbow. The body beneath him did not stir.


    Good choice, a soft voice whispered, somewhere in his memory.


    Flint''s eyes glimmered. He closed them for a long moment, and when he opened them again, they were clear.


    Sorry, Ferrian, he thought regretfully.


    ¡°Goodbye, Requar,¡± he whispered.


    Then he fired the bolt.


    The newly-repaired grandfather clock tolled the hour ominously as Flint hurried down the sweeping white staircase. He splashed through the shadowed foyer, water rippling across the floor, and raced through the dining room, into the kitchen. There he began stuffing food and other supplies into a sack.


    He was shaking as he did so. He had to be fast. When Arzath found out what he had done, the sorcerer was not going to be pleased.


    Flint didn''t know what had become of the trigonic dagger. The black weapon had disappeared at some point in the confusion after Ferrian had tried to use the Sword of Healing. He assumed Arzath had taken it and stashed it away somewhere. Regardless, Flint did not want to be the next victim of that accursed thing.


    He gripped a bench, trying to calm his trembling hands and racing heart.


    And then a scream echoed down through the empty hallways.


    Flint''s heart slowed, all right: it almost stopped.


    For a moment, he was paralysed by the sound, it seemed to continue echoing through his skull. Then he pulled himself together, finished what he was doing, picked up the sack and ran back out to the dining room.


    A white-purple bolt of lightning blasted across the length of the room and shattered the doorframe beside him.


    Flint threw himself to the floor.


    ¡°What¡­ have¡­ you¡­ DONE?!¡± Arzath screamed.


    Flint picked himself up, grabbed his hat from where it had fallen, then snatched up the Justifier from the table where he''d left it, and swung it bravely to point at the sorcerer.


    ¡°What none of you had the guts to do!¡± he retorted angrily.


    Arzath was hunched over in pain. He staggered forward and grabbed the table for support. ¡°You...¡± he struggled to speak. ¡°You...¡±


    And then all of the rage and energy seemed to drain out of him, his face becoming ghostly pale. He sank limply into a chair, and Flint noticed tears streaming down his face, glinting in the dim light from the dying hearth embers.


    ¡°You¡­ fool,¡± he sobbed. His hand clenched into a fist on the table. ¡°Damn you! I was so close! I knew¡­ the cure, I just¡­ had to make it work!¡±


    The Justifier lowered in Flint''s hands. He felt the blood drain out of himself, as well. ¡°W-what?¡± he managed.


    ¡°I could have saved him!¡± Arzath cried. ¡°I just¡­ needed more time!¡±


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    Flint sank into a chair as well, feeling weak. Gods, he thought in horror. What have I done??


    A devastating silence filled the room, so deep that he felt both of them were drowning in it. Somewhere, water trickled from the ice still melting in forgotten corners of the castle.


    ¡°Kill me,¡± Arzath said suddenly, from the other end of the table.


    Flint looked across at him. Arzath did not look up, his eyes closed, face anguished.


    Flint wasn''t sure if he could stand, let alone pick up the Justifier again. Eventually, as the silence drew onwards, he forced himself to his feet. He shook his head. ¡°I¡­ c-can''t,¡± he said, and meant it. He did not want to shoot Arzath with the Justifier. He never wanted to touch that crossbow again. Ever.


    ¡°If you want to¡­ kill yourself,¡± Flint went on, ¡°you''ll¡­ have to do it yourself.¡±


    Arzath lifted his ruined hands and put his face in them. A tortured noise escaped his throat. After a moment, he lowered his hands again. ¡°P-please,¡± he begged, his voice utterly broken. ¡°I cannot kill myself. I have tried! The trigon will not allow me to!¡±


    Flint felt sick. He stared at the shadows flickering on the wall beside him, dancing with malicious glee over the painting of a doomed family, looming over him...


    He shook his head again and looked down wretchedly at the Justifier, lying on the table. It was already loaded with another bolt.


    Fighting back a wave of despair, he picked it up. ¡°Alright,¡± he told Arzath without looking at him. ¡°I''ll do it.¡±


    Taking his crossbow, Flint walked around the long table until he stood behind Arzath''s chair. The sorcerer sat with his head bowed and eyes closed.


    Flint lifted the Justifier and aimed it at Arzath''s back. He glanced up again, hopelessly, at the family portrait across the hall.


    How has it come to this? he thought miserably.


    He thought, perhaps, as he braced himself, that the next bolt ought to have his own name carved on it¡­


    He focused, staring down the bolt, finger curling around the trigger¡­


    Another scream infiltrated his consciousness.


    Flint froze in confusion. He hadn''t pressed the trigger yet!


    Arzath looked up, his green eyes growing wide.


    A moment later, the scream came again. It came not from the dining room but from somewhere in the heights of the castle. It was the most dreadful, agonised wail that Flint had ever heard; it didn''t even sound Human.


    ¡°Requar,¡± Arzath breathed.


    He turned to look at Flint, and the two shared the same horrifying thought at the same moment.


    He has turned into a demon-wraith!


    Arzath scrambled from his chair faster than Flint would have believed possible in his feeble state. Flint himself stood frozen in place, like an ice statue, crossbow still raised though pointing now at nothing. He stood that way, shocked, until the next scream melted every organ in his body. Taking a sharp breath, he turned and ran after Arzath.


    As he raced across the watery foyer, a fleeting thought passed him by; that he could run straight out the front doors and away from this godforsaken, haunted castle, and never come back.


    But for some reason he could not explain, he followed Arzath''s flying black cloak up the stairs.


    By the time he reached the ante-chamber outside Requar''s room, Flint was breathing heavily and covered in a cold sweat. Arzath was already inside, standing at the foot of the bed, staring at something in wide-eyed horror.


    Flint took a deep, shaky breath, wiped the sweat from his face, and lifted the Justifier. He didn''t suppose a crossbow would be much use at all against a wraith, but at least it deluded him into thinking he could defend himself¡­


    Filled with overwhelming dread, he walked forward and entered the chamber.


    No demon-wraith waited to tear out his soul, but what he beheld there was in many ways just as terrible.


    Requar still lay on the bed, but he was screaming. Screaming in such agony that he twisted and writhed on the sheets. But even more shocking was the wound in his chest. Black trigon oozed out of it, forming itself into long tendrils that whipped about in the air. Some of them had curled around Flint''s bolt and ¨C he stared in disbelief ¨C were pulling it out of him!


    Arzath leapt towards the bed, dodging the waving black tentacles. ¡°Restrain him!¡± he yelled at Flint. ¡°Hurry!¡±


    Flint dropped the Justifier, looking wildly around the room. Noticing the Sword of Healing lying on the floor, he snatched it up and began hacking strips off the edge of the bedsheet, staying low to avoid the trigon. Tossing one strip across the bed to Arzath, he grabbed Requar''s left arm and tied it to the bedpost. Opposite him, Arzath did the same.


    Requar continued to scream and contort on the bed.


    Arzath grabbed his head and began to quickly remove the bandages from most of his face, leaving one strip across his burnt-out eyes. Hands trembling, he retrieved a piece of charcoal from his pocket and began scrawling complicated marks all over Requar''s face.


    Flint watched the mass of writhing trigon that had grown grotesquely out of Requar''s chest, staying well away from it. As he stared at it, the bolt came free and dropped onto the floor.


    ¡°Shoot him again!¡± Arzath cried.


    ¡°What?!¡± Flint exclaimed.


    ¡°SHOOT HIM AGAIN!¡±


    ¡°Are you crazy?!¡± he demanded, but nevertheless hurriedly retrieved his crossbow. ¡°What the hell...¡±


    Arzath glared at him across Requar''s twisting body. ¡°JUST DO IT!¡± He waved an angry hand at the tendrils. ¡°The trigon has pulled back from his mind! It is trying to protect his heart, to keep his body alive! It will not let him die! Shoot him again!¡±


    Flint gave up arguing. He raised the Justifier once more and aimed it at the black mass.


    He fired another bolt.


    The trigon reacted instantly, withdrawing in on itself, it caught the bolt and once again began slowly pulling it out.


    ¡°Keep shooting him,¡± Arzath ordered, ¡°until I tell you not to!¡±


    The sorcerer''s eyes glowed violet as he bent over his brother''s head, gripping it in his hands, staring intently, Flint presumed, into whatever was left of the man''s mind.


    The Universe has it in for me, Flint thought dismally, as he cranked the first bolt back on, the one with ''Requar'' marked on it. Lady Fate has an obscene sense of humour¡­


    * * *


    ¡°The Angels have an Aegis?¡± Hawk exclaimed, dismounting. ¡°Since when??¡±


    ¡°This was not here when I left ten years ago,¡± Mekka responded. ¡°It must be recent.¡±


    ¡°Why do you say that?¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± the Angel replied, ¡°I suspect I know the cause.¡±


    Hawk came forward to stand with him on the edge of the cliff, staring out at the view in awe. ¡°I thought Angels didn''t use magic.¡±


    Mekka gave him a suffering look. ¡°They do not study sorcery. That does not necessarily mean they do not use magic.¡±


    Hawk scowled, putting his hands on his hips. ¡°Would you like to be a little more vague?¡±


    The Angel folded his lean arms, and nodded at the great golden dome rising below them. ¡°This Aegis is ancient. It is the original Aegis, the one that inspired the red shield that now imprisons the Dragons.


    ¡°The Aegis over the Middle Isle,¡± Mekka went on, ¡°is generated by ten large crystals. A rather crude mechanism, but it works. This¨C¡± he gestured, ¡°has been created by Seraphim.¡±


    ¡°Seraphim?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mekka said. ¡°Seraphim. Three of them, to be precise. They are immortal beings who reside in the heart of Caer Sync. They spend most of their existence as statues.¡± Mekka frowned.


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°And...¡± Mekka gazed out at his former homeland, expression troubled. ¡°Someone must have prayed to them, begged them for assistance to protect Arkana.¡± He shook his head. ¡°The Seraphim awaken only in times of dire need, if Arkana is threatened with true catastrophe.¡±


    They fell silent, staring at the view. The grey clouds over their heads seemed to darken, as though foretelling what was to come.


    ¡°Crud,¡± Hawk said. ¡°Dragons.¡±


    Mekka nodded.


    ¡°So that mirror thing you said the Ambassador was waffling on about, the...¡±


    ¡°Aurellian?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. That thing.¡± He waved a hand. ¡°So, the visions it was showing were true?¡±


    Mekka stared ahead pensively. ¡°This would seem to confirm it, yes.¡±


    Hawk scowled at distant Fleetfleer, shining white in the sunlight above verdant treetops. ¡°So,¡± he said, ¡°do you mean to say that the Angels are going to hide down there under their shield while the rest of Arvanor is laid to waste by Dragons?¡±


    Mekka raised an eyebrow. ¡°Did you expect anything else?¡±


    Hawk made a sound of disgust. ¡°Can''t those Seraphim fix the Middle Isle?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Mekka replied at once. ¡°They will not move far from the Holy Tower. Their purpose is to protect the Angelican race. They have no interest in anyone or anything else. The Middle Isle means nothing to them.¡±


    Hawk shook his head and folded his arms. ¡°Charming.¡±


    ¡°That shield,¡± Ferrian spoke up suddenly. They turned to look at him in surprise. It was the first time the boy had spoken in a long while. ¡°Can we get through it?¡±


    Mekka''s mouth twitched into a smirk. He gave Ferrian a wink. ¡°I can.¡±


    Hawk rolled his eyes. ¡°Oh, sure,¡± he grumbled. ¡°Go figure. Only Angels can pass through the shield!¡±


    ¡°That would be my guess,¡± Mekka replied, then his expression turned serious. ¡°For the two of you, however, it will be a problem.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Hawk said, walking back to the horses. ¡°No point standing around here gawking.¡± He leapt upon Ardance. ¡°Let''s go and find out!¡±

 Chapter Sixty One

    The land of Angels, walled with pride


    What other way to get inside?


    The Aegis was a vast wall blocking their path. To Ferrian, it looked like grey glass, though Hawk had mentioned that it was actually a golden colour. A huge, gleaming arched gate stood beyond it ¨C also apparently gold ¨C as well as two more smaller watchtowers of the same elegant, curving design as those in the mountains.


    These, too were deserted.


    The three of them stood on the road before the great shield, pondering what to do.


    ¡°No guards here, either,¡± Mekka murmured.


    ¡°They must have a lot of confidence in this shield''s ability to protect them,¡± Hawk commented, craning his neck and squinting to see where the Aegis disappeared into the clouds.


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    The Angel strolled forward casually, passing straight through the shield as though it did not exist. Then he flew up and crouched on top of the gate, surveying the land beyond.


    Hawk walked forward and lifted a gauntleted fist to rap on the shield.


    ¡°No, wait!¡± Ferrian cried.


    Hawk froze, and looked at him.


    ¡°Won''t the Angels be alerted to our presence if we touch the shield?¡±


    Mekka looked down from atop the gate. He stood and dropped lightly to the ground, then walked back towards them, shaking his head. ¡°Possibly,¡± he replied. ¡°But the Seraphim will not care.¡± He waved a hand at them haughtily. ¡°To them, you are merely ants, not worthy of their attention.¡±


    ¡°Ants, huh?¡± Hawk said.


    He punched the shield in front of Mekka''s smirking face, which made a ringing sound as though he had hit solid stone.


    He winced, shaking his hand.


    Ferrian stepped forward and touched the shield. It was indeed like smooth, solid, impossibly strong glass. It did not react to his touch, like Requar''s shield had. It was simply a wall.


    The Winter passed through it, however; snow fell on the other side, and overhead, clouds drifted through its curved surface.


    Ferrian stepped back.


    ¡°Can we go under it?¡± he asked Mekka after a moment.


    ¡°Aha!¡± Hawk exclaimed. ¡°Secret passages!¡±


    The Angel walked back through the Aegis, looking amused. ¡°Oh,¡± he replied, ¡°there are always secret passages. However,¡± he turned on his heel to regard the shield. ¡°This Aegis likely extends through the ground as well. It is in fact a sphere.¡±


    Hawk sighed, slumping in disappointment. ¡°Bummer.¡± The Freeroamer crouched and played with the snow at his feet. He shook his head. ¡°Guess you''ll have to go in without us, Mekka.¡±


    They fell into a defeated silence. Mekka stood frowning in thought at the seemingly impassable Aegis.


    Ferrian stared at it as well, remembering how Arzath had wanted him to break into Requar''s castle using the Winter. This Aegis was much more enormous ¨C it covered an entire country ¨C and infinitely more powerful, as it was linked to the minds of immortal beings.


    Somewhere beyond it lay Grath Ardan, a cure for trigon and possibly his own salvation.


    He did not like the idea of Mekka going in there alone. Of course, the Angel had been there before and seemed more than capable of looking after himself, but if something did happen to Mekka because of Ferrian''s personal quest¡­


    He closed his eyes. He could not handle another death on his conscience.


    If something bad awaited them in Arkana or in Grath Ardan, Ferrian wanted to be the first one in its way.


    And if the Dragons really were about to escape from the Middle Isle, Arkana ¨C hostile population notwithstanding ¨C may well be a safe place to be, with an Aegis over their heads.


    The rest of Arvanor, however¡­


    Ferrian felt helpless as he thought of Commander Trice, whom he had left behind in Sunsee, of Sirannor, who was kidnapped and could be anywhere, of Lord Requar, who was worse than dead¡­ All of his friends were scattered and in danger, and he wasn''t there to help any of them.


    Briefly, desperately, he thought of turning back, but he knew at once that such an idea was foolish. He had come so far, with Hawk and Mekka''s help ¨C two men who didn''t even know him, and yet had chosen to help Ferrian.


    You should not doubt a decision that has already been made¡­ Constable Raemint''s voice floated back to him from a very long way away.


    Ferrian took a deep breath. He had to keep going. He had to get through this shield.


    ¡°What about magic?¡± he said, opening his eyes.


    The other two looked at him.


    ¡°Could¡­ could very powerful magic break a hole in the Aegis?¡±


    Mekka regarded him for a moment, then shook his head ruefully. ¡°I do not think the Winter would be strong enough.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Ferrian said, shaking his head, ¡°not the Winter.¡±


    Mekka and Hawk watched him in puzzlement as he walked back to Serentyne and untied a long bundle that was strapped to her saddle. Carefully, Ferrian unwrapped it to reveal a long, exquisite silver sword.


    The Sword of Frost.


    Hawk gasped. Mekka came forward, staring at the Sword in astonishment. To the Angel''s even greater surprise, Ferrian handed it to him.


    ¡°Hold this for a second...¡±


    Mekka held the beautiful sword reverently upon his upturned palms as Hawk came over to look and Ferrian rummaged in a saddlebag, pulling out another bundle. He hesitated as he held the oblong bundle in his hands, then gritted his teeth and pulled off the wrappings to reveal a decorative tin box. He had to fight a wave of nausea as he opened the lid and set eyes on the object inside.


    It took an even greater effort of will to pick it up and lift it gingerly from the tin.


    Both Hawk and Mekka took a step back at the sight of the wicked looking black dagger.


    ¡°That is...¡± Mekka started.


    ¡°A trigonic dagger,¡± Ferrian answered solemnly.


    ¡°You brought it with you?¡± Hawk said, aghast.


    Ferrian stared down at the knife in his hand. In the cold light of day, against the brilliant white of the snow, it looked even darker and more insidious than the last time he had seen it, when he had stolen it from Requar''s castle after finding where Arzath had hidden it away. He hadn''t expected Arzath would want to touch it again, let alone use it on someone, after what had happened, but¡­ nevertheless, Ferrian had not felt comfortable leaving it in the sorcerer''s possession.


    ¡°I wanted to get rid of it,¡± Ferrian replied, tearing his eyes away from the awful blade. ¡°Throw it in the sea, maybe, but¡­ I never got a chance.¡±


    He walked towards Mekka. The Angel winced a little as Ferrian approached, but Ferrian merely took back the Sword of Frost.


    He looked at the Angel and the Freeroamer in turn.


    ¡°Umm¡­¡± he said slowly. ¡°I''m about to do something really, really stupid. You might want to stand back.¡±


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The others needed no further encouragement. Mekka launched himself into the air and flapped away into the high rocks surrounding them. Hawk gathered up the horses and jogged back up the road to what he deemed a safe distance, and crouched behind some boulders.


    Ferrian waited to be sure they were both well out of the way, then turned and walked slowly towards the Aegis; Sword of Frost gleaming in one hand, the trigonic dagger a black shard in the other.


    He paused and looked up at the shield for a moment, then down at his Sword.


    There was a dagger-shaped indentation in the hilt.


    Arzath had intended to combine this Sword with the trigonic dagger to create a supremely powerful weapon with which to exterminate his brother. Ferrian had no idea what it was supposed to do, or whether any spells were required to make it work.


    He stared at the trigonic dagger. He did not know what else to try, however, and this was magic ¨C powerful magic ¨C and therefore, it was a chance.


    Reluctantly, he started to move the knife into place, but then hesitated. Upturning the Sword of Frost, he stuck it point downward in the ground before him, then bent and untied one of his shoelaces, and tied it around the handle of the dagger.


    He wanted to be able to get the disgusting thing back out of the Sword, if possible; not relishing the idea of transforming his newly-created Sword of Frost into a Sword of Death, or whatever horrible thing was going to happen¡­


    Getting to his feet, he picked up the Sword again and, before he could think any more about it, placed the dagger over the indentation and lowered it into place.


    Or tried to.


    A strange force resisted him, pushing back against the dagger.


    Ferrian pushed harder, and the repelling force grew stronger. A tremor passed through both weapons.


    Ferrian increased the pressure, and both Sword and dagger quivered. A thin, high keening noise emanated from somewhere, from which blade he did not know. He kept pressing against the dagger, trying to force it into its slot.


    Gods, he thought, pushing harder and harder against the dagger: the weapons were resisting each other! They did not want to be put together!


    This is a really, REALLY bad idea! he thought, wincing as the keening sound increased to a piercing shriek¡­


    And then, unexpectedly, the resistance reversed itself and the blades snapped together with a metallic clink.


    Ferrian froze.


    Nothing else happened.


    The blades were still and silent.


    Slowly and carefully, he removed his hand from the dagger.


    It remained in place, the ends of the shoelace hanging out.


    He relaxed a little in relief, grateful for once that he no longer had a beating heart, for it would have been in his throat by now¡­


    And then he realised, staring down at the Sword, that he needed to put magic into it to make anything happen at all.


    That meant he had to summon the Winter again.


    Sighing deeply in resignation, Ferrian placed both of his hands around the hilt. Forcing away his growing terror, his thoughts of Hawk and Mekka''s safety, he closed his eyes and focused.


    The Winter responded immediately. Cold white light flooded through his body, and he concentrated on directing it down his arms. It flowed like icy water through his veins, into his hands and into the Sword.


    He knew at once that something was wrong.


    The Sword began to tremble again, and the high keening sound returned.


    But there was something else happening, something he could not quite fathom, something huge and awful that sent a wave of dread through him. A sickening pain slammed into his gut, as though he had been punched. Gritting his teeth, he continued to pour magic into the blade.


    The Sword shook violently, emitting an eerie shriek. Ferrian opened his eyes to see silvery light leaking out of it, mingling with black mist from the dagger. Snow swirled crazily around him, whipped up by a sudden angry gale, though he stood in a calm cocoon, apart from the Sword, which felt as though it were trying to leap out of his hands.


    Ferrian gripped it tighter, desperately trying to hold on. Somewhere overhead, thunder ripped apart the sky. The clouds darkened rapidly, plunging the pass into twilight, then night, the snow around him illuminated only by the white glow beaming out of his body and the ghostly light streaming off the Sword.


    Ferrian staggered, struggling not to release the Sword. The feeling of dread increased until it was an almost physical force, crushing him from both inside his body and out.


    The power he was trying to control was enormous. It was far, far more monstrous than the Winter...


    With a terrified cry, Ferrian swung the Sword at the Aegis.


    There was no massive explosion, as he expected, or even an impact. The Sword sailed through the shield as though it wasn''t there, and Ferrian went with it, pirouetting awkwardly and falling heavily into the snow.


    But something strange happened to his mind. He did not lose consciousness, but suddenly time and space lost all meaning. His thoughts jumbled together into a confused mess. Looking up, he saw that he was on the other side of the Aegis¡­


    But he wasn''t, he was still swinging the Sword¡­


    And at the same time, he was lying in the snow¡­


    He was struggling with the Sword, swinging it¡­


    And in the midst of it all was a weird blind spot in the middle of his vision¡­ a gash through the air, where the Sword had sliced in an arc. It wasn''t a hole though, there was nothing there¡­ yet, it was¡­ he couldn''t see it, but¡­


    Ferrian let go of the Sword and clutched his head, feeling panic take hold of him as his grip on sanity slipped away.


    He screamed.


    And then the white light surged up and flooded his brain, blissfully washing everything away.


    When Ferrian awoke, he was still lying in the snow. His first thoughts were that he could not remember what had happened, or where he was. He lay still, feeling comfortable with the cold snow pressing against his cheek.


    It was peaceful, having an empty mind, unburdened by thoughts or worries.


    Unfortunately, it didn''t last long.


    The memories returned, a gradual realisation at first¡­ and then a painful rush¡­


    Ferrian gasped and pushed himself up, snow sliding off his hair. Brushing the ice away from his eyes, he blinked and looked around.


    The darkness had lifted and the storm subsided. Snow once again fell gently around him in the sombre, white-grey light of day.


    He was, indeed, on the inside of the Aegis.


    And the ''gash'' in the air, the strange blind arc that he could not see, but his brain told him existed, was still there.


    Though his stomach was no longer functioning, he nevertheless felt the urge to retch.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± a quiet voice said.


    Ferrian lifted his head groggily and looked to his left. Mekka knelt in the snow beside him, looking concerned.


    ¡°I...¡± Ferrian clutched his head. He was dead, and yet still had a splitting headache. How did that work? ¡°I don''t know,¡± he answered honestly. ¡°I have no idea what happened...¡±


    ¡°You sliced a hole in reality,¡± Mekka replied matter-of-factly.


    ¡°I¡­ what?!¡±


    ¡°It is what happens when you combine trigon and silvertine,¡± the Angel explained, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.


    Ferrian was still trying to comprehend what Mekka had just said, when a groan came from behind him.


    He turned to see Hawk slumped against the gate, also clutching his head. ¡°Ugh,¡± the Freeroamer muttered. ¡°What the hell was that? I feel like¡­ like...¡±


    ¡°Like... your brain was just smashed to pieces and put back together again in the wrong order?¡± Ferrian offered.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Hawk said, peering at him. ¡°That''s it exactly...¡±


    Ferrian frowned. ¡°Hawk,¡± he said. ¡°How did you get through the Aegis?¡±


    Mekka got to his feet, rolling his eye. ¡°How do you suppose?¡± he replied. ¡°After you collapsed, the idiot charged straight into the hole before I had a chance to warn him. With the horses.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    Mekka gestured at Serentyne and Ardance, who were huddled in a far corner, where the Aegis connected with the cliffs. ¡°The horses went berserk and almost trampled you,¡± Mekka explained. ¡°They have finally calmed from hysterical to merely scared out of their wits. Hawk passed out, as you did. I have been waiting quite some time for you both to wake up.¡±


    Ferrian stared at Hawk in astonishment.


    The Freeroamer just shrugged and scruffed his hair, looking sheepish.


    Ferrian stood up. ¡°That¡­ er, ''hole'',¡± he said, waving at it while trying not to look at the place where it was, ¡°it''s still there.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mekka said. ¡°It is a rip in the fabric of reality. It will take some time to repair itself.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Hawk said, pushing himself up. ¡°How long, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Mekka replied, waving a hand absently. ¡°A few years, I expect...¡±


    ¡°A few years?!¡±


    The Angel shrugged and flew to the top of the gate.


    ¡°How do you know all this?¡± Hawk called up, incredulously.


    Mekka gave him a smile. ¡°I know everything,¡± he said, and dropped to the far side of the gate.


    ¡°Humph,¡± Hawk grumbled. ¡°Not cocky at all, is he?¡±


    Ferrian looked around himself and caught sight of the Sword lying in the snow a few feet away. Stepping over to it, he bent and grabbed the ends of the shoelace, and attempted to pull the trigonic dagger free of its recess.


    It would not budge.


    Feeling panic begin to stir again, he braced his feet on the Sword and pulled again, as hard as he could.


    All of a sudden, the dagger came free, with such force that it flew past Ferrian and narrowly missed Hawk, embedding itself in the gate.


    Hawk leapt away, stumbling and almost falling over. ¡°Great Goddess!¡± he gasped. ¡°Be careful with that thing!¡±


    Ferrian picked himself up out of the snow, stammering an apology. Fishing in the pocket of his tunic, he withdrew the oblong tin, then hurried over to the dagger. Removing his shoelace from its handle, he pulled the black knife out of the gate and slammed it into its tin, then wrapped the cloth binding around it, securing it tightly.


    I NEVER want to touch this hellish thing again! he thought furiously.


    A loud clanking sound came from the gates and they split open ponderously as Mekka worked the mechanism from the other side. Hawk went over to try and coax the poor horses into travelling further with three lunatics.


    Ferrian retrieved the Sword of Frost, then walked through the gates and approached Mekka as the Angel appeared from around one of them.


    He took a deep breath. ¡°Mekka?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Do you¡­ know of a place to dispose of this?¡± He held out the wrapped bundle.


    The Angel looked down at the bundle solemnly. ¡°I do,¡± he replied. ¡°Caer Sync. The dagger should be returned to its source.¡±


    Ferrian nodded. Reluctantly, he handed it to Mekka.


    The Angel took it from him, and nodded. ¡°Once I have guided you to Grath Ardan,¡± he said softly, ¡°I will take this to the Holy Tower and cast it into the Dark World, where it belongs.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Ferrian replied, relieved and grateful beyond words. Nevertheless, he hesitated watching Mekka place the bundle in his satchel. ¡°Just¡­ be careful with it,¡± he warned.


    Mekka nodded again. ¡°Don''t worry. I am aware of what it is capable of,¡± he assured Ferrian. ¡°And I give you my word,¡± he said seriously, ¡°that I will not let it fall into another''s hands.¡±


    ¡°Do you realise,¡± Hawk said, coming up behind them with the horses, ¡°that we''re the first Humans to set foot in this land for more than a hundred years?¡±


    ¡°Well done,¡± Mekka said drily, ¡°I will be sure to give you a sightseeing tour.¡±


    Hawk looked around at the snowy landscape, and scanned the grey sky. ¡°Any idea where the guards have got to?¡±


    ¡°Likely back to Fleetfleer,¡± Mekka replied. ¡°To sit around and drink wine. They are arrogant enough to believe the Aegis is all the defence they require.¡±


    ¡°And is it?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± he considered. ¡°The three of us managed to find a way inside. Clearly, the shield is not completely impenetrable.¡±


    Hawk glanced back anxiously through the open gates. ¡°And that¡­ er¡­ hole¡­ thing. Could someone else come through there?¡±


    Mekka smiled, starting towards the shadowy forest ahead of them. ¡°I wouldn''t worry,¡± he replied. ¡°A Dragon wouldn''t fit through it.¡±

 Chapter Sixty Two

    Those who are lost may yet be found


    By lies or truth on hellish ground.


    The inside of Requar''s head was hellish.


    Blackness mingled with livid red; glowing, swirling, bloody, raw. The trigon had devoured much of his thoughts, his memories, his essence, leaving little behind save a kaleidoscopic maelstrom of pain.


    Arzath felt his physical body lurch and reel with the horror and burning agony that passed through him in waves. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to maintain the link. The trigon had retreated for the moment, gone to defend the heart, the lifeblood, keeping the body alive until it had finished its transformation. Arzath knew that he had to make the most of this opportunity; futile though it may be, he would not get another chance.


    Desperately, fighting nausea, he looked around, searching. Searching the vast, swirling, crimson-black cathedral of agony for any glimmer of memory that might have survived.


    Then he saw them. One or two, sparkling in the chaos like diamonds drowning in an ocean of blood.


    He moved toward them, as quickly as he could manage, but they disappeared before he could get to them.


    Frustrated, he spun, searching again.


    He needed just one memory: but it had to be a particular one. If that one had been destroyed, then there was truly no hope. All other memories were inconsequential, it did not matter if they were consumed.


    But one memory was significant. One memory could begin to bring Requar back together, no matter how ruined the rest of him may be.


    Arzath hoped with everything in him that it was still there.


    He spent a long time searching, or so it seemed. He could feel himself growing weak, energy draining out of him, the constant barrage of pain wearing him down. More than a few times, he felt his own mind trying to pull back, to escape the torment, but he endured it, because his fear was greater than the pain.


    He could not pull out now, not before finding the memory. If he did, then everything was lost.


    When he did, eventually, find what he was looking for, he almost cried with relief.


    Not much of Requar was still intact, but this memory was. It had survived the onslaught, perhaps because it was the most powerful memory that Requar possessed; one that had sunk deep, that had speared through the entirety of his being.


    It was also the last one.


    Arzath found himself back in the frozen foyer of his brother''s castle, just after the fight. The scene was hazy and filled with a silvery light; objects were indistinct, blurry shapes, dreamlike and prismatic.


    Arzath caught his breath. Requar was seeing this through his Mind Vision, because Arzath had destroyed his eyes.


    His brother knelt on the floor. Arzath could feel his despair; a flood of sadness, hopelessness, self-pity and guilt that had built up over two centuries, and had finally been released like a broken dam. It was drowning him.


    He watched as Requar looked down at the black shard, then up at the tormented shadow on his left side.


    Arzath felt stricken, looking at his own anguish through the Vision of his brother, but he made himself walk forward and kneel in his own sobbing shadow.


    Requar picked up the trigonic dagger and held it out in front of him. He was saying something as he did so, but the words were no longer important.


    Please forgive me¡­ for this¡­


    Arzath wanted to stop him, wanted desperately to reach out and grab his hand, to prevent what would happen¡­ but he restrained himself. This was a memory, and he could not change it. He could never reverse what had been done.


    But he COULD alter Requar''s perception of it¡­


    He didn''t want to look as Requar turned the dagger in his hand and plunged it into his own heart, but he forced himself to. This was the critical moment.


    Requar''s Vision warped and went dark at the edges. Quickly, Arzath lunged out of his shadow, ignoring the ghostly echo of his own cry, and grabbed the dagger.


    Not to pull it out, however.


    Firmly, Arzath wrapped his hands around his brother''s. This is not a dagger, he told Requar intently. You are NOT stabbing yourself with a trigonic dagger. This is your Sword of Healing. You do not want to die. You want to live!


    Requar did not respond. Slowly, he went limp, his head rolling back, and he collapsed onto the floor.


    Arzath continued to grip the dagger, crushing Requar''s hand to the hilt. You are NOT dying! he said fiercely. You are healing yourself! This is NOT a trigonic dagger! It is your Sword of Healing!


    He continued repeating the words until darkness claimed them both.


    Arzath retreated from Requar''s mind and slumped on to the bed, clutching it for support. He took a few moments to recover, to let his own mind rest from the shock and pain.


    Then he pushed himself upright, arms trembling, and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. ¡°You may¡­ stop now,¡± he told Flint.


    On the other side of the bed, the man in the hat sagged in relief, letting his huge crossbow slip from his hands on to the carpet.


    ¡°Hand me¡­ the Sword,¡± Arzath asked wearily.


    Flint picked up the Sword of Healing where it lay on the floor and tossed it to Arzath over the bed. Arzath caught it in one hand, spun it and laid it on top of Requar''s body. The trigon had withdrawn back into the wound and Requar once again lay still and silent. Arzath reached up and untied Requar''s left wrist from the bedpost.


    ¡°Help me untie him.¡±


    Flint obeyed wordlessly.


    Arzath took the lifeless arms and placed the hands over the jewelled hilt, where it rested at Requar''s throat, the blade lying over the black wound in the middle of his chest. He curled Requar''s long fingers around the handle.


    For a moment he paused, with his own ruined hands on top of his brother''s, just staring down at him. He felt abysmally tired. He wanted nothing less in the world than to go back into that horrific wreck of a mind, but he wasn''t done yet.


    Finding the memory had been the first part.


    The real struggle was yet to come.


    Closing his eyes, he wished dearly that he could rest, just for awhile, for some relief from the torment. But he could not afford to wait. If the trigon consumed that memory, then it was all over.


    He opened his eyes and stared dismally at the wound. He could not cure Requar. He could not remove the trigon from his body. Perhaps no one could.


    But he sure as hell was going to fight it.


    Steeling himself, stoking his magic, he turned, gripped Requar''s head again, and went back in.


    He was afraid that he wouldn''t be able to find the memory again, but his fear was needless.


    It was right there, in front of him.


    Right where he had left it.


    Somewhere in the background he could feel the trigon returning; slowly, slowly through Requar''s mind, like viscous ink, but he ignored it.


    Once again, he was back in the icy entrance hall of the white castle.


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    He walked over and knelt on the cold floor in his shadow, surrounded by the flickering colours of his own aura, and watched the scene play out again.


    Once again, he felt Requar''s overwhelming sadness mingled with his own anguish and regret. Once again, he grabbed the dagger as his brother tried to take his own life, and once again, told him lies as he lay dying. Lies so passionate that Requar could not fail to believe them.


    And when the memory ended, he returned and did it again.


    And again.


    He continued reliving the scene, over and over, until he started to believe it himself.


    A lie told often enough was indistinguishable from the truth.


    And at last, after an eternity of time, it did, indeed, become true.


    Arzath walked numbly over to his shadow, and fell to his knees on the frosted marble floor. He felt sorrow and pain wash over him, the only things left in all of existence. He turned to look at his brother, kneeling beside him, shoulders slumped, long white hair trailing down his back, eyes ruined, face streaked with blood and tears. Saw him pick a blade up off the floor.


    But this time, it was not the trigonic dagger.


    This time, Requar held the Sword of Healing in his hand, sapphire hilt sparkling, blade shining like moonlight on water.


    And he turned the blade in his hand, and ran himself through with it.


    Arzath released his hold on Requar''s mind. When the darkness cleared from his vision, he realised that the room was lighter than it had been. The sky outside the window was softening to a lavender colour.


    Dawn was about to break over the mountains.


    The room swayed as he turned his head, and his vision was blurred and fuzzy around the edges. But he could see Flint sitting on a chair opposite him, leaning over the bed, staring intently at something.


    Arzath looked down.


    The Sword of Healing still lay upon Requar''s chest, his brother''s hands still wrapped around the hilt.


    But now, the Sword was glowing.


    Eyes widening, Arzath bent closer.


    Yes. It was not a trick of the light or his failing eyesight. There was a very faint, delicate, but definite blue light sliding down the length of the blade.


    He smiled, and then began to laugh. ¡°Yes!¡± he panted. ¡°Yes!¡±


    He laughed, and his laughter followed him into unconsciousness.


    * * *


    A large crowd had gathered outside the gates to Sunsee.


    Commander Wen Tarrow of the Blue Watch was irritable. He stalked around the edges of the throng, and sometimes through it, his long, shining halberd held before him in both hands. He was finding it increasingly difficult to resist lopping someone''s head off with it. Beneath his polished armour he was soaked in sweat from the oppressive afternoon heat. His blue cloak dragged at his back.


    All day he had been yelling at these people to move along, but everyone was ignoring him.


    He gritted his teeth.


    The merchants, he could understand. They had goods to deliver. But half of the people gathered here were simply sightseers, come to collect gossip about the King, rather than any real concern about His Majesty''s wellbeing.


    ¡°Move along!¡± he yelled again, giving the nearest person a shove, just because he could. ¡°The City of Sunsee is closed at this time!¡±


    Ever since King Neodine had arrived in Sunsee the previous evening, hastened to the infirmary on horseback, the city had been in lockdown. Personally, Tarrow did not believe the allegation of an attempted assassination by sorcery: he found the notion absurd. It was more likely to have been a tragic, freak weather event. He did not believe that any sorcerers had existed for decades. It was disappointing to hear that Coastland folk were just as superstitious and irrational as their vagabond Outland cousins.


    However, Commander Tarrow took his job seriously, and if there was even the merest sniff of a sinister plot afoot, he would do everything in his power to ensure the King''s safety.


    If that meant closing the entire city until some real facts could be established, so be it.


    He was glad that the Darorian Army shared his opinion. Soldiers were at this moment patrolling the streets and guarding the infirmary, along with the Watch.


    ¡°Only those with urgent business may enter!¡± he yelled, pushing himself through the middle of the crowd. ¡°The rest of you: move along!¡±


    He was standing in the space that he had cleared, glaring around him, when a figure in white approached, leading a chestnut horse. Tarrow took in her uniform at a glance; white with gold trim, a stiff, curving headdress and the royal emblem on her left breast.


    His eyebrows raised. It was one of the King''s personal medical retainers.


    ¡°My lady,¡± he said, bowing.


    ¡°I have urgent business here,¡± the woman said curtly. ¡°I must attend to the King.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Tarrow replied at once, then hesitated. ¡°Apologies, my lady,¡± he said, ¡°but I must inspect your satchel. It is protocol.¡±


    The woman''s face was young, but her grey glare could melt stone. Tarrow swallowed. Something about those eyes was disturbingly familiar, but he couldn''t place it.


    Sighing with impatience, the woman opened her satchel. Tarrow stepped forward and peered inside. It was filled with various jars and vials of herbs and other unidentifiable substances. He pulled one out and examined it.


    ¡°If the King dies,¡± the woman told him angrily, ¡°while we are out here fussing about, let it be on your head.¡±


    ¡°O-of course,¡± Tarrow answered, hastily stuffing the mysterious jar back into the satchel, glass clinking. He had no idea what was in it, but it wasn''t his place to question a healer who was here to save the King''s life.


    Spinning on his heel, he strode forward, shoving people out of his way. ¡°Move aside!¡± he yelled. ¡°Make way!¡±


    Reaching the gates, he rapped on the door with his halberd. ¡°Open up! Official healer for the King!¡±


    There was a rattle of the locks being thrown back, and the door opened. Tarrow stepped aside.


    The woman paused before entering, and turned to him. ¡°There are refugees at the crossroad to Tulstan,¡± she told him. ¡°They are in need of aid.¡±


    ¡°I will see to it at once,¡± Tarrow replied.


    The woman gave him another of her mountain-rock stares. ¡°See to it that you do.¡±


    Then she disappeared through the door, leading her horse.


    Tarrow frowned as the door closed behind her. He was sure he had seen that woman somewhere before, and not in the King''s entourage. Something bothered him about her. A gut feeling...


    He spent the rest of his evening duty trying to figure it out.


    Grisket Trice sat on a white stone bench on the boulevard above the sea wall, looking out over the small, sandy bay where Aari had been laid to rest. Before him, the ocean spread out like a glassy, endless mirror, the air sticky and still. The sky was hazy, filled with sea mist. Opposite him, the sun was dying; a huge, red, baleful eye, staining the entire sky crimson, as though an Aegis covered the entire world.


    Perhaps it does, he pondered cheerlessly. Perhaps we are all prisoners.


    A little further to the north-west, the real Aegis had disappeared into the haze.


    At least, Grisket hoped it was just the haze that had caused it to vanish from sight.


    He felt tired, and drained of all purpose. His right leg was still splinted, stuck out uselessly in front of him on the sand-dusted cobblestones. It was mending, slowly, the healers had told him, but he would never again be able to use it properly.


    He gritted his teeth. The loss of his leg did not bother him as much as the loss of Aari and Sirannor did. His friend''s lives were not replaceable, were not a part of him that he could learn to live without.


    And perhaps now Hawk and Ferrian had gone to join them.


    Without him.


    Bitterly, he reflected that he had broken every promise that he had ever made. He had not helped Ferrian. He had not looked after Aari, as he ensured Mekka he would. His two young sons were gone. They''d never had a chance to return to Skywater, to snag that huge fish they had tried so hard to catch...


    He had failed to fix the wagon, when it had broken down on the road. He had promised his wife that they''d be on their way again in no time.


    Then the sorcerer had come, and everything had fallen apart.


    He closed his eyes. Now even the Outlands were in imminent danger. When the Dragons broke free of their thousand-year prison, there would be chaos. There would be vengeance, he had no doubt of that. He had sworn to protect people, but now he was no longer capable of fighting. No longer capable of standing on his own, even.


    Now, he could do nothing.


    When he opened his eyes, he became aware of someone watching him from a few yards away, to his left. He looked up.


    A woman stood there, quietly, in the red light of the sun, maintaining a respectful distance. She wore a practical riding outfit; brown leather pants and boots, and a leather vest over a dark maroon blouse that complemented her stunning bright red hair, which fell loose about her shoulders.


    She looked like an incarnation of the setting sun itself.


    And her eyes¡­ they were just like Sirannor''s, but with a fiery glint to them, like newly forged steel.


    Carmine.


    Sirannor, Grisket thought to himself ruefully, how could you possibly have rejected a daughter so beautiful?


    He reassured the woman with a gesture that she was permitted to approach. Picking up his crutch, he struggled to his feet.


    ¡°I''m glad to finally meet you, Commander,¡± Carmine said softly.


    ¡°Likewise,¡± Grisket replied, shaking her hand in greeting. Then he shook his head. ¡°Your father is an idiot.¡±


    Carmine raised an eyebrow. ¡°An idiot in a new, interesting way that I''m not aware of, or just the usual, stubborn Sirannor?¡±


    ¡°For distancing himself from you,¡± Grisket answered, lowering himself gingerly back onto the bench, and waving her to take a seat beside him.


    She did so. ¡°Really?¡± she replied drily, folding her arms. ¡°I could have told you that!¡±


    They fell into silence for a moment, and Carmine''s face became serious. She leaned forward on her knees, staring down at her hands clasped before her. ¡°I''m sorry about your Sergeant,¡± she told him sincerely. ¡°Hawk told me what happened.¡±


    Grisket did not look at her, just nodded, wordlessly accepting her condolences. After a moment, he changed the subject. ¡°Did you manage to find out anything about what has happened to Sirannor?¡±


    The young woman stared out at the darkening sea. ¡°I hung around the Watch House for awhile,¡± she replied. ¡°But I didn''t overhear anything interesting.¡± She scowled. ¡°They were all talking about the King.¡±


    Grisket scowled, as well.


    ¡°But...¡± a small smile crept onto her face. ¡°The soldiers were more useful. Some of Hawk''s friends were willing to talk with me. They were fairly certain that a prisoner was transferred onto one of the supply ships heading for the Middle Isle.¡±


    Grisket''s scowl darkened further. ¡°Just as we suspected, then,¡± he muttered. ¡°General Dreikan has taken him.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ for what reason?¡±


    The Commander shook his head. ¡°Nothing good.¡±


    Carmine stared at him, perplexed.


    ¡°Sirannor and Dreikan have been enemies for a long time,¡± he explained. ¡°The General isn''t satisfied with the Captain simply being imprisoned for the rest of his life. He wants revenge. He wishes Sirannor to die¡­ but not just to die. He is trying to destroy the man''s reputation as well, to ensure he is remembered as a despicable villain, not a hero. Not someone worthy of the admiration that he himself wasn''t ever able to achieve.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡± Carmine insisted, ¡°why? I know they have a history, but what happened between them that would cause General Dreikan to hate my father so badly?¡±


    Grisket saw the frustration in her eyes, and felt sorry for her. But he could not tell her; he would not break yet another promise. He had precious few of them left.


    He merely shook his head sadly. ¡°It isn''t for me to say, lass,¡± he told her.


    Carmine slumped back angrily against the seat, sighing. ¡°Does everyone know except for me??¡±


    Grisket remained quiet, watching the last rays of the sun slowly disappear, just as he had watched the embers from Aari''s pyre fade away on the same water. ¡°Are you sure you want to know the truth?¡± he asked after awhile. He shook his head. ¡°Sometimes, it''s better to remain ignorant.¡±


    Of course, he knew that Carmine would never accept such an answer, that it would do nothing but stoke the fire inside of her, make her more determined. But he felt it ought to be said, regardless.


    Sirannor''s daughter did not reply. Instead, she stood up. To his surprise, there was a smile on her lips.


    He frowned. ¡°What do you intend to do?¡±


    Carmine stood staring out at the shadowed ocean, her grey eyes directed to the misty horizon where the distant Aegis lay hidden. ¡°I intend,¡± she said, ¡°to get him back!¡±

 Chapter Sixty Three

    Through the trees, a darkened dream


    Shadows stalking through the green.


    The forest of Arkana rose around the three travellers, enclosing them in its mammoth, multi-fingered fist. With the grey sky lurking sullenly above, and the thick canopy, little light filtered down to ground level, leaving them wrapped in murky, cold twilight.


    It was like entering another world. Ferrian had never seen trees so huge, or even imagine that living things could grow to such impressive heights. Even if he craned his head all the way back, he could not see the tops of them. The trunks were gnarled and unfathomably ancient, wide as houses. In many places it was not clear where one tree ended and another began. And here also, like the rocks in the Tentaryl Ranges, strange magic was in evidence; some of the trees were warped into impossible shapes. There was plant life that neither Ferrian or Hawk had ever seen before, and some of it was disturbingly animal-like. Weird bird song echoed hauntingly through the towering, living pillars, while a few persistent snowflakes found their way down through the maze of leaves.


    The old highway continued straight ahead through the forest, though instantly became so overgrown that it could not be seen. So dense was the undergrowth that it was impassable. Hawk took the lead, hacking at the vegetation with his sword to clear a path. After exerting himself this way for some time, and cursing a lot in the process, yet only gaining them a few yards, Ferrian took over with the Sword of Frost.


    The Sword cut through everything in its path with ease, and they proceeded much more quickly.


    Ferrian marvelled at the way the Sword froze the plants instantly as it sliced through them, so that it felt more like smashing ice than slashing bushes. It also left a shimmering trail of silvery light through the air as he swung it. Guiltily, he found that he was enjoying himself.


    They had opted to leave the horses behind in the clearing just inside the gates, as attempting to ride them through the impenetrable thicket was futile.


    Mekka walked at the rear, explaining that his dark silhouette would be spotted too easily if he flew above the canopy. He told them that they need not fear any Angel guards down here; Angels rarely ventured into the forest on foot. Their city of Fleetfleer floated high above the ground, suspended by the same magic that they had encountered in the mountains which had produced hovering islands of rock. Most of Fleetfleer was situated above the treetops, inaccessible to Humans and other ground-based races.


    Grath Ardan was unique, he said, in that it was constructed entirely underground.


    ¡°Although, I suspect it was not built by Angels,¡± he said contemplatively as they walked, ¡°but a much older race, that is now extinct and forgotten.¡±


    He jumped and plucked a couple of peculiar fruit from an overhanging branch, and took a bite out of one of them.


    ¡°You''re unusually chipper today,¡± Hawk observed.


    The Angel shrugged, and smiled. ¡°I am illegally infiltrating my own country. What''s not to like?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Hawk replied drily. ¡°I thought you hated this place?¡±


    Mekka shook his head, tossing the other fruit to Hawk. ¡°I do not hate Arkana. Merely the people who live here.¡±


    Hawk eyed the fruit suspiciously. ¡°Fair enough. Though with respect,¡± he said, looking around, ¡°this forest makes me nervous.¡± He gestured at the plant life around them, some of which appeared to be actually shying away from Ferrian''s Sword. ¡°I swear these plants are moving.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Mekka glanced around as well. ¡°Oh. Yes,¡± he waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Do not mind them. They are harmless.¡±


    ¡°No, seriously,¡± Hawk insisted, pointing. ¡°That one is definitely creeping me out.¡±


    On a tree beside them sat a head-sized plant with eight long, green, vine-like tendrils that radiated outwards like a spider''s legs. It''s ''body'' consisted of a clump of fern fronds.


    ¡°I''m sure that thing has been following us since we entered the forest.¡±


    ¡°Hawk,¡± Mekka sighed. ¡°It''s a plant. A weed.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, a weed that''s stalking us!¡± He drew his sword, then looked at both of his companions in turn. ¡°Does anyone mind if I kill it?¡±


    ¡°The greenweavers will not attack a living person,¡± Mekka assured him patiently. ¡°They are scavengers. They live on corpses.¡±


    ¡°Umm¡­¡± Ferrian said slowly, having stopped on the path. ¡°Mekka¡­ there''s a lot of them...¡±


    They turned around, noticing that Ferrian was right. A swarm of the green spider-like plants was crawling towards them over the trunks of the trees.


    It was as though every plant in the forest had suddenly grown legs.


    ¡°Ah,¡± Mekka said, holding up a finger. ¡°Correction. Not harmless to Ferrian.¡±


    Hawk and Ferrian raised their swords. Mekka''s sinister silver spike shinged out of its hidden sheath in his sleeve.


    One of the spider-things leapt.


    Mekka spun and impaled it.


    Then the rest of them surged forward.


    Ferrian and Hawk swung.


    Tinkling pieces of ice showered around Ferrian as he slashed the plant creatures out of mid-air, but there were too many of them, coming too fast. Tendrils whipped around his body and before he knew what was happening, he was overwhelmed, smothered in green fronds.


    He went down.


    Mekka and Hawk rushed towards Ferrian, furiously hacking spider-plants away from him.


    ¡°Dammit!¡± Hawk cried, trying to rip the tendrils off with his free hand, but they were wrapped tight and hard as steel wire, and more of them kept piling on. He cut at the vines with his sword.


    Mekka dealt with the last of the wave and knelt to assist Hawk. His silvertine spike was far sharper than Hawk''s steel, and sliced through the plants effortlessly.


    There were a lot of them to get through, however.


    They were almost through the last of the vines when Mekka became aware of an unnatural dark shadow in front of them. He looked up, then rose to his feet at once, standing protectively over Ferrian.


    Hawk glanced up as well, then also leapt to his feet, sword raised.


    Three Murons stood around them, blacker than night, slanted yellow eyes lantern-like in the gloom; one in front, one behind them and one to their right.


    ¡°Murons!¡± Hawk gasped. ¡°What are they doing here?!¡±


    Mekka did not take his eye off the creature in front of him. ¡°They live here,¡± he answered quietly.


    ¡°They¡­ they what??¡± Hawk turned to him, aghast. ¡°You didn''t think this was something worth mentioning earlier?!¡±


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    ¡°They have not been seen in this forest for decades,¡± the Angel went on. ¡°They abandoned Arkana for some unknown reason. There was no reason to believe they would have returned.¡±


    ¡°How did they get through the Aegis?¡±


    ¡°You conveniently left an entrance for usss,¡± the Muron in front of them rasped in its soft voice, amused. ¡°We mussst thank you.¡±


    Beside him, Mekka heard Hawk muttering curses and something about Dragons not being able to fit through¡­


    The Muron ahead of them stalked with slow steps towards Mekka, yellow eyes boring into him. ¡°You are sssmart, little Angel,¡± it whispered. ¡°You know much.¡± It lifted a long talon and pointed at him. ¡°You possssesss but one eye, yet you sssee better than mossst.¡±


    Mekka returned the creature''s stare unflinchingly. ¡°Only three of you?¡± he murmured. ¡°Is this all that is left of your race?¡±


    The Muron regarded him, eyes narrowing, reptilian head turning slowly from side to side. ¡°No,¡± it replied finally. ¡°There are othersss...¡±


    ¡°But not many?¡±


    The Muron studied him for another long moment. ¡°Not many,¡± it agreed. ¡°We wisssh to increassse our numberssss.¡±


    A warning shiver passed up Mekka''s back, quivering his feathers. Moving his head slightly to the side, he caught a glimpse of another Muron standing directly behind him.


    He forced himself to remain calm and still as he felt the creature gently stroke his right wing with its talons.


    ¡°Your wingsss,¡± it whispered. ¡°Ssso black...¡±


    A moment later, it lifted its other hand and ran its claws down his left wing, very delicately. ¡°Ssso pretty...¡±


    He felt it lean in close to him, its long head right beside his ear, black teeth close to his neck, breath rancid against his skin. ¡°You could be¡­¡± it suggested, ¡°one of usss...¡±


    ¡°Uh-oh,¡± Hawk warned from beside him. ¡°That was the wrong thing to say...¡±


    Mekka''s green eye hardened and narrowed, the skin on his face tightening.


    His gloved hands clenched into fists.


    Then he spun, dropping into a crouch, and plunged his silver spike into the Muron''s gut.


    The Muron screamed and slashed at him, but its claws raked empty air.


    Mekka rolled and slashed upwards at the creature''s back, but the Muron was fast ¨C almost as fast as he was ¨C and parried with a backhand blow. Mekka rolled away again, ducking the second blow, and came to his feet in time to slice open the Muron''s arm.


    The Muron screamed in rage and came for him. Mekka leapt upwards and soared away into the branches of the nearest tree.


    Below, the third, silent Muron attacked Hawk. Mekka watched him parry the blows until the wounded Muron landed on his branch, forcing him to leap backwards.


    Mekka half-crouched on another branch, silver spike outwards. The Muron hissed at him, black blood oozing from its injuries. Mekka knew he would need to pierce its brain to kill it, however. The clashing sound of Hawk''s battle rang out from the path below.


    Mekka gritted his teeth. Hawk''s sword was no use against these creatures. And Ferrian¡­


    The Muron lunged at him. Mekka dodged its claws but it lashed out immediately with a fierce kick, which Mekka was slightly too slow to avoid. The blow caught him in the chest as he dodged the wrong way, knocking the wind out of him and slamming him backwards into another branch.


    He threw himself at the trunk as he fell and his spike caught, stopping his plunge to the ground. The Muron''s jaws snapped towards him and he pushed himself away with a grunt, just missing them.


    Recovering his breath in mid-air, he flapped upwards, landing on another branch and hopping from one to another, ducking through the interweaving stems until he rounded the tree and once again had a view of the scene below.


    Ferrian was gone.


    As was the first Muron.


    Mekka cursed.


    A hissing sound caused him to spin, slashing as he did so, and he was rewarded with another enraged shriek. Blood streamed down the Muron''s scales in a rippling black wave from a long gash across its chest.


    It raked at him.


    Mekka impaled its hand on his spike.


    The Muron narrowed its eyes, curled its claws around the metal and tried to throw Mekka from the tree, but the Angel was prepared for this reaction. He withdrew his spike just as the Muron pulled, causing the creature to wobble off balance.


    He used the opening to thrust at its head.


    The Muron lunged at him with its jaws at the last second, but it was too slow. The spike rammed through the side of its jaw and continued upwards, through its head.


    Mekka held his pose, panting as the Muron convulsed, then let the body slide off his spike and fall to the ground.


    ¡°Hawk!¡± he yelled as he jumped on to the outward branch again.


    Below, the Freeroamer was struggling valiantly with his own Muron, but was tiring. ¡°Go!¡± he cried back. ¡°Go after Ferrian! Hurry!¡±


    Mekka hesitated.


    ¡°Go, Mekka!¡±


    The Angel threw himself off the branch and sped through the dark trees.


    Hawk parried a swipe, ducked as the Muron''s jaws came at him, and swung his sword upwards. The blade glanced off the creature''s head. He dodged backwards, jumping as the Muron swiped a leg out, trying to trip him.


    It almost succeeded.


    Hawk stumbled backwards, panting heavily. His movements were becoming slower with exhaustion. No matter how hard or fast he struck at the Muron, his blade could not not penetrate those rock-hard obsidian scales. There was hardly any space for a fight, either. The clearing had been widened somewhat with all the slashing and fighting, but thick bushes lined the path on either side. If Hawk got snagged in them, it would be the end of him.


    With an effort, he parried another flurry of blows, and dodged aside. The Muron could tell that he was weakening and was pressing hard. It lashed out, snake-fast, and caught him another gash across his upper arm, to add to his growing collection.


    I''m not going to survive this, Hawk thought with dismay.


    One laceration traced the line of his jaw: he could feel blood trickling down his neck, leaking beneath his uniform.


    The yellow eyes mocked him. The black creature wasn''t even injured, or tired at all.


    Hawk gritted his teeth.


    Mekka could take these things down, but Mekka had a supremely sharp weapon. Obviously, ordinary steel was useless¡­


    And then, Hawk remembered the Sword of Frost.


    He feinted at the Muron, giving him a second to glance around.


    There it was. Ferrian''s Sword lay on the ground where he had dropped it: a glimmer of silver in the midst of the shredded vegetation.


    With an angry cry, Hawk swung his blade recklessly upwards, directly at the Muron''s face. The creature grabbed it with both taloned hands, and ripped it out of Hawk''s grip.


    Hawk let it take his weapon. He ducked and rolled under the Muron''s huge black wing, and ran for the Sword.


    He could feel the Muron right behind him, could imagine its long, vicious claws reaching for his back¡­


    Desperately, he lunged for the Sword.


    His hand closed around the hilt.


    He rolled onto his back, swinging the silver blade with all his might¡­


    The Sword cleaved right through the Muron, black blood and entrails spraying everywhere, covering Hawk in a hot, stinking gush. The two halves of the creature fell to either side of him.


    Hawk froze where he was for a long moment, gasping for breath, as the pieces twitched beside him.


    Then he lay back on the ground in relief.


    Mekka raced through the dark forest, flying hard. Night was approaching and the light was fading quickly, but he could hear the faint thump of the Muron''s wings in the silence, and he had an advantage: he knew where it was going.


    The same place they were all going.


    Grath Ardan.


    The Angel weaved through the trees, dodging overhanging branches, until he caught a glimpse of the Muron in the distance, a blacker shade of black against the misty gloom. The creature was swift, but it was carrying a body, which slowed it down.


    Mekka was faster.


    He banked around a tree and caught up with it. The Muron swerved abruptly to the left.


    Mekka followed.


    He gained on it, positioning himself above the creature, spike pointed downwards, but just as he was about do drop onto its back, the Muron suddenly rolled in the air. He dodged the Muron''s wing, only to find Ferrian''s body slamming into him.


    He tumbled away.


    He rolled into a somersault mid-air and righted himself, feet cushioning his impact on the trunk of a tree, then pushed himself off and sped after the Muron.


    This time, he broke away just as he reached the creature, swooping into the trees and flying parallel to the Muron.


    It sneered at him through gaps in the trunks.


    Mekka sped up.


    He flew fast, missing branches by a feather''s breath, wind rushing over his body and sleek wings. He flew like a dart, piercing the darkness, intent on his target.


    Then his wings snapped open as he suddenly changed direction. He alighted on a branch and crouched there, bow in hand, arrow pulled back¡­


    The Muron came into view.


    Mekka released the arrow.


    He was rewarded with a shriek and the sight of the shaft protruding from its eye. The Muron faltered and went down, but to his dismay, it recovered and did not drop the body. Still, the distraction was a brief opportunity...


    Mekka threw himself onto the Muron''s back.


    The back of the thing''s skull was protected by a cluster of long horns. Mekka shoved his spike into its neck, instead.


    The Muron gargled, but kept flying.


    He stabbed it again.


    The Muron rolled onto its side, and Mekka looked up to see it was heading fast into a tree. He leapt off as the creature crashed into the trunk.


    It dropped a few feet but recovered, great wings thumping the air. Leaking blood and half-stunned, still it tried to attack him, jaws wide¡­


    Mekka ducked beneath it and shoved his arm forward, driving his spike upwards through the roof of its mouth and out the top of its head.


    The Muron released Ferrian.


    Mekka withdrew his spike into his sleeve and dropped, catching the boy, spreading his wings to slow their descent. They tumbled downwards and smashed through the undergrowth, hitting the ground hard. A bolt of pain lanced through Mekka''s shoulder.


    He lay there for a moment, recovering, his nostrils filled with the fragrant aroma of crushed plants. He had heard the thump of the Muron''s body hitting the ground along with them. It was dead.


    Wincing, he pushed himself up and attended to Ferrian, slicing away the last of the vines that bound him.


    Ferrian was still conscious, and struggled when the vines allowed him enough movement to do so. The boy ripped the remainder of the plant-spiders off him and threw them away from him furiously.


    ¡°Why do those Murons keep trying to kidnap me?!¡± he yelled.


    Mekka did not reply, just stood up. His entire body ached and weariness was starting to claim him. ¡°Wait here,¡± he told Ferrian. ¡°Hawk is in trouble. I have to go back and help him.¡±


    At the boy''s troubled look, and realising that he no longer had his Sword to defend himself with, Mekka produced a match tin and bottle of alcohol, and handed them over. ¡°Light a fire,¡± he advised. ¡°Burn anything that comes close.¡±


    ¡°But...¡±


    The Angel disappeared into the darkness.

 Chapter Sixty Four

    In the night a story told


    The one that fled and now is cold.


    Ferrian sat in the darkness, on the edge of the flickering firelight, as close to the heat as he could bear. He had made up a couple of torches, as well, soaked in alcohol and ready to be lit the instant anything even looked like it was going to leap out of the shadows at him.


    The spider-things were back. He could see them, creeping about just outside the circle of light; could hear the faint, whispering rustle as they moved. They did not approach him however, keeping well back from the fire. They seemed to be congregating at the base of one of the huge trees, presumably where the Muron corpse had fallen.


    Good, Ferrian thought fiercely. Let them eat that thing, not me!


    Sitting there in the eerie silence, beneath the looming trees, with strange things scuttling around him in the darkness, Ferrian felt gut-wrenchingly helpless and alone. It wasn''t the possibility of death that scared him ¨C that had already come to pass, although he wasn''t keen on being slowly digested while still conscious by some plant thing, or carried off by Murons for Gods-knew-what purpose.


    But he was mortally afraid for his friends.


    Mekka had been gone a long time, and Hawk was still out there, somewhere. Ferrian had no way of knowing whether they were lying dead somewhere or not. He couldn''t stand just sitting here, waiting for them.


    He stared miserably into the shadows. He had even dropped his damned Sword again!


    His hands curled into fists. He was sick and tired of feeling so useless! If those stupid spider-plants hadn''t attacked him, he could have defended himself against the Muron easily. He would have sliced its horrid head off...


    Instead, he was forced to lie there, immobilised, listening helplessly to everything happening around him. The entire time he''d been tangled up in those vines, he had contemplated summoning the Winter, but had not been able to bring himself to do it. His friends had been too close.


    Gritting his teeth in frustration, he resented the Winter''s lack of subtlety. Either he summoned it, and all hell broke loose, or he did nothing, and sit around hoping to be rescued.


    Neither option was acceptable.


    And he was fed up with being captured, fed up with his friends putting their lives in danger to try and get him back¡­


    What do those Murons WANT with me?!


    Had they tracked him all the way from the valley? It was an appalling thought, but it was possible. If true, it meant they no longer needed Arzath, or, more likely, the sorcerer was now useless to them. So they had come after Ferrian instead...


    Obviously, they wanted his magic for some foul purpose that Ferrian could not fathom. He did not want to know, and he was definitely not going to give it to them.


    The next time a Muron touched him, he WOULD summon the Winter, and rip it to shreds¡­


    If he managed to get his Sword back, he vowed that he would never lose it again.


    Some time later ¨C Ferrian reckoned that it must be near dawn, though inky blackness still pooled around the trees ¨C he was sitting in the same place by the fire, staring dejectedly into the shadows, when he heard a thrashing sound from behind him.


    Leaping to his feet at once, he thrust a torch into the flames and spun.


    Something silvery flashed in the shadows, reflecting the firelight. A few moments later, a figure materialised behind it.


    It was so covered in black blood and filth that it took Ferrian several seconds to recognise that it was Hawk.


    The Freeroamer stumbled into the clearing, wobbling on his feet. ¡°Finally...¡± he sighed. He tossed Ferrian the Sword of Frost. ¡°Cool sword,¡± he said, then staggered over to the fire and slumped down in front of it.


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Ferrian gasped. Then he turned and searched the darkness, but no one else appeared.


    ¡°Wait¡­ where''s Mekka?¡±


    Hawk lifted his head with an effort. He frowned at Ferrian, then looked around. ¡°Mekka? I thought he was here?¡±


    ¡°Here? He told me he was going to help you!¡±


    Hawk shook his head. ¡°Haven''t seen him since he went after you,¡± he replied.


    ¡°Oh no...¡±


    Hawk fell onto his back on the ground, and closed his eyes. ¡°I wouldn''t worry,¡± he murmured. ¡°He does this sometimes...¡±


    ¡°Does what? Disappears without telling anyone?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    Ferrian frowned anxiously.


    ¡°Look,¡± Hawk sighed. ¡°He probably found me, saw that my head was still attached to my body, was bitterly disappointed, and flew away.¡±


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Ferrian exclaimed. ¡°Don''t joke! He could be out there injured or¡­ worse...¡±


    ¡°Kid,¡± Hawk pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing. ¡°You didn''t see what he did to that Muron back there. If anything is going to get Mekka, it sure as hell ain''t a Muron.¡±


    When Ferrian still looked concerned, Hawk went on, ¡°Mekka knows this forest. He probably knows it better than anyone. He''ll be all right.¡±


    Ferrian nodded reluctantly. Hawk''s words were reassuring, but worry still played havoc with his dead insides. Snuffing his torch out in the dirt, he sat down slowly, facing outwards into the darkness.


    He hoped that Mekka was all right.


    Dawn came grudgingly, as though it resented making the effort, but eventually, grey light began filtering down through the high canopy. A chorus of peculiar birdsong broke out with it, like an ode to the gloom.


    Ferrian maintained the fire, sat in silence, or paced around the clearing restlessly. Hawk had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Ferrian envied him. He never felt tired any more, or the urge to sleep, though he could ¨C sort of ¨C if he really tried. Or at least, he could go into the white space inside his head, the one with the crystal, where the Dragon lived¡­ but he did not like going there any more.


    The Dragon could no longer be trusted. He did not like her taking over his body without his knowledge, forcing him to use magic or manipulating his thoughts. After what had happened with the Winter, he needed to be more careful; he needed to retain control of himself.


    She no longer sang to him, remaining quiet and hidden, somewhere in the depths of his mind.


    Ferrian preferred to stay awake, instead.


    Hawk slept until well after what Ferrian guessed to be midday: he couldn''t be sure in the misty half-light.


    Mekka had still not returned.


    Ferrian took a torch, his Sword and one of the cooking pots and ventured off the path in search of a stream. After awhile, he found one. Giant butterfly-like fungi were gathered around it, growing on the enormous roots of the trees.


    Ferrian approached them warily, reaching out and poking one with his Sword.


    Thankfully, it did not move.


    He gathered water and followed his slashed trail back to the clearing, and almost dropped the pot in surprise.


    Mekka was sitting there, beside the fire, as though he''d never been gone.


    ¡°Where¡­ where were you?¡± Ferrian exclaimed.


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    ¡°Around,¡± the Angel replied vaguely.


    Ferrian noticed that a change had come over him. Mekka did not appear to be particularly injured, at least as far as he could see, but the Angel had withdrawn back into his old self, brooding and gloomy, saying little.


    With great discomfort, Ferrian set the pot onto the fire to warm and retreated quickly to the cold fringe of the clearing, shaking Hawk awake as he went.


    ¡°Told you,¡± Hawk said, giving him a groggy smile as he awoke.


    Ferrian sat down again by the bushes, but still felt that something wasn''t right.


    They continued their journey after Hawk had cleaned himself up and tended to his wounds, which fortunately were not too serious, and after Hawk and Mekka had eaten a little. The Freeroamer took the lead once more, this time with the Sword of Frost in hand.


    Mekka resumed his place at the rear of their party, but lagged a little further behind than he had previously. Every time Ferrian looked back to check on him, the Angel was staring aside into the trees, or at the ground, and would not meet his gaze.


    Ferrian frowned.


    As evening fell and the gloom began to deepen, they searched around for a suitable clearing to make camp for the night. They found one beneath an almost perfect circular hole in the canopy. Snowflakes drifted gently downwards and the clouds had thinned to permit a weak, watery moonlight which made the carpet of snow glow softly.


    Hawk went off to find some kindling to make a fire, leaving Mekka and Ferrian alone in the clearing.


    Mekka turned to wander off into the trees as well, but Ferrian stopped him.


    ¡°Mekka.¡±


    The Angel paused on the edge of the clearing.


    ¡°I¡­ uh¡­ need to ask you something.¡±


    Mekka said nothing, waiting for him to continue.


    Ferrian swallowed. In the twilight, with those intensely black wings, he did look rather scary. But being called a Muron by an actual Muron was a few steps above Hawk''s joke, and could not have been an easy thing to hear.


    He suppressed a shudder.


    ¡°It''s...¡± he took a deep breath. ¡°It''s about Aari.¡±


    Mekka was a statue. After a long moment, he half-turned, slowly. Ferrian noticed that it was his blind eye that he turned.


    ¡°When you two were young,¡± Ferrian went on, ¡°Aari said that you talked about leaving Arkana together. But one day, you just left without him.¡± He hesitated. ¡°You¡­ you never told him why.¡±


    A deep silence fell. Mekka stood there so long that he could have been one of the trees. Then he turned away, and Ferrian was certain that he was simply going to stalk off into the trees, but he turned, all the way this time, though still could not look at Ferrian. Very slowly, he crouched in the snow, and placed his forehead against his clasped hands.


    ¡°I could not tell him,¡± he said, so softly that it was almost a whisper.


    Ferrian came forward a few steps. ¡°But¡­ why? He was your best friend. You could have told him anything.¡±


    Mekka shook his head, eye closed. ¡°That is why,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡­ did not want to hurt him.¡±


    ¡°It seems you hurt him anyway.¡±


    A look of great distress came upon Mekka''s face. He swallowed several times, as though struggling to hold back his emotions. Finally, he took a deep breath to compose himself. ¡°Sit down,¡± he told Ferrian.


    Ferrian did so, slowly.


    Mekka lowered himself to the ground as well, resting his arms on his knees. He was quiet for several moments more, apparently trying to decide what to say, or how best to say it. Snowflakes settled on his dark hair, and stuck to his feathers. Finally, he began to speak.


    ¡°When I was an infant,¡± he said, ¡°my mother tried to murder me.¡±


    Ferrian went still in shock, but said nothing.


    ¡°Black feathers are unusual colouring for an Angel,¡± he went on. ¡°So rare, in fact, that it is seen as a sign of evil. Black is trigon. Black is corruption. Black is a hated colour.


    ¡°Angels are a highly superstitious people. Perhaps even more so than Humans. They are very fond of prophecies, portents of doom, that kind of thing. They take them seriously.¡±


    Mekka paused for a moment. ¡°There is a particular prophecy, a famous one, that tells of a black-winged Angel bringing destruction to Arkana.¡±


    He closed his eye. ¡°My mother was one of those who believed in this. So you see, when I was born, she hated and feared me at once. She was unable to see me as her son, her eyes saw only black feathers and they terrified her. I was nothing but a foul, corrupted thing that had to be gotten rid of.


    ¡°So she took me to the Holy Tower in the middle of the night, and begged the Syncwarden there to open the Dark Gate and throw me into the pit.¡±


    Ferrian stared at him, horrified.


    Mekka swallowed. ¡°Fortunately for me, I suppose, the Syncwarden at the time was a kind woman, a mother herself. She could not bear the thought of throwing a helpless, newborn child into the endless pit, even a cursed one. However, she understood my mother''s distress. She took me from my mother''s arms and assured her it would be done.


    ¡°Instead, she raised me in secret. Hid me away in a storage room where no one would hear my cries. I spent the first few years of my life knowing nothing of the world but crates and boxes.


    ¡°Of course, her secret was eventually discovered, and she paid the price for it: her family disowned her. In shame, she gave up her position as Keeper of the Gates. I do not know what became of her after that; she disappeared.


    ¡°But by then I was old enough to escape, and I did. I fled into the forest. For a time, people hunted me. It became a kind of sport, both for them and for me. At one point, I believe, there was even a bounty on my head.


    ¡°But I hid amongst the vast trees, and they could not catch me, and eventually everyone lost interest.


    ¡°As I grew older, I became more brazen, and started venturing up into the city. I stole things ¨C food, mostly ¨C but sometimes trinkets or other random items, just because I could. I spied on people, learned their secrets. I lurked about the alleyways and rooftops, only at night, only in shadows, because I was far too conspicuous in daylight against the white stone buildings.


    ¡°And then, one evening, I met Aari.¡±


    Mekka shook his head. ¡°He was the only Angel I ever met that did not hate or fear me, or desire to kill me.


    ¡°Instead, unbelievably, he wanted to be my friend.


    ¡°He was amused at my thievery, and wanted me to show him how to do it. I refused. But he kept following me around. Somehow, he was able to track me down when no one else could.


    ¡°Aari had friends of his own, many of them. He was popular, well-liked. He came from a loving family. I had no idea why he wished to hang around with me.


    ¡°But he also had a fierce rebellious streak. He loved getting into mischief. He was adventurous and daring, as was I. He considered most adults to be pompous and annoying, and Fleetfleer stuffy and boring. We found that we had quite a few things in common.


    ¡°So, I started showing him things. Secret places that I had discovered, in the city and in the forest below.¡±


    Mekka took a deep breath. ¡°One of those places was Grath Ardan.¡±


    He looked off into the trees for a moment, his face pale and haunted, as though the ghosts of that hidden library stalked close around him. ¡°The main entrance to the library is sealed and guarded,¡± he continued quietly. ¡°It lies on the forest floor underneath Fleetfleer. But there is another, secret entry in the forest, under a mossy slab.


    ¡°We went inside; myself, Aari and two of his friends. His friends did not trust me; they had come along out of loyalty to Aari only, and fled almost as soon as we had entered. I think it was not the ancient library that they feared, but me: they thought that I was leading them into a trap.¡±


    Mekka shook his head sadly. ¡°Aari, however¡­ Aari wanted to go on, and yet¡­ he couldn''t. He was excited, but he was terrified. He had never known that he was claustrophobic. It caught him by surprise and disappointed him.


    ¡°He tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, tried to force himself to follow me into the darkness. But he was sweating and shaking, and could not breathe properly. He could barely make his feet move.


    ¡°Finally, he turned back after the others.


    ¡°I stood there with my torch, watching his shame, his embarrassment, his sadness trailing behind him as he went, and I was left to explore Grath Ardan alone.¡±


    Mekka closed his eye for a long moment, lowering his head. ¡°I tried to make it up to him by bringing books out for him to read. They cheered him up immensely. He was fascinated by them; he kept asking me to go back and fetch more.


    ¡°I did so, encouraged by his enthusiasm. We spent many nights hidden away in corners of the city, poring over the books, discussing them, imagining adventures that we could have.


    ¡°Eventually, our conversations turned to speculating on the possibility of leaving Arkana, of running away.¡±


    Mekka took a deep breath. He was shivering a little, though Ferrian knew it was from more than the cold. ¡°But then¡­ I¡­ I was caught.


    ¡°There were guards waiting for me, just inside the secret entrance to Grath Ardan. I suspect that one of Aari''s other friends had told them, revealed its location, perhaps out of jealousy that Aari was spending so much time with me, that I had become his best friend.


    ¡°The guards ambushed me, and this time I could not escape.


    ¡°They¡­¡± Mekka swallowed. ¡°They took me to the Governor''s office. It was late at night, but he was waiting there for me. They took me up the white stone steps and through the gilded doors, and locked them behind us, and made me kneel before the Governor''s polished desk.


    ¡°He looked at me as though I were vermin. He accused me of all manner of crimes, things I had nothing to do with, but he insisted that they were my fault. Major crimes, minor misdemeanours: all my doing. He called me every vile name that he could think of.


    ¡°Then he walked around his desk and hit me in the face with his pudgy, jewelled fist.


    ¡°Then he hit me again.


    ¡°And again.


    ¡°And when he was done hitting me, he ordered his guards to continue.¡±


    Mekka stopped talking, struggling to go on. ¡°I¡­ let them,¡± he continued finally, in a whisper. ¡°I lay there on the floor and let them beat me. I made no effort to fight back. I did not struggle or flinch. Some part of me was glad that they were hurting me, was relieved. I felt that I deserved to be punished.


    ¡°I believed that I was a thing of evil; a freak, an aberration that should have been thrown through the Dark Gate.


    ¡°I believed that there was no place for me in the world, let alone Arkana.¡±


    Tears glimmered on his cheeks in the soft moonlight. ¡°I¡­ woke up at dawn lying at the bottom of the steps in the plaza, covered in blood and¡­¡± he lifted a gloved hand and touched the black patch over his eye, ¡°having lost the vision in my left eye.


    ¡°I¡­¡± he shook his head. ¡°I could not face Aari. I did not want him to see me¡­ disfigured. I did not want him to find out what had happened, because I knew that he would have blamed himself, for asking me to go into Grath Ardan and steal books for him.


    ¡°So¡­ so I fled. I left Arkana without seeing Aari, without talking to him, without saying goodbye.


    ¡°He tracked me down, a year later, found me living in Trystania. He demanded to know why I had left, and what had happened to my eye. I refused to tell him. I made up some excuse about getting into a fight, but I could not bring myself to tell him the truth about why I had left.


    ¡°One day, I lost my temper with him, and he ran away and joined the Freeroamers. I followed him, having a change of heart. I wanted to apologise, to explain everything, but he refused to see me.¡±


    He shook his head, grief-stricken. ¡°He died hating me, thinking that I betrayed him.¡±


    A tear dripped off his chin into the snow. ¡°I don''t know what I''m doing here,¡± he said despondently. ¡°I am worthless. Alone. I have no one. I left behind the greatest friend that I was ever going to have.


    ¡°The Murons were right. I might as well be one of them. I should have¡­ taken up their offer...¡±


    Ferrian felt shattered at his words. ¡°Don''t say that!¡± he said fiercely. ¡°You''re not alone! The whole time you were gone after rescuing me, I was worried about you! And Hawk worries about you too, even though it doesn''t seem like he does! And¡­ and you''re definitely not the only person who feels worthless...¡±


    Mekka lifted his head and met Ferrian''s eyes, at last.


    Hawk paused on the edge of the snowy clearing, arms full of sticks. After a moment, he backed away, very carefully and quietly, and found another clearing to build a fire.


    When, some time later, Ferrian and Mekka wandered out of the shadowy trees, he had a hot bowl of soup ready. He handed it to the Angel wordlessly.


    Ferrian came and sat closer to the fire than he normally did.

 Chapter Sixty Five

    Reddish rocks and burning gloom


    Smile in the face of certain doom.


    The volcanic rock was loose and crumbly under the prisoner''s feet, making his steps awkward. Six guards escorted him; two tightly gripping his arms on either side, and four walking behind, swords drawn and pointing at his back. All of them wore the new black armour, shimmering with a sickly iridescence in the dull red light. Their swords were black as well, and sharper than sharp: they could have cut the very mountains apart.


    Sirannor stared straight ahead as they guided him down the mountain slope. No other prisoner would have required such an extreme escort, but he had attempted to escape multiple times, leaving a trail of broken noses, smashed legs and twisted arms in his wake.


    He allowed himself a faint smile, despite the bruises swelling his face and the dried blood tracing a line from a gash on his scalp. They had tortured him, of course. Not for information: there was nothing the General wanted from him other than his extermination. No, they had simply wanted to break him.


    They had failed.


    The Old Quarter had already torn out Sirannor''s soul, had laid it bare before him, and he had taken it back and walked away feeling at once wearier and stronger than he ever had. There was nothing that Dreikan or his men could do to hurt him, no pain left that they could wrench from him. And he had certainly never been afraid of death.


    Above him, beyond the red sweep of the Aegis, the clouds were heavy and mixed with roiling smoke from a nearby volcano. The air was thick, suffocating, filled with floating particles of ash. His lungs and nostrils burnt from the noxious fumes, and there was a strange energy around him, like a pressure building, as of something immense that gripped the world in its huge fist. Tremors passed through the ground every now and then and the soldiers kept looking around nervously, hurrying him onwards.


    He was about to meet a Dragon, but that was not the cause of the anticipation or foreboding.


    Today, I am going to die, he thought.


    He knew it as surely as he knew that those thunderclouds would break, that the volcano would erupt, and that the Aegis was soon to fail. Death was holding a hand out to him, and he was walking forward to take it.


    Here on this hell-blasted island, on these red-stained rocks: here was where his life was going to end.


    And if the last thing he saw was the jaws of a Dragon, opened wide to take him, so be it.


    It was as it should be.


    They reached the centre of the valley, and the guards forced him to his knees. One of them dropped the heavy iron ball that he''d been carrying, which was attached by a chain to Sirannor''s right ankle. His hands were shackled behind his back.


    They had stripped him of his Freeroamer uniform and badge, exposing his torso in order to inflict their various insidious injuries, but Dreikan had given him back his long coat in a sign of mock respect.


    Sirannor did not know if anyone still respected him, or if Dreikan''s lies and deception had worked. Perhaps the other Freeroamers believed that he had killed Cimmeran. He hadn''t, though he was relieved that the servant was dead.


    It didn''t matter, any longer. He had never wanted to be a hero. He had become a soldier because he had seen no other point to life.


    How wrong he had been.


    he had seen no other point to life.


    How wrong he had been.


    The soldiers walked away, leaving him alone in the barren valley. But one of them hesitated, for just a moment, turning to him as though to say something. Then he changed his mind, shook his head and went after the others.


    Sirannor stared ahead, not bothering to glance back at the soldier. Some of them weren''t happy about this arrangement, he knew. They did not like to see a veteran ex-officer, even a disgraced one, being fed to a Dragon. Dreikan''s plan to discredit him may well backfire.


    But they had orders, and no one was going to stop what was about to happen.


    He looked up at the mountains surrounding him: three cone-shaped peaks like giant sentinels. Two of them were old, weathered and dead, but the third, directly opposite him, was alive and watching, waiting. It rumbled, hungrily.


    Sirannor supposed the volcano factored into Dreikan''s plan, as well. If it erupted, it would catch the Dragon in its flow.


    Dragons were impervious to lava ¨C indeed, they were known to bathe in it on occasion ¨C but if the flow hardened around it, the beast could possibly be immobilised. The harpoons would help to bring it down and pin it in place, allowing the soldiers to hack away at it with their swords.


    He expected they would have an easier time of it than he had.


    Sirannor closed his grey eyes. Many years ago, he had brought down a Dragon in a valley very much like this one, with a harpoon very much like the one that sat at this moment on the bluff behind him, though made of ordinary steel, not some extraordinary, unknown metal.


    There had been nothing special about that weapon, and there had been nothing elegant or glorious about the Dragon''s death.


    He had lured the Dragon to a valley with bait ¨C as Dreikan was now sadistically doing ¨C and had told it to its face that he was there to kill it.


    The Dragon had asked why, and Sirannor had told it straightforwardly: because he could.


    The Dragon had laughed.


    It had not been a mocking laugh, or even an amused laugh.


    It had laughed because it had known he was right.


    Sirannor had harpooned it, right into its jaws, but that had been intended mostly as a distraction, to enable his men to throw ropes and nets over it, vast swathes of them, tangling it up so effectively that it could not fly.


    The Dragon fought; it struggled. Hundreds of men died, burnt to death and crushed in its fury, but eventually, somehow, they had brought it down, tied it up so that it could not move.


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    Swords were useless against the beast''s hard, gold-red scales, but this fact had not deterred Sirannor. He strode up to the Dragon and begun methodically hacking away at its mammoth neck.


    It took him three months to kill it.


    Every day, at dawn, he approached the Dragon, greeted it, then proceeded to chip away at its throat. He worked at it all day, and in the evening, he bid the Dragon good night and returned to his camp.


    He went through hundreds of weapons and tools in his attempt to penetrate those impossible scales. He blunted and twisted them all. Yet ceaselessly he worked at it, refusing the help of others, ignoring those who thought he was crazy; his effort to kill the Dragon became the only thing in all of existence.


    And finally, he noticed the smallest hint of a dent.


    And, tiny bit by tiny bit, the dent expanded.


    Then, finally, he found flesh; he drew blood.


    He kept going.


    He woke up in the morning; he greeted the Dragon as though they were old friends. The Dragon''s jaw was bound so that it could not answer back. It only stared at him with its enormous, brilliant, burning eye, like a child of the sun.


    It lay there, motionless, silent, as he chopped into it; deeper and deeper, through muscle, through sinew, through bone. Small cuts, but so, so many of them, and so much blood.


    In the evening, he said good night to it, and retired to sleep in his tent.


    He did not know when the Dragon had died, only that one morning, he noticed that its eye did not glow so fiercely. He greeted it anyway, and continued to do so every day after, labouring in the heat of the crimson sun.


    Until one day, he suddenly found that he had cut all the way through. He had stood there, on the blood-drenched rocks, in his gore-spattered armour, and looked up at the Dragon. He gazed upon the magnificent creature that he had slaughtered, slowly and painfully, and felt nothing but tired.


    He wondered what the hell the point had been.


    Then he became angry. He was furious at the Dragon for allowing itself to be killed this way. It should have fought harder! It should have burned Sirannor where he stood arrogantly on the ridge, it should have been smart enough to know that it was walking into a trap...


    And then Sirannor realised something devastating.


    The Dragon had been holding itself back. It had killed and injured many soldiers, but it could have killed more. It could have escaped those ropes.


    But it hadn''t, because it had wanted to die.


    A creature as powerful, intelligent and full of burning life as a Dragon had wanted to die. It was tired, as he was. Tired of imprisonment, tired of starvation, tired of looking up at the same red sky for a thousand years, tired of waiting for things to change.


    Sirannor placed his hand on the shining golden scales of the Dragon''s head, and understood that he had not truly wanted to exterminate it, he had simply sought to escape the unbearable pain of Sereth''s death, and the terrible knowledge that he was left with a daughter he couldn''t care for. He had taken his anger at life out on the Dragon, and the beast had welcomed it.


    When he returned to the camp, he was hailed as a hero for slaying the Dragon. There were celebrations, and talk of promoting him to General.


    Sirannor decided to leave the army the next day. He stole one of the newly-forged moltmetal breastplates, making sure that someone saw him do it, and was apprehended when he disembarked the ship at Sunsee.


    Kneeling there on the jumble of rough, volcanic rocks, listening to the restless volcano, feeling the hot, stinking air pervade his skin and burn his wounds, Sirannor did not bother to wonder whether a Dragon would come to claim him, would once again come willingly to meet its doom.


    He knew that it would.


    * * *


    Arzath clutched the white stone railing of the balcony and retched over the side, coughing up black blood. He shivered as though freezing, even as hot, bright midday sun flooded over him from a flawless blue sky.


    His head swam and the sight of the drop below made him vomit again, though there was little in his stomach to force out. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling to pass.


    He was deteriorating rapidly. The trigon had advanced from his hands and claimed his arms, now worming its way through his chest, seeking his heart. He continued to use his magic anyway, monitoring Requar''s progress every day.


    Outwardly, there were hopeful signs; the trigon appeared to have retreated entirely into his chest, congealing in a dark mass around the wound, around his heart. The Sword of Healing had slowly repaired all of his non-trigonic wounds, and seemed to be keeping the trigon itself more or less at bay.


    Inside his mind¡­ it was hard to say. The swirling red storm of madness had gone, at least. But all that remained was a gaping, empty cavern with a few pitiful, flickering motes of memory floating around, like lost fireflies.


    Arzath''s initial elation at successfully activating the Sword had faded into doubt.


    Opening his eyes, he lifted his head, staring through strands of his hair at his own ruined, black castle on the other side of the valley. No sign of life could be seen there, and hadn''t been for some time. He assumed all of the Griks and Murons were either dead or had moved on.


    Sometimes, he felt like going back there. Just giving up, walking over to the castle and sitting there in the charred ruins to await a fate worse than death.


    Requar wasn''t going to regain consciousness in time to help him, if he ever did. Despite Arzath''s best efforts, his brother''s mind had been destroyed, and there wasn''t enough left to salvage. Some basic, instinctive functions were intact; his brother still screamed, occasionally, but whether he was going to end up as a coherent Human being at the end of it all was debatable.


    Flint is right, he thought feverishly. I am achieving nothing, merely hastening my own death and prolonging Requar''s miserable existence... and for what reason?


    A soft sound interrupted his thoughts and he went still, apart from the involuntary trembling.


    He recognised that sound. He had heard it many times while sitting in his throne room, waiting impatiently for his minions to appear.


    Arzath did not turn around, merely continued staring across the valley. A soft breeze rifled through his hair and cooled his sweat-soaked skin. He could feel that his face had become gaunt, that his tired eyes gazed out from darkened hollows. He was beginning to look, and feel, almost as dead as Ferrian did¡­ and that was not an encouraging thought.


    ¡°If you''ve come to kill me,¡± he said quietly to the warm summer air, ¡°you may be disappointed.¡±


    There was a hissing sound from somewhere behind him.


    ¡°We had an¡­ arrangement...¡± a soft, but harsh voice whispered. ¡°You have failed to honour it.¡±


    Arzath smiled as he stared out at his castle. He wasn''t the only one whose future lay in ruins.


    ¡°I never intended to help you,¡± he answered coldly. ¡°Or those idiotic Griks.¡± He turned around.


    Three Murons perched on the roof above him, like giant black gargoyles. One of them wore a necklace of bones around its neck. Arzath''s eyes fell upon a shard of redstone amongst the gruesome trophies, and thought of the Grik leader, Kyosk.


    He caught Varshax''s eyes without fear.


    The creature''s yellow eyes were narrowed in fury. All three Murons crouched low, tense, ready to pounce on him. He could feel hatred radiating off their black scales, hotter than the sun.


    ¡°For all your supposed intelligence,¡± Arzath told them, ¡°you really don''t understand lies, do you? You believe that truth is more dangerous and far more painful.¡± He smiled. ¡°You are correct.


    ¡°You approached me as I was travelling through Arkana. You came to me because you were desperate, because you needed someone to read your precious books, and perform the magical spells within them. Murons cannot breed: they can only be created by magic.


    ¡°You do not fear death. But extinction is something that you cannot accept.¡±


    He stared up at them, still smiling. ¡°I made a similar promise to the Griks. Told them that I would restore them to the magnificent race that they believed themselves to be. They, as you, accepted my word. But I wanted your assistance for my own purposes, and nothing more.¡±


    The Murons shifted restlessly, hissing venomously. Saliva dripped from Varshax''s jaws. His clawed hands clenched and unclenched.


    Arzath leaned back nonchalantly against the balcony. ¡°Kill me if you wish,¡± he offered, spreading his arms. ¡°Pluck my eyes from my head. Rip my heart out of my chest and eat it if you so desire. I will not stop you.


    ¡°But please, do enjoy the taste of trigon as you do so...¡±


    Two of the Murons leapt.


    But not at him. They soared away over the valley, their great dark wings stirring a wind over him as they went.


    Varshax remained. Arzath could tell that the Muron wanted to tear him to pieces, to do exactly as Arzath had just described, that he longed to.


    But both of them knew that it would take only one Muron to be infected to wipe out the rest of its kin.


    They stared at each other for an endless moment, both unflinching.


    Arzath was the first to turn away. Wearily, he pushed himself away from the railing and walked slowly and unsteadily back through the open doors into Requar''s chamber.


    For a moment, a shadow blocked out the sun.


    Arzath stopped and turned slightly, looking over his shoulder, but there were no Murons to be seen, just a sunlit valley ringed by grey mountains.


    He was certain that they wouldn''t be back.


    Turning around, he made his way across the room and suddenly froze.


    For several seconds, he just stood where he was, in shock.


    An empty bed lay before him.


    Requar was gone!

 Chapter Sixty Six

    The Dragons come, they see, they hear


    They know one''s heart and greatest fear.


    Thunder rolled through the valley, trembling the stones, rising up from the deep, fiery bowels of Hell. A sharp crack from the clouds overhead answered it: sky and mountains growling as one. Smoke poured from the volcano, thick and dark.


    An army of demon-wraiths could have hidden in it, Sirannor thought. Perhaps they do. Perhaps here, at the end of the world, they are pouring out of whatever ungodly place they come from...


    The Dragon appeared slowly.


    It was silent as a cat, and moved like one. It was huge, and old, perhaps the oldest Dragon on the island, and more impressive, yet more terrible, than the one Sirannor had killed. It was lean, emaciated: its ribcage stood out against skin that had tightened around its massive bones and hung loose in places. Its scales were a dark red colour, dull and worn, though here and there patches of shimmer revealed that it had once boasted a proud golden sheen, like the others. Black markings upon its face and horns gave an angry look to its already fierce head.


    Its eyes were orange-red, burning with deep, deep fire and long-forged vengeance.


    The hairs on Sirannor''s neck stood up, and his heart beat faster. Yes! he thought fiercely.


    This Dragon did not mean to lay down and die.


    This Dragon meant to fight.


    Slowly, purposefully, it stalked into the valley and came towards him.


    It knows that the Aegis is failing, Sirannor thought. It knows¡­


    Another crack of thunder split the air. Red lightning slashed bloody gashes in the clouds, though no drops yet fell.


    Even the sky was waiting.


    Sirannor smiled. Good luck, Dreikan.


    The Dragon paused before him, its enormous body filling the entire valley, tattered wings folded at its sides. It seemed impossible that a creature so huge, so ancient, could be killed by anything. Even Dreikan''s impressive black harpoons seemed mere pins in comparison.


    Its eyes widened a little as it regarded him. It could have burned Sirannor to ashes with its stare alone, but he forced himself to hold its gaze.


    ¡°Dragon killer,¡± it said.


    Its voice was nothing like that of a Muron''s. It was deep as the rocks, languid as the rivers of molten magma flowing below them. It was the sound of the sky speaking, the proud, beautiful, vast voice of a God.


    Sirannor stared up at its massive face, filling the entirety of the world, and dared to speak back.


    ¡°Human slayer.¡±


    It opened its jaws and laughed.


    This time, it was a laugh of amusement. It laughed as the Middle Isle shook around it, as though the whole of Arvanor trembled with its mirth.


    ¡°Indeed!¡± it replied.


    ¡°Are you aware,¡± Sirannor told it, ¡°that you are walking into a trap?¡±


    The Dragon stared down at him. ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°And yet, you came.¡±


    ¡°I came.¡±


    They stared at each other, the Dragon and Sirannor Vandaris, Captain of the Freeroamers, ex-Lieutenant of the Darorian Army.


    Sirannor could imagine General Dreikan''s impatience, up on the bluff behind him. Could imagine him clenching his golden, gauntleted fist, fighting the urge to loose the harpoon himself.


    Sirannor could imagine General Dreikan''s impatience, up on the bluff behind him. Could imagine him clenching his golden, gauntleted fist, fighting the urge to loose the harpoon himself.


    He wouldn''t, Sirannor knew. Not yet. He wanted to see the Dragon take his hated nemesis in its mighty jaws.


    Something passed between himself and the Dragon, then: a flicker of understanding; a shared moment. Perhaps something that had never been shared between Human and Dragon before.


    The Dragon revealed all of its terrible teeth in what he assumed was a smile.


    Sirannor smiled back.


    Then he lowered his head slowly, respectfully, silver-white hair falling about his shoulders. Dark, porous rock littered the ground in front of him, probably the last thing that he was ever going to see. He wondered how much blood these stones had soaked up over hundreds of years of war, how many other eyes had dimmed staring at this blasted volcanic debris.


    Too much. Far too many. And he wouldn''t be the last.


    At his back, his hands tightened into fists in their shackles.


    He braced himself.


    The Dragon was moving. It was silent, but he knew that it was lifting its great head above him, opening its jaws¡­


    Sirannor closed his eyes.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The end.


    And then reality exploded, and everything in the world seemed to happen at once.


    He heard the sound of the harpoon releasing, and a second later, the volcano erupted. Its deafening roar mingled with a sudden roar from the Dragon.


    Sirannor chanced a glance upwards, and saw the Dragon rearing, the harpoon bolt lodged in the back of its throat.


    Then the Dragon became a silhouette as an immense white flash momentarily blinded him. Sirannor thought it was a flash of lightning, but it lingered too long, and when it finally faded and he could see again, the sky was on fire.


    Orange flashes swarmed and burned over his head, arcing over the mountain tops, as though the entire Aegis had caught alight. Molten lava streamed down the mountain opposite him, lighting up the gloom.


    The Dragon thrashed and roared in fury. Dreikan had had the presence of mind to intertwine the harpoon rope with strands of moltmetal, so that it could not break or be burned.


    Two other black, barbed harpoon bolts shot out of their hiding places, lodging in each of the Dragon''s wings.


    Then, with a mighty swing of its head, the Dragon ripped the first ballista completely off its moorings on the bluff.


    Sirannor threw himself flat on the ground as the entire contraption sailed over his head and smashed into a thousand splinters on the nearby mountainside.


    And suddenly, there were soldiers everywhere, clad in their impenetrable black armour, swarming into the valley like a thousand ants.


    But, to Sirannor''s astounded horror, not all of them attacked the Dragon. Many of the soldiers turned around and started fighting each other, for no apparent reason.


    The surge collapsed into complete and utter chaos.


    The Dragon spewed fire at everything in sight, trampled men and struggled to free itself from the harpoons.


    Sirannor lay on the ground amid the madness, desperately trying to comprehend what was happening, and more importantly¡­ why the hell he wasn''t dead yet¡­


    Somewhere, officers were screaming, or perhaps it was Dreikan himself, trying to regain some sort of control, but all orders were lost in the cacophony of death as soldiers were crushed, picked up and thrown against the rocks by the Dragon, burned, beheaded by their own comrades or were consumed by the lava flow now creeping along the valley floor.


    And above it all, in the distance, came more roaring as the remaining Dragons took to the air.


    Gods, Sirannor thought, horrified.


    The Aegis was disappearing, melting away as he watched, the edges molten. Grey sky lay revealed for the first time in centuries. A few fat, cold droplets of rain splashed onto his face.


    He regretted that he was still alive. He did not want to witness this¡­


    Staring upwards, he felt strangely disappointed. He had been ready to die. Being slaughtered by a Dragon would have been so fitting¡­


    There was an unexpected tug on his arms and Sirannor struggled to right himself, only to find his arms suddenly free. He pushed himself up to find one of the black soldiers standing beside him. With a sweep of his sword, the soldier brought his black blade down on the chain linking the iron ball to Sirannor''s ankle.


    It cut through cleanly.


    Then the soldier reached up and pulled off his helmet¡­


    Bright red hair spilled over the black armour, and Sirannor found himself looking into his own eyes¡­ the face of his daughter¡­


    ¡°Hello, father!¡± Carmine said, smiling, her grey eyes sparkling in a way that Sirannor''s never had.


    Sirannor just stared back at her, too astonished to reply.


    She reached down and grabbed his hand, and he let her pull him to his feet. ¡°Let''s go!¡± she said, and without another word, turned and started running.


    Sirannor ran after her.


    He was forced to dodge aside as the Dragon''s massive foot came close to him. Immediately, one of the soldiers lunged at him from the left. Sirannor spun out of the path of the black blade, grabbing the soldier''s hand as he did so, and smacking him in the face with the hilt of his sword. Wrenching it from the dazed man''s grip, he hurried after Carmine.


    ¡°Hurry up, father!¡± she yelled at him, grinning. ¡°You''re too slow!¡±


    He caught up with her and they raced into a narrow gully formed by the sheer side of the bluff on their right, and the steep, slippery, scree-riddled slope of the extinct volcano on their left. The sky opened up as they ran, pouring rain down as though attempting to drown them.


    A group of soldiers appeared at the other end of the pass, and charged towards them.


    Carmine clashed with the first. Sirannor kicked out and tripped the soldier that came for him, then spun and buried his sword in the back of the neck of the second, immediately whirling and beheading a third. His sword swept up to parry the blow of the fourth. They fought.


    The sound of black blades clashing rang through the gully. Carmine dispatched two men; Sirannor finished off two more, then helped her with the last. Raindrops scattered with blood as the soldier fell.


    Father and daughter stood staring at each other as they caught their breath in the downpour. ¡°You needed help,¡± Carmine answered his unspoken question. ¡°I came.¡±


    Sirannor regarded her for a moment more, watching the rain stream down her young, brave, determined, beautiful face, then nodded in the direction of the valley, where the battle with the Dragon was still taking place. ¡°Those soldiers,¡± he asked. ¡°Your doing?¡±


    Carmine shook her head, looking as surprised as he was. ¡°No! I have no idea what''s going on! They just went nuts!¡±


    Sirannor frowned, looking down at the soldiers they had just slain. ¡°It''s this damned moltmetal,¡± he growled. ¡°There is something¡­ wrong with it.¡±


    He stared at the black sword in his hand. The rain had washed it clean of blood, but a strange dark mist rose off the blade. An unpleasant prickling sensation passed through his hand, travelling through his body.


    He threw the sword away.


    ¡°Let''s get out of here,¡± he said, turning. ¡°Get rid of that armour as soon as you have a chance.¡±


    Carmine nodded.


    They hurried onwards. The gully widened as they went, opening out into a sweeping, exposed space lashed by silvery sheets of rain. Above them, the clouds swirled, and a moment later, a Dragon descended, landing right in front of them.


    They stumbled to a halt on the loose rocks.


    It was not the same Dragon that Dreikan had attacked ¨C this one had brighter streaks of gold across its scales, and lacked the black markings on its face.


    But it was no less dangerous, or frightening.


    ¡°Oh, crap,¡± Carmine muttered in dismay.


    The Dragon''s huge eyes burned through the rain.


    Carmine looked around desperately for an escape route, but Sirannor held the creature''s gaze. There was no getting past it. They were pinned against the narrow pass, and the slopes on either side were slippery, unstable loose rock mixed with rivers of water.


    Sirannor had no weapon. His hands curled into fists.


    There was only one thing to be done.


    But Carmine was staring at him. The girl barely knew him, had met him only once before; yet, somehow, she was able to read his thoughts.


    Her face hardened.


    Before Sirannor could move, cry out, do anything¡­ she ran.


    She ran straight at the Dragon, black sword held in both hands.


    Sirannor managed to find his voice. ¡°Carmine!¡± he screamed. ¡°NO!¡±


    A terrible memory flashed across his vision. Something that Hawk had told him. Something that had happened in the Old Quarter, in Sunsee¡­


    He had come across Hawk lying in the sand, grief-stricken, having seen Carmine eaten by a Dragon. Sirannor had told him to get up, that it wasn''t real, that the Presence was merely taunting him with his greatest fear¡­


    But now he realised the devastating truth. It hadn''t been an illusion.


    It had been a premonition!


    Sirannor had never panicked before, but an ocean of terror crashed over him, unlike anything he had felt before in his life.


    He started running after her.


    But there was nothing that he could do. He could only watch as the Dragon''s jaws gaped wide, as his daughter ran to meet them, his red-haired child swinging her sword with impossible bravery as she raced into the very throat of Death¡­


    All the air left his lungs, all the spirit left his body as the Dragon''s jaws closed around her, clamping together with ghastly finality.


    The Dragon''s head lifted into the air, then its body after it as it flew away into the dark, weeping sky.


    Sirannor fell to his knees, suddenly alone in the barren pass.


    Alone, forever.


    ¡°No,¡± he choked into the rain. ¡°It was supposed to be me!¡±


    Water flooded over his face. ¡°IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME!¡± His scream was lost in the uncaring trickle of rivulets in the rocks, in the distant shrieks and sounds of battle, in the sodden sky.


    ¡°Noooooooo!¡±

 Chapter Sixty Seven

    Lost and gone, beyond all doubt?


    What visions yet may come about?


    Arzath raced from the bedchamber, through the ante-room and threw himself down the stairwell. Several times, he stumbled and almost broke his neck, several times he had to stop and recover his breath or wait for waves of nausea to subside. The white walls of the castle passed around him, cold and bleak, as though the entire castle were a ghost.


    A mixture of fear, anticipation and confusion pounded through him, along with his labouring heart. The Murons hadn''t taken him, he thought frantically, and the only other person in the castle was Flint. He didn''t think that man would have been likely to touch Requar after the last assassination attempt.


    That meant¡­


    His heart jumped around in his chest, like a trapped thing. He did not know what to expect, or what to feel. Had Requar got up by himself? Had he left the castle? If he was conscious enough to do so, why had he not given any indication? Could he not speak? Was he a walking corpse, like Ferrian? Was he¡­


    His questions were answered.


    He came out onto the mezzanine floor, with a view over the entrance foyer, and his steps faltered. Stumbling over to the balustrade, he clutched it, breath momentarily stopped.


    Requar stood in the middle of the hall, fully dressed and holding his Sword, bathed in the wide, bright shaft of sunlight spilling through the open main doors. Blue and yellow light speared across the hall from the huge, circular stained glass window high above the doors: a rising sun blazing above his head.


    His shadow stretched out across the floor behind him.


    Tentatively, Arzath started down the stairs.


    Requar did not react or appear to notice him, just stared straight ahead, out the doors.


    Arzath reached the bottom of the stairs and slowly crossed the marble floor to his brother, and stood in front of him.


    Requar''s white hair was unbound and fell to his waist, stirring in the warm draught. His face was completely healed: there was no sign of the burn damage that Arzath had inflicted, or the trigon. His eyes were once again blue as the sky, but they stared straight through him, unseeing and unblinking.


    ¡°Requar?¡± Arzath whispered.


    His brother did not respond.


    ¡°Can you see me?¡± He searched Requar''s eyes. ¡°Can you hear me?¡±


    No response.


    He continued staring at his brother, the two of them statues in the silent, empty hall. Beside him, the Sword of Healing was a silver blaze in the sunlight.


    Arzath reached out and grabbed Requar''s shoulders, and shook him. ¡°Come BACK, damn you!!¡±


    His shout echoed through the foyer, but nothing but his own desperate words came back to him.


    Arzath''s head lowered, his fingers curling into Requar''s clothing. He squeezed his eyes closed. I have failed, he thought hopelessly. I have failed.


    The Sword had healed Requar''s wounds and restored some simple behaviour, but it had not revived his personality, his intelligence, or his self-awareness. Were those things truly lost forever?


    The door across the room opened and he heard a gasp. ¡°What''s goin'' on?!¡±


    Arzath opened his eyes and lifted his head. Flint was standing there, looking shocked but depressingly hopeful. ¡°He is¡­ recovering...¡± Arzath lied. ¡°It will take some time.¡±


    He took Requar''s arm and turned him around, leading him towards the dining room. His brother came without resistance.


    He led Requar over to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat him in it. Then he pulled out another chair and slumped down himself.


    Flint hovered nearby, looking anxious, but to the man''s credit, refrained from asking any stupid questions.


    Arzath sat there, trembling, staring at his brother¡­ or rather, the shell of a body that his brother had once inhabited. He looked away, but his gaze fell unfortunately upon the family portrait on the opposite wall. He squeezed his eyes shut again.


    Are you really gone, Requar? Or is there something else holding you back?


    No amount of magic on Arvanor would bring his brother back if he did not want to return, if he did not want to be healed. Requar had tried to kill himself for a reason; the choices he had made in life had turned into an agony that he could not bear to live with, a blackness deeper and more terrible than trigon.


    Nothing in the past could be changed. Arzath wished it could.


    Opening his eyes, he turned back to Requar. His own strength and magic was almost gone. He was dying. There was little more that he could do.


    But there was one thing. It may not be of any use to Requar, now¡­ but it would change something for him.


    ¡°One more time,¡± he whispered wearily. One more memory.


    This time, it would not be a lie.


    Hunched over like an old man, he raised a shaking arm and placed his fingers upon Requar''s forehead.


    Shadows draped the hallway. No lanterns were lit in the entire house, save for one room.


    And yet, that room was the darkest.


    A yellow oblong of light spilled out onto the landing as the door opened, followed a few moments later by a shadow, and then a figure.


    A figure who was drowning in that light, as it reflected the tears upon his cheeks.


    Arzath asked what had happened, from where he stood leaning with his back against the wall beside the door.


    Requar looked up at him, and did not reply, but his expression said everything.


    That expression destroyed Arzath''s world.


    He took two steps forward and smashed his fist into his brother''s face, as hard as he could, trying to return the enormous pain that Requar had inflicted with that look. You''re pathetic, Requar! You''re a failure!


    Then he spun and stalked away, leaving Requar lying on the floor, blood running from his nose.


    Requar did not get up again, just lay there with tears streaming down his face.


    A few moments later, Arzath stepped back out of the shadows.


    He walked forward, no less stricken with grief, but he was far older now, and this had happened a long time ago.


    Slowly, he knelt beside his weeping brother, and spoke just a few words; words that he should have said then, but hadn''t.


    I am sorry, Requar.


    I am sorry.


    Flint was sitting dejectedly beside the fire when Arzath collapsed. He looked up to see the sorcerer lying in a heap on the floor.


    Slowly, Flint got to his feet. It wasn''t the first time that Arzath had fainted after using magic, but this time¡­ he had a sinking feeling that it was the last.


    He forced himself to walk over and check for a heartbeat. It was there, but frankly, that wasn''t saying much¡­


    He looked up at Requar, sadly. The man looked almost normal, except that his face was expressionless, his eyes gazing at nothing.


    Flint shook his head. He didn''t know what Arzath had been trying to do, but clearly, it wasn''t working. It was remarkable that Requar had managed to regain some sort of consciousness, to get up and dress himself and walk around¡­ but if this was all that could be recovered of him, then it hadn''t been worth the effort.


    He got up, listening to the snap of burning wood in the hearth: the only sound to break the heavy silence. Then he looked down at Arzath again: a pitiful pile of black and gold clothing at his feet.


    He looked at the Sword of Healing, still held in Requar''s grasp. Two snakes twined up from the hilt: one black, one white.


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    Then he bent and picked Arzath up, slinging him across his shoulders, and carried him from the room. He bore Arzath up the main staircase and several further flights of stairs until he found a spare room, where he laid the body upon the unmade bed. Then he trudged back down to the dining room.


    Requar was still sitting where he had been left. Flint went over and gently guided him to his feet, then took his arm and led him back up the stairs to the room where Arzath lay.


    Flint sat him down in a chair beside the bed, took his arm and positioned the Sword of Healing so that it lay across Arzath''s body.


    Then he stepped back, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Lifting a hand, he patted Requar''s shoulder, then turned away and went to the door.


    There he paused for a moment and looked back. Raising a hand in silent, sad farewell, he left the room, closing the door gently behind him. He walked back down the stairs one final time, fetched his Justifier and a sack of food, and left the castle.


    * * *


    Rain flooded over Sirannor as he knelt on the rocks. He felt as though the Dragon had gutted him, had scattered his entrails across the width of the valley. In just an instant, the beast had done what General Dreikan had failed to do, that the Old Quarter had failed to do, that Aari''s death had very nearly done. He had thought himself put back together, harder than steel, unbreakable. He had thought there would be no further pain that he could not endure.


    He had been wrong.


    Life leaked out of him, trickling down his skin with the rain, a steady stream of darkness and pain that was unstoppable. There was no weapon to hand, or he would have ended it then and there¡­


    An image of the dead soldiers came to mind, black swords lying in the gully behind him¡­


    As though at his bidding, one of those blades landed point downward in the ground beside him. It was accompanied by a deep, cold voice:


    ¡°Get up.¡±


    Sirannor did not obey, did not even glance up as a pair of black and gold boots crunched over the rocks to stand in front of him, orange cape dripping at their heels.


    ¡°Get. Up.¡± the voice repeated.


    Sirannor remained staring at those boots for many aching heartbeats before finally lifting his head.


    General Dreikan was clad in black armour, though it was painted with a striking gold, orange and red geometric design. His gauntlets were gilded on their upper sides, his right hand gripping a long, black sword.


    This sword was unlike those carried by the soldiers: it had been carefully crafted into a thing of terror. The blade was sculpted into a series of sharp curves, serrations and cut-out holes, something like the stylised, torn wing of a Dragon. It was ugly and sinister and impressive. Sirannor almost thought the shape of it subtly moved as he stared at it ¨C or it could have been merely a trick of the rain or strange reflections on the metal.


    ¡°You wish to fight me?¡± Sirannor said finally. ¡°Now?¡±


    Dreikan lifted his sword and pointed it at him, smiling, his eyes icy, pale chips beneath his helmet. ¡°You are broken,¡± he replied. ¡°At last.¡±


    Sirannor said nothing, just stared back at him.


    Dreikan continued pointing his sword at Sirannor, matching his gaze through the rain. ¡°I knew she would come,¡± he said softly. ¡°I knew she would try to rescue you.¡±


    He inclined his head. ¡°I allowed her to.¡±


    The darkness inside Sirannor ignited like a flame on oil, fuelled by his pain. He fought to hold it back. He couldn''t tell whether or not Dreikan was lying, but it did not matter.


    He stood up, pulling the black sword from the ground beside him. Then he turned his back on General Dreikan.


    In the distance, at the opposite end of the gully, the edge of the lava flow crept inexorably towards them, illuminating the rocks with a bright orange glow.


    Garth Dreikan, and his uncle before him, General Myer, had hounded Sirannor for most of his life, snarling and snapping at the heels of his existence, like dogs determined to bring him down. Dreikan would never let him rest, would not even allow him to choose the manner of his own death. The man wished to deny Sirannor everything. He wished to win.


    He had won already, but still, the arrogant son-of-a-bitch sought glory in the victory.


    Sirannor could have taken that from him, could have refused the battle. But his soul had burst into flames.


    He thought of the Dragon he had killed, slowly and cruelly, the Dragon that had given up on life.


    This Dragon did not mean to lay down and die.


    This Dragon meant to fight!


    Taking the black sword in both hands, Sirannor spun.


    * * *


    Warm candlelight glowed on the pale walls and winked on the threads of rich, golden tapestries as Ambassador Tek''Hari sat at his desk, quietly writing. He lifted his head for a moment in contemplation, light glinting on his spectacles, then smiled to himself and continued.


    Tek, like all Angels, was aware that writing was dangerous. Every word that he committed to paper was replicated a thousand feet below him, in the dusty darkness of Grath Ardan. All correspondence had to be crafted with great and delicate care. It was becoming a lost art; hardly anyone bothered any more, preferring direct, face-to-face speech and committing things to memory. But a few, like himself, considered it a game. There was much pleasure to be taken in the art of obfuscation, misdirection and rambling for endless pages without actually answering someone''s question. Sometimes, even Tek couldn''t make sense of what he had written.


    He responded to all enquiries to the council in this manner, even those made in person. The Governor had no talent for it; he was too lazy and too stupid, and the other council members were not much better.


    Tek paused in his writing, lifting his quill away from the paper, momentarily thinking of his son.


    He wished he could have passed this skill on, but his son had left him many years ago. Tek did not believe the rumours that the boy had been abducted and taken away from Arkana. They were made by those envious of his position as the Syncwarden, the Keeper of the Tower, a coveted role. They sought to shame him and force him to resign by spreading foul lies.


    Tek would not. He knew the truth: his son resided now with the Goddess, along with his beloved wife.


    He missed them, sometimes, but he was proud of them. Making a request to open the Light Gate and enter Excelsior was something to be honoured and celebrated, not grieved. Especially for his son, who had been one of those unfortunately chosen as a suitable candidate for collecting silvertine. This required that he be trained to live in deliberate fear in order to resist the pull of Excelsior. One could not return from the upper reaches of the Tower unless one was burdened with fearful or depressive thoughts, just as one could not be thrown into the Pit if they were truly happy.


    Tek closed his eyes, listening to the candlelit silence. For one''s soul to be tainted irrevocably with negative emotions meant that it was impossible to ascend to the eternal heights of the Tower. Tek, as the Syncwarden, had opened the Gate for his son to allow him to carry out his duties, but had not known that he wished to follow his mother into the light. One day, the boy had gone to collect silvertine for the weaponsmiths, but had not returned.


    Tek was certain that his son, despite his training, had managed to overcome his fear, and succeeded in reaching Excelsior.


    He only wished that he knew how to banish his own worrisome thoughts, the dark tightness in his stomach that had not lessened even though the Seraphim stood now outside, protecting Arkana. The visions could not possibly come to pass.


    And yet, something was still wrong¡­


    As though in answer to his thoughts, a cold breeze blew in through the open balcony doors, slicing through the warm night air like a sword, disturbing his golden-brown feathers as it went by. He opened his eyes to see the candles flickering and gauze curtains billow inwards. Setting aside his quill pen, he stood up slowly, goosebumps racing over his skin, and walked around his desk and out onto the semicircular, rail-less balcony.


    Fleetfleer lay sleeping peacefully around him and below him; golden lights glowed through the windows of tall white towers, coloured lanterns nestled in flower-filled courtyards, and were strewn along elegant walkways. Far below, where the spires on the undersides of the lowest towers brushed the treetops, the forest was lost in midnight shadow. Above his head, a great, dark bank of clouds approached from the south, sliding over the moon, extinguishing the stars, and bringing with it a deep chill that drove away the sultry summer air.


    Tek reached out a hand, watching in astonishment as a white snowflake danced downwards and melted upon his open palm.


    It had not snowed in Arkana for a thousand years.


    The vision.


    The forest of Arkana freezing¡­


    Tek ran forward two steps and leapt from the balcony. Banking around the tower that held his chambers, he soared through the city, the cold air hitting his face in a rush. He swept around buildings and under walkways, the beauty of the Angel city now lost in the face of the dread that advanced with the wintry clouds.


    He emerged a few moments later into an open space, the Grand Plaza where the Governor''s residence and council offices stood. One of the Seraphim was here, floating a few yards above the white stones of the courtyard. No longer a statue, it was a living giant, thirty feet tall, six enormous white wings outspread and flapping lazily in the air. Two of its eyes were closed in its impossibly beautiful, androgynous face, the third, smaller eye in its forehead kept vigil. A pair of golden rings, eternally circling each other, hovered above its head; these, too, were lined with a hundred blazing blue eyes.


    The Seraph''s hands were linked to form the shape of wings, pressed against its chest as though in prayer.


    Tek circled the plaza, watching the Seraph anxiously, but the giant remained calm, showing no sign that anything was amiss.


    But Tek still felt restless.


    He circled the plaza one more time, then headed north, in the direction of Caer Sync.


    The Ambassador landed on the wide, curved platform that extended from the entrance to the Tower. Two vast, golden doors rose before him, big enough to accommodate the Seraphim, now closed and immovable. Two smaller, ornate gilded gates were recessed into the sides of the Tower, facing each other across the platform. Tek strode to the one on the right, took the key that hung on a chain around his neck, unlocked the gate quickly, and entered.


    A short, curving corridor lay beyond. Tek hurried along it, not bothering with a light, then into a small antechamber on the right.


    Here, on a pedestal, dim and glinting in the darkness, sat the Aurellian Sync. Normally, the tetrahedral mirror sat balanced between the fingers of the Seraphim, but since the statues had awoken, the Aurellian had been moved here for safekeeping. The mirror could not be used in this chamber: it would only produce its visions in the Sanctuary.


    Tek removed his glasses for a moment and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. Taking a handkerchief from a pocket, he wiped his face ¨C he was sweating despite the cold ¨C then placed his round spectacles carefully back on his nose, and picked up the mirror.


    He took it down the hallway into the heart of the Tower: the Sanctuary.


    The space looked huge and empty without the Seraphim occupying it. The ringing, tinkling sound of the Singing Cliffs echoed hauntingly through the dark chamber, along with a chill draught and a few odd snowflakes, and, now and then, the slow, booming tick of Excelsior''s Clock.


    Tek looked up at the window holes, worrying that the mirror would not work without moonlight. Setting the Aurellian down carefully, he took a few moments to light the torches in their holders around the chamber. This achieved, he took another steadying breath, picked up the mirror and flew to the middle of the room.


    He held the Aurellian in his hands, staring at his reflection amid the orange torchlight on its smooth, triangular silver face. The clock boomed several times as he waited: his heartbeat a few hundred times more.


    And suddenly, the mirror came to life.


    His reflection became a dizzying infinity of reflections, his own face repeated over and over again, the torchlight shattered into thousands of rainbow shards. Then a fire ignited in the heart of the mirror, and projected a beam of light onto the wall.


    The visions began.


    Tek stared in mesmerised horror.


    The visions were the same, but different. They were much more detailed, much more certain. A terrifying sensation came over him, that some of these events were no longer in the future, but had already happened ¨C or were happening now. He wanted to look away as the visions began depicting Arkana, but he could not¡­


    The great forest of Arkana both freezing and burning, Fleetfleer in ruins¡­


    And something else. Something cold and dark and devastating that slipped into Arkana amid the chaos. Something far more monstrous than the Dragons¡­


    Something the Seraphim could not protect against...


    Tek dropped the mirror.


    He looked down slowly, stunned with terror, as the Aurellian plunged downwards, glittering with rainbow colours, throwing light crazily around the chamber¡­


    And hit the Dark Gate below, and shattered.


    Tek fled as the visions ceased abruptly, shards of the Aurellian falling through the ornate scrollwork gate, like silvery rain into the Pit.


    He landed on the platform and raced along the short, curving corridor, and threw himself out into the snow-filled night.


    Something far more monstrous than the Dragons...


    He knew now, what it was.


    Shaking, he stared out into the dark sky, eyes wide.


    The black-winged Angel had returned.


    He was going to destroy Arkana.


    And he was going to kill Tek''Hari.

 Chapter Sixty Eight

    Secrets buried, dark and deep


    And more than just the sky will weep.


    ¡°Are you sure the entrance is here?¡± Hawk called up.


    ¡°Quite sure!¡± Mekka called back. ¡°And keep your voice down! We are close to Fleetfleer and there may be guards down here!¡±


    Hawk and Ferrian stood staring up at the enormous tree that lay across their path. The wall of wood, bigger than a tavern, stretched away into darkness on either side, barring their route. Green moss, like long hair, draped from its side, dusted with flecks of snow that drifted downwards from a large gap in the canopy. Mekka paced irritably back and forth along the top of it, almost invisible in the night save for the glow of his torch.


    Hawk held a torch of his own, the firelight revealing a face full of uncertainty.


    Ferrian looked around. Vast trees surrounded them, parading away in endless ranks into the blackness. He wondered how Mekka could find anything in this forest; all the trees looked the same to him, and the undergrowth was so thick, tangled and choked with ferns that locating anything on the ground seemed impossible.


    Mekka leapt off the log a few minutes later, landing lightly beside them, but the Angel did not look happy.


    ¡°This tree has been deliberately felled,¡± he told them. ¡°That end has been cut through cleanly.¡± He gestured into the darkness to their right. He scowled, shaking his head. ¡°It would seem that the Angels wish to make absolutely certain there are no further intruders in the library.¡±


    Hawk frowned. ¡°How can you be so sure this is the right spot?¡±


    Mekka walked over to a nearby tree and held his torch close to the trunk. He tapped a finger on a marking there, carved into the bark. ¡°I left this many years ago, the first time that I discovered this entrance to Grath Ardan. It is difficult to locate, as you may have noticed.¡± He turned and stared at the fallen tree, and sighed. ¡°Unfortunately, it is under that log.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Hawk replied. ¡°No problem, right? We just use Ferrian''s Sword and cut through it!¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mekka agreed, though he looked anxious still. ¡°But even with a silvertine blade, it will take some time.¡±


    Ferrian stepped forward, raising his Sword. ¡°Then let''s get started,¡± he said, and swung the Sword of Frost into the wood.


    Mekka was not wrong. Though the silvertine blade was supremely sharp, there was a lot of wood to get through. Ferrian did not tire, but Hawk insisted on taking turns. Ferrian allowed him to, knowing that the Freeroamer wanted to make himself useful. Mekka extinguished his torch and flew back up to the top of the log to keep watch.


    They kept one torch alight, to see what they were doing and to keep away the greenweavers, which had continued stalking Ferrian the whole journey. He swallowed as he watched the darkness, hoping that the spider-plants were the only creepy things following him. Mekka had said that this was the Muron''s homeland. There was no telling how many of those dreaded black creatures were still out there¡­


    Ferrian became aware that his hand was clenching and unclenching. He felt uncomfortable and vulnerable without his Sword. He longed to take it back from Hawk.


    The sound of chopping wood was unnervingly loud in the still, chilly forest.


    They had carved quite a sizeable chunk out of the tree when Ferrian caught a glimpse of something shiny on the ground. Kicking away pieces of splintered wood, he crouched down and moved some crushed stone out of the way.


    The edge of a piece of smooth, gleaming metal lay embedded in the ground. It was as brightly silver as his Sword, and appeared to be made of the same material; his blade would not go through it, just clanged off with a ringing sound.


    He called to Hawk, who glanced into the hole and gave a whistle.


    A moment later, Mekka appeared. They stood aside as the Angel entered the alcove they had hacked into the tree, and crouched by Ferrian''s discovery. He touched the metal. ¡°Yes,¡± he confirmed. ¡°This is it.¡±


    He looked up and held out a hand, and Ferrian passed him the Sword of Frost. The Angel began chopping into the tree, exposing more of the silver hatch. Ferrian and Hawk stood well back as he worked; Mekka hacked vigorously at the tree as though he had a personal grudge against it.


    Hawk leaned over. ¡°This is why,¡± he whispered, ¡°I try not to stand near him when he''s in a bad mood.¡± He nodded at Mekka.


    ¡°Last time,¡± Ferrian whispered back, ¡°he punched you in the face!¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± Hawk waved a hand dismissively. ¡°That was his friendly mood!¡±


    Ferrian peered into the hole. He felt a thrill of excitement that they had found Grath Ardan, that they were about to enter the fabled library at last, but he imagined that Mekka was not sharing quite the same thoughts.


    The last time he tried to enter this place, Ferrian thought, he was beaten up and lost his eye.


    If the guards caught him here again¡­


    Mekka finished exposing the hatch and they helped him clear away the debris. The Angel knelt before the silver square of metal and began fiddling with what looked like a complicated circular design raised in the metal, but was in fact an intricate locking mechanism. Ferrian crouched beside him and Hawk retrieved the torch, bringing it close so that Mekka could see.


    They watched in fascination as Mekka produced some lockpicks, did something swift and clever with them, and had the hatch unlocked in moments. With a firm push, the door swung silently downwards, revealing a deep, square hole filled with inky darkness.


    ¡°It is a considerable drop,¡± Mekka explained. ¡°About twenty feet.¡± He looked at them. ¡°I can lift both of you down, one at a time.¡±


    Hawk nodded. ¡°Take Ferrian first.¡±


    Mekka nodded in return. Without further ado, he stood, grabbed Ferrian around the waist, and dropped down the hole.


    When Mekka had confirmed they were both safely at the bottom, Hawk shouted a warning, then tossed down the torch, and afterwards, the Sword of Frost, listening to both clatter with an echoing din at the bottom of the hole. Then he stood back, to allow Mekka some room¡­


    A noise behind him caused him to spin, drawing his sword¡­


    ¡­ only to find himself holding half a sword, the other piece clattering onto the ground a few feet away.


    Three white winged, golden-armoured Angel guards stood in front of him. Two held torches and long, slender spears with bladed tips. The third pointed a beautiful sword at him. All of their weapons were made from ¨C of course ¨C silvertine.


    They looked exceedingly pleased with themselves.


    Hawk sighed in resignation.


    Then a gauntleted fist rushed at his face.


    ¡°No!¡±


    Mekka slammed into the underside of the hatch just as it was pulled closed from outside, clicking back into place as the locks re-engaged. He slammed his spike into it, but it only screeched and sent up a shower of sparks. He hit the closed door angrily with his fist, then dropped back to the floor.


    ¡°Damn it!¡± he yelled, his voice echoing down the corridor.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Ferrian stared up dismally at the now pitch-black shaft, the door at its top firmly closed. He sighed and picked up his Sword. ¡°We''re trapped, aren''t we.¡±


    Mekka stopped pacing and slumped against the wall, letting out a sigh of his own. ¡°Yes,¡± he muttered bitterly.


    Ferrian looked into the shadows crowding the corridor ahead of them. ¡°There must be another way out,¡± he said determinedly. ¡°The main entrance¨C¡±


    ¡°Will be locked and guarded as well,¡± Mekka replied. He shook his head. ¡°Grath Ardan is vast.¡± He paused for a moment. ¡°It is possible¡­ that there are other shafts like this one. I have not explored all of the corridors, only the main chambers, where the books are located.¡±


    The Angel pushed himself suddenly off the wall, snatched up the torch and started walking. ¡°Let''s go.¡±


    Ferrian took one last look at the hole, then followed. ¡°Hawk,¡± he said worriedly. ¡°What will they do to him?¡±


    ¡°Lock him up,¡± Mekka replied without turning around. ¡°Interrogate him. Then throw him out of Arkana.¡±


    He hesitated, then added: ¡°I hope.¡±


    ¡°You hope?¡±


    Mekka shook his head. ¡°They will not kill him,¡± he went on quietly. ¡°Angels abhor murder.¡±


    Ferrian frowned. ¡°You said your mother tried to throw you into the Pit?¡±


    ¡°I''m different,¡± Mekka replied darkly. ¡°If they believe something is truly evil, they will not hesitate to get rid of it.¡±


    Ferrian increased his pace until he was walking beside the Angel. ¡°Mekka,¡± he said. ¡°You''re not evil.¡±


    Mekka said nothing, just continued striding down the corridor, staring fixedly ahead.


    Ferrian ran forward and pointed his Sword at Mekka, forcing the Angel to come to a surprised halt.


    ¡°You''re not evil!¡± he repeated fiercely. ¡°The colour of your wings does not make you any different to anyone else!¡±


    Mekka stared at him for a long moment. Then his dark eye glimmered a little and he blinked and looked away, swallowing. ¡°Aari said the same thing,¡± he said softly.


    Ferrian continued to glare at him. ¡°Then you''d better start believing it!¡±


    Mekka looked up again slowly, and regarded Ferrian. ¡°And what do you believe about yourself?¡± he challenged.


    Ferrian hesitated, taken aback by the question that was thrown back into his face.


    How could he expect Mekka to believe in himself, he realised, if he wasn''t willing to do the same?


    He swallowed, lowering his Sword.


    Mekka walked forward and placed his gloved hand on Ferrian''s shoulder. ¡°You are stronger than you think you are, Ferrian,¡± he said. ¡°You are dead, and yet you refuse to die. You need not let the Winter consume you.¡±


    Ferrian stared back at him, and said nothing.


    ¡°We came here for answers,¡± Mekka went on, giving him a smile. ¡°Let us go and find them.¡±


    He started walking again. ¡°And when we find a way out of here,¡± he sighed, ¡°I suppose I shall have to go and rescue Hawk.¡±


    Ferrian turned and walked with him, and smiled as well, resting his Sword on his shoulder. ¡°Do you think he will appreciate that?¡± he asked.


    Mekka smirked. ¡°Not in the slightest.¡±


    * * *


    The war camp was in chaos.


    Military personnel and civilians alike ran everywhere. Tents lay burning and smouldering with Dragon fire while rogue, black-armoured soldiers wandered through the rain as though possessed, slaughtering anyone within reach. Charred corpses and body parts were strewn across the rocks, blood mingling with reddish-brown mud.


    Most survivors fled toward the docks, either throwing themselves into the sea or attempting to catch hold of hastily departing ships. Out on the churning ocean, several war brigs were aflame, lighting up the dark sea and clouds, while flashes of lightning seared the sky.


    On the Isle, the volcano closest to the camp spewed molten fire high into the air, rivers of lava streaming down its sides. From the clouds roiling over the mountains, the huge, dark shadow of a Dragon emerged. Those still left in the camp ran for their lives as the creature descended.


    The Dragon swept down towards the camp, coming fast.


    A few people slipped and fell in the mud in their haste to get away, and could only scream and cower in terror as the Dragon smashed into a collection of tents, its enormous, fearsome head with its burning, vengeful eyes bearing down on them...


    ¡­ only to come to a stop mere feet away.


    One or two people lifted their heads tentatively from the mud, to see the entire upper half of the Dragon''s mighty jaw slide sideways, releasing a hot, red, steaming gush with it.


    And incredibly, a figure stood up, from within the Dragon''s mouth, covered in blood.


    A figure clad in black armour, clutching a dark sword, with red hair streaming about her shoulders.


    She stepped over the teeth of the Dragon, jumping to the ground.


    The survivors scraped together what little remained of their wits, and fled.


    Carmine wiped blood and water from her eyes and stood breathing deeply the hot, drenched, stinking, wonderful air. She lifted her face to the clouds, letting the rain wash away the blood and gore, revelling in the simple pleasure of water trickling over her skin.


    Only two words filled her mind, like a blaze of glory:


    I''m alive!


    Then the sounds of the Isle intruded on the moment, thunder rumbled through the sky, and she remembered.


    Father!


    Turning, she ran through the camp.


    No one dared approach Carmine as she ran. A squad of five ordinary soldiers, clad in red armour, skidded to a halt at the sight of her, then simply dropped their swords and fled.


    She found the stables a few minutes later.


    All of the horses were gone; a couple of the animals lay dead on the ground, gutted from sword wounds.


    She looked around desperately.


    One horse was left. A young man dressed in miners'' garb had just mounted it.


    Carmine raced over and pointed her black sword at him, and the man leapt off the horse and sprinted away from her.


    Mounting the horse, Carmine galloped out of the main encampment and into the hills.


    The black dragon-wing blade sliced through the air, severing raindrops in its wake.


    Sirannor ducked, spinning and bringing his own blade up. The clash of the parry rang through the pass.


    The two veteran soldiers fought hard, their swords flashing like black lightning, rain pounding over them. General Dreikan, despite his armour, was swift on his feet, the moltmetal plate so light that it barely hampered his movements. Sirannor wore no protection at all, just his long coat, and was acutely aware of the consequences if just one scratch nicked his skin. It required all of his concentration to dance and spin away from that cursed black sword as, time and again, it passed within a hairsbreadth of him.


    Rarely, in his long career as a soldier, had Sirannor fought against men who were his equal.


    Dreikan was one.


    It only remained to be seen who would make the first mistake.


    Dreikan pressed hard on the offensive, knowing that his impenetrable armour gave him a significant advantage. Sirannor repelled his blows, spinning aside from another heavy slash that caught the sleeve of his coat. He didn''t have time to check if it had grazed his skin. He didn''t expect to survive long enough to get off this damned island in any case; he was not fated for a slow death.


    He fought because blood pounded through his veins, and his mind was locked into battle. It did not matter who won; this fight was all that was left for him.


    Inky mist poured off both of their blades as they fought, leaving streamers in the air. The touch of it was cold and clammy, and reminded Sirannor dimly of the demon-wraiths that haunted that lonely pass in the Barlakk Mountains. But that was of no consequence, either. He did not know what this strange black metal was, and he didn''t care if it ripped out his soul, as long as it put an end to General Dreikan along with him.


    His opponent pressed again with another flurry of sweeping blows, forcing Sirannor to defend.


    Furiously he dodged and parried the blows, watching for an opening, but the attack was too tightly controlled.


    He managed to break away, and they circled each other, breathing heavily. Sirannor could feel himself tiring, his muscles burning, and he sensed that Dreikan was, as well. The tension in the air was unbearable.


    The rain stopped, replaced with a hot, sulphurous breeze.


    Behind them, the lava flow rolled steadily onwards, consuming the bodies of the dead soldiers in the gully.


    Dreikan had noticed the lava as well, and he was certain that the General would try to take advantage of it.


    He also knew that Dreikan was thinking the same about him.


    One way or another, Sirannor thought grimly, this battle is approaching its conclusion¡­


    They knew each other too well, however.


    Dreikan tried to manoeuvre him so that his back was turned to the lava flow. Sirannor refused to let him¡­ and then, at the right moment, deliberately allowed himself to be caught between the lava and his opponent.


    Dreikan rushed at him, clearly aiming for a blow that would knock Sirannor backwards, but Sirannor had anticipated this, and rolled out of the way.


    The General was no fool, however, and had expected Sirannor to react this way. He spun mid-rush, sweeping his Dragon-blade sword to the side and downwards¡­


    He missed his enemy by inches¡­


    ¡­ but he stumbled.


    It was just a slight wobble off balance, but Sirannor did not hesitate. He was on his feet, throwing himself toward Dreikan before the man could recover, spinning out of the way of the dragon-blade, swinging his own black sword at the back of Dreikan''s exposed neck¡­


    But Dreikan recovered slightly faster than he had expected, spinning with him, so that Sirannor''s sword sliced through empty air...


    And the Dragon-blade plunged into his back and out through his chest.


    The world stopped.


    Sirannor''s own sword dropped from his hand, clattering onto the rocks. He could still feel the heat of the advancing lava, but strangely, there was no pain, just a paralysing coldness spreading from his chest into his limbs, his head¡­


    He was barely aware of Dreikan withdrawing the sword from his body, allowing him to crumple to the ground.


    The first mistake, he thought as shadow slowly claimed his vision, the only mistake¡­ is¡­ mine¡­


    Carmine thundered up the slope from the seaward side, riding recklessly on the loose scree, but somehow, her horse kept its feet.


    Cresting a final rise, into the valley where the Dragon had taken her, she saw General Dreikan turning away from a body lying on the ground, a vicious black blade held in his hand.


    Carmine felt the world spin around her, and her heart plummet out of her chest. She reined her horse to a halt in shock.


    No, she thought in horror. No, no, no, no¡­!


    Letting out a scream, she leapt off her mount and sprinted towards the General, sword in hand.


    She didn''t know what she was doing. She could fight, but certainly didn''t have the experience to take on the General. But she didn''t care. All rational thoughts had fled from her head.


    She felt tears leak across her cheeks as she ran.


    Reaching Dreikan, she lifted her own black sword in both hands and swung it at him with everything she had, screaming as she did so¡­


    Dreikan merely swatted her aside, as though she were nothing more than an insect.


    Carmine lay on the rocks, struggling to breathe through her horror and grief as General Dreikan''s orange cloak swished past her. He didn''t even bother to glance back.


    Sobbing, she scrambled to her feet, abandoning her sword, and ran to Sirannor.


    He was covered in blood. She took his head in her hands, but he was gone, his eyes lifeless chips of mountain rock.


    ¡°No...¡± Tears poured down her face. ¡°No! Father! I came back for you!¡±


    She clutched him, burying her face in his hair. ¡°I came back here for you!¡±


    She wept.

 Chapter Sixty Nine

    Flames over land, fire over sea


    Some will fight, and some will flee.


    The city of Sunsee lay brooding and quiet in the oppressive evening heat. The tail end of a fierce downpour had just passed over, moving out to sea, leaving everything sodden, glistening and sticky.


    It had also left a strange feeling in its wake, as though another storm, a far worse one, was brewing.


    Commander Tarrow, standing outside the main gates, wiped his face uselessly with a drenched handkerchief. He felt oddly nervous, though he didn''t know why.


    Damned weather, he thought irritably. The rain had done nothing to ease the stifling heat; now, instead of suffocating with each breath, he was drowning in the humidity. And the storm had done nothing to budge the persistent crowd, which was growing bigger every day.


    There had been no word on the King''s condition, either, and rumours were running rampant.


    The Dragon came so silently that Tarrow simply stared at it for a long moment without comprehending what it was he was seeing.


    It soared overhead, from behind him, vast wings spread against the dark clouds, filling the entire sky. Tarrow watched its long body taper into a slender, barbed tail, moving sinuously through the air. It moved eastwards, towards the mountains, then turned gracefully and came back, low over the forest, opened its huge jaws and breathed a stream of fire onto the crowd of several hundred people.


    It passed over his head, over the gates, and began attacking the city.


    It was only the sudden, bone-shuddering roar that broke Tarrow out of his frozen trance.


    His mind struggled to catch up with the surge of terror that flooded through him.


    People were on fire in front of him, screaming. The rest of them scattered like mice, out onto the road and into the forest.


    Tarrow turned and ran for the gates.


    Two other Watchmen were already there, hammering on the door. A moment later it opened, and a scuffle broke out as those inside tried to get out, while those outside tried to get in.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Tarrow shouted. ¡°Cease fighting!¡±


    They ignored him.


    The Watchmen inside managed to force their way out, and fled onto the highway.


    Tarrow screamed at them to come back, but no one was listening.


    Every single person around him appeared to have lost their minds.


    Tarrow felt dangerously close to losing his grip on his own¡­


    Running to the door, he slammed the butt of his halberd into the face of someone trying to get out, shoved his way inside, and raced into the street.


    Sunsee was on fire, everywhere. The Dragon circled above the city and then landed in the vicinity of the military quarter, and proceeded to cause havoc. Every nearby soldier ran in that direction. Ordinary people ran out of their houses into the street. Watchmen either ran around like headless chickens or stood dumbly, as though their brains had fallen out of their heads.


    Tarrow stood in the middle of the muddy road as people fled around him, heading for the gates. He couldn''t remember a time in his life when he had actually panicked, but at this moment, he genuinely had no idea what to do.


    Dreikan, he thought suddenly. The General. Yes. He must be responsible for this mess. This¡­ this was the army''s problem!


    Terrible screams echoed from the direction of the barracks. They are all going to be slaughtered, Tarrow thought, a dark, sick chill passing through him. Steel weapons were of no use against Dragons. They wouldn''t even scratch the thing.


    Sunsee was going to be decimated.


    Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tarrow thought he ought to go and protect the King, but he tossed the thought hurriedly away. Neodine was just a man, already badly injured and not likely to survive in any case. And the Watch were useless¡­


    To hell with this! Tarrow thought. Those soldiers could all die stupid, heroic deaths if they wished to, but there was only one sensible course of action in this situation...


    To get the hell out of there.


    He ran for the stables.


    Grisket Trice sat outside a tavern on the main street, feeling moody and restless. The tavernkeeper refused to serve him any drinks, on Hawk''s orders. He had tried establishments other than the one where he was staying, but it seemed everyone in the damned city knew who he was, know. That kid had been thorough.


    He regarded his injured leg, bitterly. He had taken off the splint, against the instructions of the nurses, because he couldn''t stand it any longer. They had responded by refusing to supply him with any more of the herbal concoction that had been keeping the pain down.


    His knee ached horribly.


    He stared at the white buildings around him, glowing with lantern-light, ghostly and slightly misty in the damp gloom. He should have left Sunsee by now; Carmine had insisted that he did not need to stay and wait for her or Sirannor, that there was nothing more he could do here, and that he was needed in the Outlands.


    She was right, and so was Hawk, but that only made him more grumpy...


    The roar shook the entire city.


    Grisket barely had time to gather his scattered thoughts before the building across the road from him exploded into flame.


    Shouts and cries came from the tavern behind him, and suddenly people were spilling out into the street, gasping and staring in horror.


    Lowering his arm, he caught a glimpse of a huge, leathery shape, its wings tattered and patchy gold scales gleaming in another burst of fire.


    Hells bells! he thought, shocked, hardly believing what he was seeing. The Dragons are free!


    The Dragon soared away over the city, long streams of flame licking the buildings as it went.


    He had known, of course, that the Aegis was about to fail; Mekka had heard it from the Arkanian Ambassador, but¡­ he had hoped that it was a hoax, or that the Angels were somehow mistaken; he hadn''t truly believed that such a thing was possible!


    The Outlands, he thought in sudden alarm. The Freeroamers.


    They were in danger¡­


    Grabbing his crutch, he pushed himself angrily to his feet. Damn himself for a fool! Sitting around here, wallowing in self pity!


    He limped as quickly as he could towards the stables.


    Quite a few others had the same idea, it turned out. People were everywhere, rushing for their horses or trying to steal the mounts of others. A brawl broke out beside him as Grisket hurried painfully across the yard.


    Gods, he hoped that Foxxin was still there¡­


    To his relief, Carmine''s chestnut stallion was still in his stall. Grisket grabbed a frightened stable boy and ordered him to fetch the tack. The boy looked pale and dazed, but did as he was told.


    Further roars, crashing sounds and screams echoed over the city, and the conflagration was taking hold around them. When the stable boy returned, Grisket helped him to hastily attach the saddle and bridle, while other horses were dragged out of their stalls on either side.


    Nearby, someone was pulled with a cry off their mount.


    Grimly, Grisket led Foxxin out into the yard. He didn''t have a hand free to draw his sword¡­


    ¡°Hand over those reins,¡± a voice demanded.


    Grisket stopped, and turned.


    A long, polished halberd was levelled at him. Beyond it, equally impeccable armour, reflecting the firelight. And above that, the furious face of Commander Tarrow.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°What happened to your own fancy steed?¡± Grisket sneered.


    ¡°It appears,¡± Tarrow answered through gritted teeth, ¡°to have been stolen!¡± He took a step forward. ¡°That horse is now mine!¡±


    Grisket limped around to face the Commander of the Watch.


    ¡°Don''t be a fool, Trice,¡± Tarrow said haughtily. ¡°You are in no condition to fight me. You''re a crip¨C¡±


    Grisket''s crutch slammed into the side of his head, and Tarrow folded up neatly and fell with a clatter to the ground.


    Tossing the crutch away, Grisket mounted Foxxin and galloped out of the stableyard.


    Sunsee burned as he rode, white buildings aflame, black smoke billowing into the muggy night air. With no wind to sweep it away, the fumes choked the streets in suffocating clouds. Grisket coughed and blinked stinging tears from his eyes as he guided Foxxin down the main thoroughfare.


    At some point, he passed the infirmary. The large, white, seashell-inspired building, usually a haven of peace, was now a hive of chaos.


    Grisket thundered past without slowing.


    Most of the people in the street fled in the opposite direction, towards the main gates, but Grisket headed westward, towards the docks.


    A few minutes later, he reached the harbour, only to discover yet more madness. The fire had not yet spread this far, and the Dragon appeared to be momentarily occupied in its vengeful effort to destroy the military compound. But a large crowd of frightened, angry and confused people had gathered here. Cityfolk, sailors and soldiers mingled and argued, fought and shouted. Several brigs from the Middle Isle had recently arrived, with scorched sails and charred, smouldering decks. Their crew and survivors had disembarked only to find their city under attack as well. Now most of them were scrambling to set sail again.


    The entire harbour was clogged with ships and boats of all kinds, everyone getting in each other''s way in the panic to escape.


    Grisket reined Foxxin to a halt and searched the crowd. It was difficult to identify anyone in the gloom and flickering glare from the distant burning buildings. He rode around the edges of the throng, keeping a safe distance, but could see no sign of Carmine or Sirannor.


    After several long minutes with no success, he turned and rode back.


    Dammit, he thought in frustration. If they hadn''t made it onto one of the ships, they were likely still on the Isle.


    He refused to acknowledge the other, more terrible possibility: that they hadn''t made it at all¡­


    He spurred Foxxin onwards, keeping to the shadows of the warehouses lining the docks, then caught sight of a fishermen hurriedly loading supplies onto his small sailing boat, in a relatively quiet space at the end of the harbour.


    Turning his horse, he galloped over.


    The fisherman looked up in alarm as Grisket approached, and jumped into his boat.


    ¡°Hoi, there!¡± Grisket called. ¡°I mean no trouble!¡±


    ¡°What do you want?¡± the man called back, preparing to cast off.


    Grisket pointed out at the dark sea. ¡°Got friends trapped on the Isle,¡± he explained. ¡°Could use some help.¡±


    ¡°The Middle Isle?¡± the man exclaimed. ¡°Are you crazy?¡±


    ¡°Think about it!¡± Grisket replied. ¡°Those Dragons have been stuck on that island for a thousand years! They ain''t goin'' back there any time soon!¡±


    The fisherman hesitated, then rubbed his chin. ¡°You got a point...¡±


    Grisket retrieved a gruble from his pocket and tossed it, flashing, to the fisherman. ¡°The Freeroamers''d be grateful.¡±


    The man looked at the golden coin in surprise, then up at Commander Trice, noticing his blue sleeve and silver badge. ¡°Freeroamers, eh?¡± He looked around for a moment, seeming undecided. He took his cap off, scratched his head, then put it back on again.


    Then he shook his head, and tossed the coin back to Grisket. ¡°Keep it,¡± he said.


    Grisket caught the gruble and gave a nod of dismay, but the fisherman shook his head again. ¡°Got family up in Misty Hill,¡± he said. ¡°Last year, the Bladeshifters tried to kidnap my young granddaughter. One of your people, a lady Centaur, got her back unharmed.¡± He nodded at Grisket. ¡°I owe you one.¡±


    Grisket smiled, and leaned down, hand outstretched. ¡°Commander Trice.¡±


    The fisherman took it. ¡°Tarin.¡± He nodded out to sea. ¡°How will I know ''em?¡±


    ¡°Lass with red hair,¡± Grisket replied. ¡°Name''s Carmine. And a man older than me, name of Sirannor.¡±


    Tarin looked doubtful. ¡°I ain''t wanderin'' around that damned island lookin'' for ''em,¡± he said.


    ¡°No need,¡± Grisket assured him. ¡°Just wait at the docks for a day or two.¡± He shook his head darkly. ¡°They''ll either be there, or not.¡±


    Tarin nodded. ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    A sudden scream came from somewhere along the docks. They both looked up at once, expecting to see the Dragon approaching, but instead beheld something strange and terrible: a group of soldiers clad in black armour had started attacking the crowd, seemingly at random.


    People scattered everywhere. Soldiers wearing the red armour of the Darorian Army attempted to engage the attackers, but were simply cut down. Grisket watched in horror as a black sword cleaved a man entirely in half with one swing.


    ¡°What the Gods?¡± he exclaimed.


    He looked back at Tarin to see that the fisherman had already cast off, his boat sliding out into the black water of the bay. ¡°Good luck to you, Tarin!¡± he called.


    ¡°You too, Commander!¡± the man called back.


    Grisket urged Foxxin into a gallop and raced for the gates.


    * * *


    Carmine sat alone at the end of an empty pier, staring eastwards, where an almost-full moon had risen, spilling its light across the waves like a bleeding ghost. The storm clouds had receded and smoke from the volcano pushed away west and north, revealing a star-speckled black sky.


    But those distant points of light held no beauty to her; they were like chips of ice scattered in an empty pit.


    The wind had turned, a cool breeze blowing now from the sea, stirring her hair, which was matted with Dragon blood.


    She had seen no one on her slow, dismal journey back to the main encampment. No one at all. She had been forced to return on foot, the horse she had stolen having disappeared, most likely taken by General Dreikan.


    She was certain the General was still on the island. She had not seen him, but she knew that he was here, still, somewhere, perhaps hiding in the hills. All the ships were either gone or ruined, and there was no other way of leaving the Isle. Everyone else had fled, or died in the attempt.


    Just him and her, she thought, the only living things left on this hell-blasted piece of rock.


    Bodies floated in the water behind her, thunking with the slap of waves against the wooden pylons of the pier.


    Carmine wasn''t afraid of Dreikan, did not care if he crept up behind her and finished her as he had her father. Behind her grief, a black wall was building itself up, brick by brick, a wall of cold anger as merciless as that void between the stars. For now, she was too sad to acknowledge it, but one day, the General was going to be staring at that wall.


    Her tears had finally stopped, leaving salty trails down her cheeks, dried by the breeze. She had left Sirannor behind. Clutching him, she had lifted her face as the heat of the approaching lava grew too intense, and finally drove her reluctantly to her feet. She could not carry him all the way back to the camp, and had no means of burying him. So she had simply turned her back and walked away down the pass.


    She had been determined not to turn, not to look, but upon reaching the point where the slope declined steeply, her resolve faltered.


    There was nothing behind her but reddish rocks and cliffs, and a steadily advancing lava flow, rolling brightly onwards towards the sea.


    Somewhere behind the camp, beyond the hills, the lava spilled now into the ocean, taking whatever remained of her father with it.


    She closed her eyes, fresh tears prickling up impossibly, as though from an endless well. She had run at the Dragon to try and protect Sirannor, to distract the creature so that he might have a chance to escape. It had been a stupid thing to do, but she had done it because she knew that if she hadn''t, her father would have. But it had all been for nothing, because he had died anyway, and she had been too late to stop it from happening.


    Opening her eyes, she brushed away the new tears with her gauntleted hand. Sirannor had told her to take the black armour off, had warned her that there was something not right about it, but she hadn''t. She couldn''t. This armour had saved her life, prevented her from being crushed in the Dragon''s jaws, and only with that impossibly sharp black sword had she managed to kill it.


    And she was too weak to defeat General Dreikan without it.


    She needed this armour.


    She wished her father had been wearing it.


    Dawn rose, pink and golden, like a newborn Dragon opening its eyes, before Carmine finally climbed to her feet. Turning her back to the sun, she walked along the wooden planks of the pier, shadow stretched out before her, and into the camp.


    Ripped and scorched canvas flapped in the breeze. Crows had arrived from somewhere, already picking at the corpses, and seagulls spun in a hazy blue sky above her head. Bodies, weapons, broken steel armour and other miscellaneous debris littered the ground while mud dried in the sun. Off to her right, the enormous carcass of the Dragon she had slain lay in a tangled twist of broken tents.


    Carmine walked through it all, carefully stepping around the corpses. In her shadow-hued armour, she felt like Death herself, doom radiating off her skin, fear and sadness and horror and pain shimmering their iridescent colours over her, the blank eyes she passed reflecting upwards in the darkly polished moltmetal. As she went, she stooped, picking up one of the black swords.


    It was not as impressive as General Dreikan''s Dragon-blade, but it was sleek and curved and vicious, one edge sculpted into a series of sharp, sweeping points, like a lethal wave.


    Lifting the sword, she stared at her face reflected in the black metal. Her image seemed to warp and shift as she watched, as though the metal was still partly liquid, and for a moment, her grey eyes darkened to soulless black holes¡­


    Shaking her head to clear away the vision, she lowered the sword and continued on.


    At the far end of the camp, a collection of tents remained undamaged. The largest of these abutted a cliff, orange and black pennants fluttering on the tops of the poles.


    The command tent.


    Carmine stepped up to the flap and entered cautiously, sword held before her.


    There was no one inside.


    Various chairs, desks and other furniture lined the interior of the tent. Banners of red and gold, orange and black depicting the royal coat of arms and emblem of the Darorian Army hung from the canvas walls. Maps of the Middle Isle were pinned alongside them. In the centre of the room sat a large table, covered with more maps, and wooden figurines representing troop and weapon placements.


    All inconsequential, now.


    Carmine walked around slowly. Something on a desk to one side caught her eye. She walked over and stared down at it.


    It was a round silver badge. An image of a chained sword and three-quarter sun was raised in the polished metal.


    She recognised it. Commander Trice had been wearing one just like it, on the sleeve of his uniform.


    It was a Freeroamer''s badge.


    Her father''s badge.


    Carefully, Carmine reached out and picked it up. I promised Commander Trice that I would bring him back.


    She thought that more tears would spill out, but the well appeared to have finally run dry. Instead, her throat just ached, along with her heart. Closing her hand around the badge, she walked to the back of the tent.


    A flap there led to another room, a natural cave in the cliff that had been turned into what appeared to be Dreikan''s personal quarters. Everything looked in order, neat and tidy, as though the General had not been back here since the attack.


    Carmine hesitated, wondering if he had indeed managed to find some way off the island, stranding her here, alone. She questioned, not for the first time, why he he had left her alive. He could have slit her throat, left her to die alongside her father, but instead he had walked away...


    Her hand tightened on her sword. He wants me to hurt, she thought angrily. He wants me to come after him, reckless and full of hate¡­


    She was sure that he was still on the Isle, somewhere.


    The black wall at the back of her mind built itself up, another brick.


    Her eyes fell upon a long coat hanging on a hook on the wall. It was similar to Sirannor''s, but in much better condition, and of a more modern design; orange chevrons decorated each of the lower sleeves and the back of the garment, from waist to hem.


    Placing her sword down on a nearby desk, she walked over and took the coat off its hook, and put it on.


    It was too big, of course; the sleeves had to be rolled up and the hem brushed the ground, but it fit over her armour. Rummaging in the drawers of the desk, she found a piece of string and pulled her hair back from her face, binding it behind her head.


    She pinned Sirannor''s badge onto her left sleeve.


    Then she picked up her black blade, walked back out into the main room, sat down, placed her weapon before her on the war table, and waited.

 Chapter Seventy

    Words of power, twisted space


    A little hope in one young face.


    The corridor was long, dark and¡­ strange. Initially, it appeared to be constructed of stone, aside from the entry hatch; Ferrian made an experimental attempt to slice through the wall, but any hope of cutting an escape route with his Sword was dashed: an impenetrable barrier of silvertine lay behind it.


    After a couple of hundred yards, the stone fa?ade gave way completely to square-shaped panels of silvertine lining the entire hallway ¨C walls, floor and ceiling, as though they were walking through a mirrored tunnel.


    And worse, some of the panels were not silver, but made of a familiar, ominous, darkly lustrous material.


    Ferrian couldn''t bring himself to walk across the black panels, but skirted them hurriedly, instead.


    Mekka strode ahead, unconcerned, then paused and glanced back at Ferrian in amusement, his torch reflecting firelight all around them. ¡°You need not be apprehensive, Ferrian,¡± the Angel assured him. ¡°The trigon will not affect you. It is held in balance with the silvertine.¡±


    ¡°It makes me feel prickly when I walk over it,¡± Ferrian complained.


    ¡°Likely your magic reacting to it. Better get used to it. The whole of Grath Ardan is constructed this way.¡±


    Gritting his teeth, Ferrian forced himself to walk over the trigonic tiles, as Mekka was casually doing. Whatever that black metal was, it disgusted him. He didn''t trust it.


    ¡°This place is a lot creepier than I thought it would be,¡± he muttered.


    Mekka glanced back at him again, smirking. ¡°Oh, the best is yet to come,¡± he remarked.


    Ferrian stared at his reflection in the walls as he walked, but that wasn''t a comforting sight either, so he stared at Mekka''s reflection, instead. ¡°I thought you said that if these two materials were put together, they ripped reality apart?¡±


    ¡°What makes you think,¡± the Angel replied enigmatically, ¡°that the reality you are now occupying is the same as the one from which you entered?¡±


    Ferrian frowned, but Mekka didn''t elucidate, just left him pondering that disquieting thought as they continued onwards, into the dark.


    A short while later, the corridor ended in a door. It was perfectly square, similar to the hatch that they had entered through, but larger, and bore the same curious, circular design raised in the centre.


    ¡°Is this one locked, too?¡± Ferrian asked.


    ¡°It was when I first discovered this place,¡± Mekka replied. ¡°But I dare say no one else has been in here since I left.¡±


    He gave the door a shove, and was proved right: it swung smoothly and silently open.


    They passed through.


    An enormous, dark chamber lay beyond. It was lined with the same complicated pattern of trigon and silvertine squares, with several larger, recessed panels that appeared to be other doors, identical to the one they had come through.


    In the middle of the floor was a huge grating of some kind. Dim white light poured through a multitude of small holes from somewhere below, rising like a ghostly forest of spears into an infinite black vastness above. Oddly, a swarm of white flecks floated upwards within the beams of light. They looked like snowflakes.


    Ferrian, mesmerised by the ethereal sight, walked forward and touched one of the flecks.


    It was a snowflake!


    Astonished, he crouched and peered down through one of the holes.


    Trees could be seen there, leaves and criss-crossing branches, and beyond them, a pale sky¡­


    He stood up, gasping. ¡°What¡­!¡±


    ¡°As I said,¡± Mekka explained calmly. ¡°Reality works differently, here.¡± He smiled, and gestured at the grating. ¡°You are standing on the main entrance.¡±


    Ferrian just stared at him, uncomprehending.


    ¡°On the underside of it,¡± Mekka added. ¡°We are, in relation to the forest, upside down.¡±


    Ferrian''s eyes widened.


    The Angel walked over to the wall and extinguished his torch. Then he fished a piece of charcoal out of his pocket and wrote something on one of the silver panels.


    A moment later, the silvertine tiles ¨C all of them ¨C suddenly illuminated themselves with a warm, white-golden glow, like sunlight.


    Light flooded the chamber, chasing away the cold shadows, apart from the trigon panels, which stood out like a dark disease on the walls and floor.


    Ferrian looked around in wonder, and then made the terrible mistake of looking up.


    ¡°ARGH!!¡±


    He threw himself onto the floor, clutching the grating.


    Mekka stood gazing upwards, smiling. ¡°Marvellous, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± For once, Ferrian was actually grateful that he was dead, as he felt sure he would have thrown up otherwise.


    Bracing himself, he risked another look, and immediately squeezed his eyes closed. He could remember experiencing something like this only once before in his life: when he had stood staring too long at the stars one night in a clear sky. A feeling of unimaginable hugeness had gripped him, as though he were an insignificant speck in a universe too vast to comprehend, and that he was about to be swallowed up by it. It had filled him with a brief, cold terror and left him covered in sweat afterwards.


    This was a similar feeling.


    Above him ¨C or below him, as the case may be ¨C lit up by the glowing walls, stretched a seemingly endless array of rooms, arches and walkways that made no physical sense if he looked at them too closely. And all of the rooms were lined with books ¨C thousands, perhaps millions of books.


    ¡°It takes some getting used to,¡± Mekka admitted.


    Ferrian forced himself to his feet, determinedly not looking above ¨C below ¨C him. That Mekka had mentioned they were standing on the ceiling did not help matters. He picked up his Sword, which thankfully had not plummeted into the impossible, book-lined abyss.


    ¡°Okaaay...¡± he said, taking a deep breath. ¡°What now?¡±


    With a flap of his black wings, Mekka leapt into the air, backflipped and landed neatly on the wall. He waved Ferrian over. ¡°Follow me!¡±


    Ferrian stared up at the Angel in dismay, then walked reluctantly over to the wall and placed his hand upon one of the silver panels.


    He fell forward onto his face.


    ¡°Oof!¡±


    Pushing himself up, he found that Mekka was standing the right way up and the grating with light streaming through it was now situated on the wall behind him. The shaft full of books and insane architecture no longer rose above his head, but was a vast corridor in front of him.


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    It was a slight improvement, now that his brain was no longer telling him he ought to be falling into an infinite pit. ¡°Takes some getting used to,¡± he muttered. ¡°Wow. That''s an understatement...¡±


    ¡°Come on, now,¡± Mekka said, folding his arms. ¡°Don''t be like Hawk.¡±


    Ferrian shook his head. ¡°I don''t think I could be like Hawk if I tried.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Mekka turned and started walking. ¡°Just act like an insufferable idiot and make tasteless jokes at inappropriate moments.¡± He stopped and looked down into one of the rooms. ¡°You''ll soon get the hang of it.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Ferrian replied. ¡°I''m starting to miss him, too...¡±


    Mekka leapt down into the room. Ferrian stepped up to the edge, which was in fact a pillared archway, and watched the Angel walk onto the wall and pull one of the books off a shelf.


    Swallowing, he looked around, then carefully touched the wall beside him.


    In an instant, he found himself flung awkwardly onto the floor.


    ¡°You should try to do that a little more gracefully,¡± Mekka commented, without looking up.


    Ferrian picked himself up and brushed the dust off his clothing. ¡°Sure,¡± he muttered, scowling at the Angel. ¡°How did you do that, back there?¡± he gestured with his Sword. ¡°With the light, I mean?¡±


    Mekka shrugged. ¡°I just wrote ''Light'' on the wall,¡± he replied.


    ¡°Really?¡± Ferrian said, taken aback. ¡°It''s that easy?¡±


    Mekka ran his hand gently over the page of the book he was holding, then carefully closed it. ¡°Words in this place,¡± he explained, ¡°contain great power.¡±


    He looked up at Ferrian. ¡°Words written outside of Grath Ardan are replicated here, once. Words written within the library itself are replicated an unknown number of times¡­ perhaps infinite. They reflect back on themselves, gaining power until their meaning becomes literal.¡±


    Ferrian stared at him. ¡°So¡­ couldn''t we just write ''Exit'' on the wall and create a door?¡±


    Mekka shook his head. ¡°No. Anything that is created in Grath Ardan exists only here. A door must exist in this reality and also in the outside world in order to function. And besides,¡± he shrugged again. ¡°I have already tried it.¡±


    Ferrian''s eyebrows raised. ¡°You have? What else have you tried?¡±


    Mekka waved a hand vaguely. ¡°Various things.¡± He stared into space contemplatively for a moment. ¡°I tried writing my name, once,¡± he said. ¡°It created an exact copy of myself. It was extremely annoying. I wouldn''t recommend it.¡±


    He looked back at Ferrian, his expression serious. ¡°Be exceedingly careful what you write in here, and where.¡± He shook his head. ¡°This place is very complicated. There are some rules that I still haven''t figured out.¡±


    Ferrian nodded, glancing around at the bookshelves. They were dusty and cobwebbed, the books bound in ancient leather, but in surprisingly good condition. Ferrian went to the nearest shelf and leaned his Sword against it. He pulled out one of the heavy tomes and opened it.


    And encountered a problem that he hadn''t even considered until that moment.


    ¡°Oh no...¡± he said, flipping through the pages. ¡°Oh no...¡±


    He shoved the book back in its place, then hurried to the other side of the room and pulled out another, only to find the same thing.


    ¡°Oh, crap!¡±


    ¡°What''s wrong?¡±


    Ferrian shook his head in frustration. ¡°These books,¡± he said in despair. ¡°I can''t read them!¡±


    ¡°Of course you can''t,¡± Mekka replied calmly. ¡°They are written in Ancient Angelican. Most Angels cannot read them, let alone a Human.¡±


    Ferrian let himself fall forward slowly until his forehead thunked against the bookshelf in a puff of dust.


    Mekka walked over and took the book gently out of his hands, and leaned against the shelf beside him. ¡°However,¡± the Angel said quietly, ¡°you don''t need to.¡±


    Ferrian blinked and straightened, giving the Angel a confused look.


    ¡°Because,¡± Mekka went on, smiling, ¡°this is not the real Grath Ardan.¡± He nodded at Ferrian, and winked. ¡°Like I said: the best is yet to come!¡±


    * * *


    The guards hadn''t bothered with shackles, or even a prison cell. Instead, they had found a unique but effective means of preventing Hawk from escaping.


    They had dumped him on a circular platform a few hundred feet in the air, with no way off. Except, of course, if one possessed wings, which Hawk didn''t.


    This wasn''t the worst part, however.


    The thing that really burned Hawk up was that the Angels found this hilarious.


    He had awoken from unconsciousness, rudely, by one of those disgusting fruits smashed into his face.


    Quite a crowd had gathered to laugh and point and gawk at him, as though they''d never seen a Human before in their lives. And most of them, Hawk realised, probably hadn''t.


    All he could do was grit his teeth and endure the humiliation. At least they seemed content to hurl rotten fruit and inventive insults, and not something harder or more pointy¡­


    Eventually, the crowd had grown bored and wandered away. Now Hawk sat, gloomy and shivering, in the middle of his platform. A cold breeze blew at this height, and snow fell now and then. At least, he thought with great satisfaction, the guards appeared to be suffering equal discomfort¡­


    Two white-winged guards stood nearby, leaning on their spears and ruffling their feathers, or occasionally pacing around to keep themselves warm. They had lit a large, gilded brazier, which sat between them on the edge of the rounded precipice where the city dropped off; the heat reached Hawk on his platform, preventing him from freezing.


    The Angels were dressed inadequately for the weather, however. Aside from their golden armour and winged helmets, their legs were covered in criss-crossing leather straps that ended in sandals. Their arms were bare, too, apart from their gauntlets and stylish pauldrons. Hawk guessed, with a smirk, that they hadn''t expected Winter to drop on them so suddenly.


    The common Angelfolk were similarly poorly attired, Hawk noticed; they were all dressed in loose, flimsy clothing, as though for a warm summer''s day. They regarded the snow with just as much puzzled fascination that they had shown towards Hawk. Children were playing in it, in the wide, open plaza directly opposite where he sat.


    Have they never seen snow before, either? he wondered curiously.


    Hawk had plenty of time to observe the city and its people as he sat waiting to see if someone was going to skewer him on one of those spears.


    Fleetfleer was a beautiful city, he had to admit. White towers, slender and high, rose before him to the clouds and fell beneath him to the dark forest canopy. Many of them were inlaid with green and yellow decorative designs. There were gardens everywhere, too, plants and colourful flowers spilling from walls, courtyards and planter boxes. Ivy twined around the towers, here and there.


    A grand, open space, probably the central plaza of the city, lay in front of him, surrounded by large, multi-storied buildings. The plaza simply dropped off, with no railing or parapet, in a large curve. Five round platforms were suspended a few yards out from the edge, equally spaced along its length. Hawk had no idea what their intended purpose was, but one of them, at least, was currently being used for novelty entertainment: him.


    But at least he wasn''t the only thing drawing attention.


    Some kind of market or festival was going on in the middle of the plaza, the cold seemingly not dampening anyone''s enthusiasm. And above it all floated one of the Seraphim.


    Hawk found it difficult not to stare at the Seraph. He hadn''t expected it to be so huge, or its weird blue eyes so mesmerising. It was beautiful and creepy at the same time.


    Somewhere in Arkana, there were two more of those things, maintaining the Angels'' Aegis.


    The golden colour of the Aegis cast a yellowish tinge to the light, like late afternoon, despite the cloudy sky.


    Unfortunately, that wasn''t the only thing casting a yellowish tinge. One of the guards decided to take a moment to relieve himself off the edge of the plaza, right in front of Hawk. He didn''t look embarrassed about it, either.


    Scowling at the guard, Hawk shifted position, turning his back in disgust.


    He tried to think of a way to get off the platform. It was slightly too far to jump, and the edge of the plaza was made of smooth, polished stone. There was nothing to grip on to, except perhaps the brazier, but he would never be able to reach it without a rope. He wondered if he could taunt one of the guards over, then wrestle his spear off him and threaten him with it¨C


    ¡°Hello!¡±


    The voice was so incongruous amid his daydream of punching a guard in the face, that Hawk initially ignored it. But then it came again.


    ¡°Hello!¡±


    He turned.


    The guard had thankfully finished his business. In fact, both of the guards had wandered a little way away and were leaning on their spears, watching a couple of performers. No one was looking his way, except for a little girl, sitting on the edge of the plaza, swinging her legs. She lifted her hand and waved at him.


    Hawk lifted his own hand uncertainly, and waved back. ¡°Uh. Hi?¡±


    The Angel girl tilted her head on one side. ¡°Are you a Human?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Hawk replied.


    She giggled. ¡°You look funny!¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Hawk replied drily, scuffing his messed-up hair, as though that were the main cause of his odd appearance. ¡°I try.¡±


    The girl giggled again. Then she got up and began dancing on the edge of the precipice, and humming along to the catchy music from the performers.


    Hawk winced. He knew she was an Angel, but still, seeing a kid frolicking about on the edge like that¡­


    ¡°Urgh. Don''t do that!¡±


    She looked over at him curiously, but didn''t stop what she was doing. ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Umm?¡± Hawk looked away, and sighed. ¡°Never mind...¡±


    A moment later, he glanced back, but she was gone.


    He shook his head. Kids.


    And then something poked him in the back.


    He spun.


    ¡°Wow!¡± the girl said. ¡°You really don''t have any wings! That''s so weird!¡±


    Hawk frowned at her. ¡°Look, you can''t come over here,¡± he glanced anxiously over his shoulder at the guards, but they weren''t paying any attention. ¡°You''ll get into trouble!¡±


    The girl just shrugged.


    Hawk scowled at her again. ¡°I''m a prisoner. I could be dangerous.¡±


    The girl rolled her eyes. ¡°You don''t look dangerous.¡±


    Hawk wasn''t sure whether to take that as an insult or not. ¡°Why don''t you go and play with the other kids over there?¡± He pointed.


    She went quiet, then, and her face fell. ¡°I''m not allowed to,¡± she said, staring at the ground.


    ¡°You''re not allowed to?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°I''m not allowed to have friends.¡± She glanced sadly at the plaza. ¡°I''m not even supposed to be outside, but I wanted to look at the snow.¡± Lifting her head, she peered up at the golden clouds, and her expression brightened. ¡°It just falls out of the sky! It''s so pretty!¡±


    Her cheerfulness suddenly restored, she started dancing again.


    Hawk watched her, baffled. She was a cute kid. Her short, coppery hair was tied in a little curl at the back of her head, though her fringe fell into her eyes. Her wings were white, with a reddish-coppery pattern, and¡­


    He went still. An image flashed before him, a scene that he had tried hard to forget, but this girl had brought it back.


    The Angel in the infirmary: the poor guy that Cimmeran had murdered. His wings had been bandaged up pretty well, so Hawk couldn''t be sure of the similarity, but a few of the longest feathers were poking out.


    They had been bright, fiery orange.


    Just like the wing-tips of this girl.

 Chapter Seventy One

    Through the library, room to room


    Deeper, there, the secrets loom.


    ¡°Hey, kid,¡± Hawk said slowly. ¡°What''s your name?¡±


    The girl stopped skipping around. ¡°Li!¡± she answered brightly.


    ¡°Your whole name?¡±


    ¡°Li''Zan!¡±


    Dammit, Hawk cursed to himself. She IS related!


    He felt suddenly miserable, the cold wind biting at him fiercely. She was pretty young, he thought. Six? Seven? Likely, she hadn''t even been born when Aari had left. She couldn''t have known him.


    I''m not allowed to have friends¡­


    Her parents were probably being overprotective. He shook his head. After all, it was Mekka''s influence that had caused Aari to run away¡­


    ¡°What''s wrong?¡± Li asked suddenly. ¡°You look so sad!¡±


    Hawk swallowed and shook his head. ¡°Nothing. You just¡­ remind me of someone.¡±


    She sat down nearby, folding her legs under her. She wore the same kind of sandals as the guards, with leather straps covering her bare legs, and a short-sleeved tunic. She was covered in goosebumps and looked as cold as Hawk felt. She hunched her wings over her, to keep out the wind. ¡°Do you have any friends?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Hawk replied.


    ¡°Where are they?¡±


    ¡°Somewhere waaay below us,¡± Hawk said gloomily. ¡°Probably having a great time without me.¡±


    ¡°Did they go into the library?¡±


    Hawk raised an eyebrow in surprise. ¡°How did you know that?¡±


    The Angel girl shrugged. ¡°There''s nothing else interesting down there,¡± she said simply.


    Hawk snuffed in amusement. ¡°Good point.¡±


    Li hugged herself. ¡°I''ve been in the library, too,¡± she told him.


    Hawk blinked and then looked at her abruptly. ¡°Wait. What? You''ve been inside Grath Ardan?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    ¡°How did you get in?¡±


    She shrugged again. ¡°Through the hole.¡±


    ¡°The hole?¡±


    ¡°Yes! There''s a hole in a tree. It goes all the way down! It''s fun, but spooky.¡± She shook her head. ¡°I never went very far, though. It''s pretty dark in there.¡±


    Hawk stared at her in astonishment and admiration. ¡°You have a habit of doing things that are forbidden, don''t you?¡±


    She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. ¡°Well, what else am I supposed to do? Die of boredom?¡±


    There was sudden applause from over on the plaza. Hawk looked up to see that the performance had ended and the crowd was dispersing. The two guards were talking to each other.


    Hawk pushed himself quickly to his knees, his mind and heart racing. ¡°Look, Li, could you do something for me?¡±


    She stared up at him quizzically.


    ¡°Could you go down into Grath Ardan and tell my friends what has happened to me?¡±


    She continued to stare at him. ¡°Will you be my friend?¡±


    The guards were turning around, starting to return to their posts.


    ¡°What? Yes! Sure! I''ll be your best friend for the rest of your life!¡±


    The girl''s eyes grew huge, as though he''d asked her to marry him. ¡°Really? You mean it?!¡±


    ¡°Yes! I promise! Now go! Hurry, the guards are coming back!¡±


    He got to his feet and stood in front of her, blocking her from view as she scuffled off the edge of the platform. He glanced back to see if she was gone.


    She was.


    Stepping over to the edge, he peered over to see her white wings circling down into the misty treetops.


    ¡°Why don''t you try it?¡± one of the guards called. ¡°We would love to see a Human attempt to fly!¡±


    The guards both laughed.


    Hawk glared at them, hands clenching into fists. ¡°Why don''t you come over on to this platform?¡± he challenged back. ¡°Then we''ll see who''s capable of flying!¡±


    They just laughed again.


    ¡°You are amusing,¡± one of them said, clapping. ¡°Keep it up!¡±


    Gritting his teeth, Hawk walked over and resumed his place in the centre of the platform.


    * * *


    Grath Ardan was a nightmare to navigate. Mekka, being able to fly, could move about with ease; Ferrian, however, had to do it the hard way ¨C floor to wall, wall to ceiling, ceiling to walkway. It was awkward, dizzying and he kept falling onto his face.


    For a while, he was able to orient himself by the light streaming through the entrance grating, but it was soon obscured by the walkways crossing the central shaft. Room after room of endless books twisted around him, and he lost all sense of which way was up or down. If Mekka hadn''t been there to guide him, he would surely have become hopelessly lost.


    He wasn''t sure how long they travelled through the library; there was no way of tracking time ¨C if time even existed there ¨C but now and then Mekka grew tired and stopped in one of the rooms to rest.


    The Angel had completely run out of provisions, and, while neither of them spoke of it, Ferrian was concerned.


    And that wasn''t the only dark thought creeping around in the shadows at the back of his mind.


    As he sat on the dusty floor, waiting for his friend to wake, he remembered the two sorcerers he had left behind, in a cold castle, in a hidden valley, far away in the Barlakk Mountains.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Slowly, they were being eaten away by trigon, their souls transforming into something twisted and horrible.


    What if I do end up finding a cure in here, Ferrian thought morosely, but I can never get out?


    What if his own fate was to spend the rest of eternity trapped inside Grath Ardan, wandering the rooms alone as a dusty, walking corpse?


    Closing his eyes tightly, he forced the gloomy thoughts from his mind. There has to be another way out...


    More than just shelves of books were to be found furnishing the seemingly endless chambers of Grath Ardan. Ferrian came across a variety of objects: desks, chairs and beds, statues and lecterns and globes of Arvanor, even a few personal belongings, all covered in a layer of dust and lit by the steady, golden glow from the walls.


    Mekka explained that the library had once been inhabited by caretakers and students. There had been a brief revival of interest in Grath Ardan about two hundred years ago, until a few decades later, when the SOMS had exploded and the Angels lost all faith in magic. More importantly, they feared what would happen if Humans were allowed access to the library and the vast amount of knowledge it contained.


    So, the Angels had quickly and quietly closed Grath Ardan, deciding that the place was best left alone, and hopefully forgotten: that the power it contained was too dangerous for any race to be responsible for.


    The library had been neglected ever since.


    Some of the items were lying about in disarray, as though the previous occupants had left in a hurry. Ferrian came across a bed with a book still lying open upon it.


    He brushed dust off the elegant, ancient writing, wishing he could understand what that long-ago scholar had been studying.


    He also found a wardrobe with clothing still inside. There was a fine, old-fashioned jacket made of soft, grey material, embroidered with silver thread. It was designed with Angel anatomy in mind ¨C there were two buttoned slits in the back, to accommodate wings.


    Ferrian tried it on, and decided to keep it.


    The very next room, however, stopped him ¨C so to speak ¨C dead.


    Books were strewn everywhere: every single volume had been pulled off its shelf and flung violently about the room. Many of the books were shredded: pieces of paper and torn covers littered the floor.


    There was something¡­ wrong about this room, too. It was darker than the others; the floor and walls were made almost entirely of trigon, lit only by a single square of silvertine in the ceiling.


    Ferrian stepped forward hesitantly, his magic prickling an unpleasant warning through his skin. He crouched slowly, examining the mistreated books.


    Reddish-brown markings of some kind were scrawled over the top of the original text on the pages. He couldn''t tell if it was supposed to be actual writing: it seemed crude and random, like an angry child''s scribblings. There were stains, too, splattered across the paper¡­


    Then he saw the hand.


    It was brown and withered, dry skin pulled tight around the bones, poking out from under a pile of ripped books.


    Getting quickly to his feet, Ferrian hurried through the nearest archway and crossed another room until he reached the central shaft.


    ¡°Mekka!¡±


    The Angel flapped down from his perch on one of the walkways. Ferrian gestured inside and followed Mekka warily back into the dark room.


    Mekka stopped abruptly, staring around at the destruction.


    ¡°There''s¡­ there''s a body...¡± Ferrian pointed.


    Mekka walked over to the pile and began pulling books away, to reveal the desiccated corpse of a golden-winged Angel lying underneath.


    It had no head.


    ¡°What¡­ what did this?¡± Ferrian stammered.


    Mekka crouched beside the body and picked up one of the slashed books. ¡°Murons,¡± he replied quietly.


    Ferrian''s eyes widened. ¡°Murons!¡±


    Mekka shook his head. ¡°This is not recent,¡± he said. ¡°This happened a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ what could Murons want inside a library? Can they even read?¡±


    ¡°No. They cannot.¡± He gestured at the unfortunate Angel on the floor. ¡°Which is why they brought someone who could.¡±


    Mekka shook his head again, indicating the torn book in his hand. ¡°These scrawlings are nonsensical. Murons cannot write. They have destroyed and defaced the books in mockery, to show their hatred and anger of this library. It seems that they did not find what they were looking for...¡±


    His voice trailing off, he set the book down. Getting to his feet, he stepped to one side, bent and pulled something out of the massacre of paper.


    Ferrian gasped.


    Mekka held a long, slender sword in his hand. It was identical to Ferrian''s Sword of Frost, with the same twin snakes of white and black twining up from the hilt, except that it was missing the dagger-shaped recess, and there were garnets embedded in the handle.


    ¡°Gods!¡± Ferrian exclaimed. ¡°That Angel was a sorcerer?!¡±


    Mekka nodded grimly. ¡°Beheaded with his own Sword.¡±


    Ferrian stared down at the corpse in horror.


    ¡°It would explain the Muron''s particular interest in you,¡± Mekka remarked. ¡°Evidently, they require someone with the use of magic, perhaps to perform or read a spell for them.¡± He stared at the ancient, murdered Angel. ¡°It seems that their last captive failed them.¡±


    Ferrian swallowed back his fear, thinking that the body could easily have been him, lying in a pile of shredded paper, his head lopped off with his own Sword, when the Murons discovered that he couldn''t read any of these books.


    ¡°Go on ahead,¡± Mekka said. ¡°We are nearly there.¡±


    Ferrian did so, reluctantly. Halfway across the adjoining room, he glanced back to see Mekka carefully rearranging the body into a more dignified position, placing the Sword gently upon the Angel''s skeletal chest.


    Though the black-winged Angel had good reason to detest his own people, it seemed that he still respected them in death.


    The chamber at the bottom of the shaft was similar to the one from which they had entered, but contained no doors or glimpses of the outside world. The walls were smooth, shiny and black, rippling with a lurid, rainbow iridescence, while the floor was composed of illuminated silvertine. The room was perfectly square, and completely empty, save for a simple lectern in the very centre of the floor.


    Sitting on the lectern was a single, large book.


    Mekka outstretched his arm. ¡°This,¡± he said, his voice hushed with reverence, ¡°is Grath Ardan.¡±


    Ferrian looked from the lectern to the Angel in disbelief. ¡°One book?¡±


    Mekka nodded. ¡°One book.¡± He indicated Ferrian to go ahead.


    Slowly, Ferrian walked across the reflective, glowing floor tiles, unable to shake the feeling that he was an intruder on holy ground, treading somewhere he had no right to be. Around him and above him, the library was utterly silent: nothing moved save dust motes disturbed into life by his steps.


    The black walls seemed to leer back at him, taunting, reminding him what he was there for, but keeping their secrets hidden away.


    Reaching the lectern, he stepped up to the book.


    It was much larger than the thousands of tomes that filled the shelves above him, but otherwise looked very ordinary. It was bound in brown leather, discoloured and worn with age, the corners tattered. The cover was unadorned save for a simple, embossed emblem: a circle with three lines spiralling inwards, the segments dyed dark, light and a shade in between.


    Ferrian found himself struggling to comprehend that this was Grath Ardan, that the entirety of the world''s written knowledge was contained within these pages. Every single word ever written, by any race, throughout the whole of history, since this book was made.


    ¡°Go ahead.¡± Suddenly, Mekka was by his side. ¡°Don''t be afraid.¡±


    Nervously, Ferrian reached out and touched the cover.


    The book sprang open as though by a fierce gust of wind, the pages rippling. Startled, Ferrian stepped back.


    Mekka held his hand above the pages, allowing his palm to gently brush them, and the book fell open, the paper settling into stillness.


    Ferrian was surprised to see that the pages were blank.


    ¡°But,¡± he said in confusion. ¡°It''s empty!¡±


    Mekka shook his head, smiling. ¡°Not at all.¡± He held up a finger. ¡°Watch.¡±


    Producing a piece of charcoal from his pocket, the Angel leaned over the book and carefully wrote a single word in the middle of the page.


    Trigon.


    A moment later, the word faded into the parchment and disappeared. Then the book came alive again, pages rippling with a dry, rustling sound, and fell open on the first page.


    The paper was now filled with neat lines of elegant text.


    Ferrian stared in astonishment, then sighed, shoulders slumping in dismay. ¡°I still can''t read it!¡±


    Mekka closed the book, then opened it again, and repeated the process, this time writing: Trigon in Common on an empty page.


    Once again, the book rippled and fell open on the first page, and Ferrian found that this time, it was written in a language that he could understand.


    He stared at it in awe.


    ¡°The book also translates,¡± Mekka explained, handing him the charcoal. ¡°Simply write whatever it is you wish to know.¡±


    ¡°But,¡± Ferrian said, taking the charcoal, but still perplexed. ¡°What about all those rooms full of books? What are they?¡±


    ¡°The original copies,¡± Mekka answered, gazing upwards. ¡°Thousands of years ago, the Angels used to be prolific writers and researchers. They studied anything and everything imaginable, wishing to know all they could of the world. This library is the main repository of knowledge of the Angelican race.


    ¡°There are other large libraries, elsewhere in Arvanor. In Trystania, for instance, and the Royal Archives in Crystaltina. The SOMS had an impressive collection, as well, but of course it was destroyed.


    ¡°However,¡± he gestured at the book, ¡°all of the knowledge of magic that the sorcerers gathered still exists here. If the information you are looking for cannot be found in Grath Ardan...¡± he shook his head, ¡°then either it does not exist, or it was never written down.¡±


    Ferrian stared at the ancient book, wondering at the incredible secrets it must contain.


    I could find out anything, he thought. Anything...


    ¡°Well,¡± Mekka turned away. ¡°I will leave you to it.¡±


    ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    ¡°To look for a way out.¡±


    Ferrian nodded, watching the Angel fly back up the shaft. He supposed that Mekka knew his way around well enough not to get lost.


    Turning back to the book, he began reading the first page.


    He was a few pages in, quietly absorbed in the text, when a voice said, quite suddenly from behind him: ¡°Hello!¡±


    Ferrian jumped so hard that he had to grab the lectern for support.


    He felt sure that if his heart had been functioning, it would have ended up on the floor.


    He spun.


    A small Angel girl stood there, beaming up at him.

 Chapter Seventy Two

    In mountain rock and ivory stone


    The wraith awakens, not alone.


    Soft raindrops on glass.


    A pale stone wall came slowly into focus, surrounded by a vignette of grey haze.


    The shadows of the raindrops moved across the stone like tears.


    The air was cold and musty, tinged with the scent of mildew.


    He could hear a soft sound, as of someone breathing, and became aware that it was himself... and then his consciousness faded away again, like the sun behind the clouds.


    The wall came into being again, though now the rain was gone, and a ghostly gloom lingered on the stone.


    It was a white wall, featureless and smooth.


    He stared at it for a long time, and then blinked.


    Gradually, his head moved, like a statue coming to life.


    A set of wooden shelves stood in the corner to his left, beside the door. A few books sat upon them, as well as a neatly folded woollen blanket, and an unlit lantern. The door itself was closed.


    Behind him, over his shoulder, was a cold hearth with an ornate, white stone mantlepiece.


    Slowly, he turned his head the other way.


    A small, round window was set into the wall beside him. Through it, he could see rugged, lichen-speckled cliffs of grey mountain rock.


    Grey mountain rock. White stone.


    For a long moment he stared out the window, feeling something stirring deep in his mind. Sparks of memory ignited and winked out again before he could grasp them, like embers flaring briefly.


    Turning away from the window, he allowed his gaze to fall downward.


    A fine, gleaming sword lay in front of him, held in a pale, long-fingered hand. His hand? The sword lay on top of a body, which was clad in black and gold.


    More sparks started firing.


    He blinked again, and frowned slightly. Something¡­ something was familiar¡­


    Then he caught sight of his reflection in the polished blade.


    He watched his own sky blue eyes widen in recognition.


    And then his brain came alive, memories flaring up and roaring through it in an unstoppable inferno. His sense of himself returned with a shocking jolt.


    Gasping, he released his Sword and grasped his head with both hands as dizziness threatened to overwhelm him.


    Gods, he thought, what''s happening to me?!


    He endured the bright, burning rush, and when it finally passed, he lowered his hands. Taking a deep breath, he blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what was going on.


    Lifting his head, he looked around again, this time fully aware.


    He appeared to be sitting in one of the spare rooms in his castle, unable to remember how he had come to be there, and there was someone lying on the bed in front of him¡­


    He gasped again. ¡°Arzath!¡±


    Quickly, he looked over the prone form of his brother, trying to determine what was wrong with him, but it didn''t take long to discover. He picked up the arm nearest him.


    The hand was completely black and claw-like. The skin disintegrated into dark mist, even as he watched.


    Requar released the hand, eyes widening again. Leaning over, he turned Arzath''s head towards him.


    A choked sound left his throat, and he leapt at once to his feet, knocking over the chair and almost tripping over it in his shock.


    He backed away until he came up against the mantlepiece.


    A black, skull-like face stared back at him from the bed. Mist poured off the body, disturbed into life by the sudden movement, thickening into oily smoke.


    Requar stared in disbelief and horror.


    Somehow, his brother had become infected with trigon and was now turning into a demon-wraith in front of him!


    ¡°No!¡± he gasped, shaking his head in shocked denial.


    How did this happen?!


    The wraith swirled over the bed and around the body, a shifting, formless, deadly cloud. One touch of it against his skin could rip Requar''s soul out.


    His heart was making a fine effort to escape, already.


    Then, through a haze of terror and grief, he noticed something.


    The wraith was avoiding the Sword of Healing.


    The oily cloud attempted to swirl around the shining blade, but drew back as though repelled. There was a clear space of air around the Sword, a hole in the middle of the cloud.


    It''s not too late, Requar thought suddenly, wildly. It''s not too late!


    He found that he was shaking. I can NOT lose my brother to trigon as well! I WILL NOT!!


    With a sudden, desperate cry, he pushed himself away from the mantle and threw himself towards the bed. Snatching up the Sword of Healing, he plunged it downwards, through Arzath''s chest, summoned his magic ¨C ALL of it ¨C and sent it surging through the blade in an explosion of blue-white fire.


    The entrance foyer of the castle sat still and quiet, lit by a serene blue and gold glow from the stained glass window. Puddles of water lay scattered here and there, like shards of mirrored glass flung into the corners.


    The grandfather clock ticked, steadily counting time away on its never-ending face.


    After a while, another sound echoed off the stone walls, and down the stairways.


    Footsteps.


    Moving slowly, haltingly.


    A figure emerged onto the mezzanine and grasped the balcony, catching his breath.


    Requar was weak from exhaustion. He couldn''t remember the last time he had expended so much magic in a single surge. He had completely drained himself.


    But despite his fatigue, and hunger, and a devastating thirst, his nerves buzzed with an incredible euphoria.


    He had done it.


    He had driven the demon-wraith away.


    Arzath was alive!


    He descended the stairs, feeling giddy.


    The demon-wraith had tried to claim him. He had felt its revolting tendrils swirl around and through his body, trying to grasp him, to pull out his soul. The room had darkened to pitch black, until there was nothing to be seen but darkness and the blazing light of his Sword. He had kept the flow of magic up, pouring all of himself into the Sword, willing it to destroy the trigon.


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    The demon-wraith ripped at him, smothered him, tried to pierce him with wicked spikes of trigon¡­ but it couldn''t gain purchase. It slid off, as though his magic were a slick barrier.


    And he knew then that he could defeat it.


    In fury, he attacked it.


    Finally, a terrible dark shriek ripped through his mind, and the trigon retreated in a rush. He did not let up, but chased it away, burnt it, swallowed it as though he were a being made of pure silvertine, pure light. He poured magic out of himself, using all of his energy, not caring if he killed himself, until his mind seared with pain and he fell unconscious.


    He had not expected to wake up again, but when he did, he had wept.


    Not in grief, not because he had failed¡­ but in delirious joy, because he had succeeded.


    The trigon was gone.


    All of it.


    Gone.


    He had managed to scrape up a remaining shred of magic for a simple spell to keep Arzath asleep awhile longer. He had no idea how his brother would react when he woke up, and Requar was in no condition to fend off another attack. He needed some time to recover.


    Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he turned and crossed the hall. Most of the furniture was gone, and dark scorch marks on the walls and floor were a reminder of Arzath''s last attack.


    He remembered the fight. He remembered the pain that his brother had inflicted on him, but it no longer mattered. It seemed distant now, unimportant. Those wounds, and other, deeper injuries, were healed. The pain was forgotten, the scars faded into nothing.


    Despite his tiredness, he felt strange and bright and wonderful, almost as though he had been... remade.


    As he crossed the floor, he smiled, feeling as though he were the most powerful man in Arvanor.


    No.


    A newfound fire blazed in his blue eyes.


    He felt like a GOD.


    Reaching the door to the dining room, he shoved his way inside.


    He made his way around the long table, gripping the backs of the chairs for support, to the far end of the room. The hearth had not been used for some time: the ashes were dark and cold.


    He went into the kitchen, straight to the water barrel, and scooped water into his hands, drinking with such haste that he coughed and spluttered. When he was done, he searched the pantry for something to eat.


    There wasn''t much to be found, other than a little rice and flour.


    He sighed. No food for awhile, then¡­


    Wandering back out into the kitchen, he rubbed his head, contemplating going back upstairs and getting some sleep himself, when he noticed the letter.


    Slowly, he walked across the room, lifted the folded piece of paper from the counter, and opened it.


    The letter was addressed to Ferrian.


    Hey, kid,


    Dunno if you''re ever gonna read this, but if you do make it back here¡­ you''re too late.


    Arzath is a goner. He''ll be dead by the time you read this, or turned into some demon-wraith-thing, or whatever. Killed himself tryin'' to bring Requar back.


    Requar¡­ I dunno. Arzath did somethin'' to him, but it didn''t work. He''s gone, and he ain''t comin'' back. He''s probably a wraith too, by now.


    I wouldn''t go in the upstairs room if I were you. Gods know what you''ll find in there. You don''t wanna know, trust me.


    I didn''t wanna know either, so I cleared out. Stuck around for as long as I could, but there was nothin'' I could do. Saw things that are gonna haunt me for the rest of me days. This magic stuff¡­ too creepy for me. Too horrible. Shouldn''t have to see somethin'' like that happen to a man. Don''t want no more to do with it.


    Maybe you''ll be okay, since you''re already dead, but I''m not, and don''t wanna find out what bein'' a wraith is like.


    I did what I could. Never meant Lord Requar no harm. Thanks for tryin'' to save him. He was a decent fella. Shame you never got to meet him; you woulda liked him.


    Good luck, kid, and sorry.


    Don''t go in the room.


    Starshadow Flint


    Requar''s good spirits dwindled into sombre confusion. He took the letter out into the dining room, reading it again several times, trying to puzzle it out.


    Arzath killed himself trying to bring me back? And ''did something'' to me? What does that mean? What did Arzath do? And why does Flint think I''m gone and never coming back?


    He looked up at the windows. Bright sunlight poured through them. He stared into the warm afternoon glow, but found no enlightenment there.


    That Flint had decided not to stay was disappointing, but no great surprise. There was no reason for the man to have come with him to the castle in the first place, and sitting around watching Arzath transform into a demon-wraith was certainly enough to drive anyone away.


    But where had Ferrian gone? The boy had desperately wanted his help; why would he have left without speaking to him? What on Arvanor did Flint mean by ''you''re too late?''


    Requar closed his eyes, trying to piece together his recollection of what had happened. His memories had a fuzzy, faded feel to them, as though everything had taken place eons ago. It was almost as though he were looking at ancient illustrations of someone else''s life; they felt curiously detached.


    He was sure that he had left Ferrian in Flint''s care. The boy had certainly been dead; or something close enough, being kept alive by powerful Winter magic. The castle had been full of ice¡­ but that was gone, now, so Ferrian had indeed left some time ago.


    He replayed the scene after he had discovered Ferrian sitting by the fire.


    His shock at discovering that Arzath had not died at the bottom of the cliff.


    His brother''s subsequent anger, and furious lightning attack.


    Arzath had threatened him with the trigonic dagger, had pointed it in his face, while Requar confessed his guilt about killing their mother...


    He struggled to remember what had happened after that.


    Arzath had broken down, had dropped the dagger, had been weeping¡­


    Requar had¡­ used the Sword of Healing on himself, and¡­


    Then he had awoken in the spare room, with Arzath a wraith.


    Opening his eyes, he shook his head in bewilderment. How long was I unconscious?


    Something important had happened during that time, but¡­ what?


    Requar sat down in the chair by the unlit hearth, but received no answers from the silent walls of his castle. All he could do was wait for his brother to wake.


    Surely, Arzath would know the truth¡­


    * * *


    The canyon rang with the sound of rushing water, the cawing of crows, and the monotonous drone of thousands of flies.


    ¡°What the Gods happened here?!¡± Constable Dogwyn coughed, holding an arm to his face.


    Constable Raemint said nothing, merely walked forward onto the bridge, her hooves clopping on the cobblestones.


    Her dark eyes took in the grim scene. The pattern of destruction was unusual; a wide path had been cleared down the centre of the bridge, with bodies, broken vehicles and other debris piled up against the sides. Most had been flung over the parapets, as though someone or thing had come along and simply carved a path through the crowd.


    A scent lingered in the air, too, crisp and clear underneath the overwhelming stench of decomposing corpses.


    Raemint stopped and leaned on her spear. ¡°Magic,¡± she murmured.


    Dogwyn rode up beside her. ¡°A sorcerer did this?¡± He scowled in anger. ¡°If it was that Requar guy...¡±


    ¡°No. Not him. This feels like¡­¡± She closed her eyes. ¡°Deep cold. Frozen skin. Breath snatched away into the black air¡­ darkness, white wings, like the heart of a Winter storm...¡±


    Dogwyn made a sound of disgust. ¡°Dammit! That silver-eyed kid! I knew he was trouble! If you''d all just listened to me...¡±


    His voice trailed off at the sound of a rider approaching from the far side of the Break, the clatter of hooves booming off the high mountain cliffs.


    Raemint took up her spear and Dogwyn unsheathed his sword. They watched and waited warily.


    A few moments later, the crows scattered as a man on a chestnut horse blazed around the corner and onto the bridge, riding hard.


    The Freeroamers lowered their weapons and stared in surprise as they recognised that the figure wasn''t a Watchman.


    It was their own Commander Trice.


    ¡°Commander!¡± Dogwyn said as Grisket reined to a halt in front of them.


    ¡°Constables,¡± Grisket greeted. ¡°What the hell''s going on?¡± he said, looking around. ¡°There''s bodies all the way from here to the Coastlands!¡±


    Raemint and Dogwyn looked at each other.


    ¡°Sir,¡± Raemint began uncertainly.


    ¡°It was that damned Winter kid!¡± Dogwyn interjected.


    Grisket turned to Raemint in astonishment. ¡°Rae?¡±


    The Centaur sighed. ¡°I am afraid so, Commander.¡±


    Grisket shook his head, looking weary and haggard. ¡°Dammit!¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡± Dogwyn said in confusion. ¡°What''s happening?¡±


    ¡°Damned if I know!¡± Grisket exclaimed. ¡°Too much!¡± He shook his head again. ¡°The Aegis is down. There are Dragons flyin'' free, and the whole of Sunsee is on fire. I barely escaped with my life.¡±


    The Freeroamers stared at him in shock.


    ¡°Sir!¡± Dogwyn gasped. ¡°Dragons?!¡±


    ¡°I''m heading back to Forthwhite,¡± the Commander continued. ¡°We can''t fight Dragons. Sirannor''s the only man who ever brought one down, and he took three months to kill the blasted thing! The best we can do is warn the townsfolk and prepare to evacuate them.¡±


    ¡°Evacuate t-to where?¡± Dogwyn stammered, looking afraid. ¡°It''s all open country out there!¡±


    Grisket scowled. ¡°Anywhere the Dragons aren''t!¡±


    He turned back to the Centaur. ¡°Raemint?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Sir?¡±


    ¡°You''re able to sense Ferrian''s magic?¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°Can you track him?¡±


    ¡°I can.¡±


    ¡°Do it. Find him. But do not approach the boy if he is hostile. Keep your distance, and keep an eye on him. If he''s in trouble, help him if you''re able to, but don''t endanger yourself recklessly.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Commander.¡±


    ¡°And if you come across Hawk, send him back to the Guard House.¡±


    Dogwyn gave him a questioning look. ¡°Hawk?¡±


    ¡°New recruit,¡± the Commander replied. ¡°Friend of Sirannor''s. He insisted on helping us.¡± He hesitated. ¡°I made him a Sergeant.¡±


    He paused for a much longer moment, looking away at the waterfall at the end of the valley, and told them: ¡°Aari''s dead.¡±


    Raemint''s breath caught in her throat.


    Dogwyn went pale, and swallowed. ¡°Crap,¡± he whispered.


    A painful silence fell, before Raemint asked quietly: ¡°And Captain Sirannor?¡±


    Grisket shook his head hopelessly. ¡°Abducted by General Dreikan, likely taken to the Middle Isle. His daughter has gone after him.¡± He waved bitterly at his injured knee. ¡°Couldn''t go with her. Damned Murons attacked me in the forest and broke my leg. It''s all I can do to walk straight.¡±


    Dogwyn muttered curses under his breath. ¡°The world is going to Hell.¡±


    Grisket looked at him. ¡°That it is, lad,¡± he agreed sombrely. ¡°But we''re not quite there yet.¡± He nodded at Raemint. ¡°Go with Rae. And both of you,¡± he regarded the two Freeroamer Constables, ¡°watch your backs, and keep yourselves safe.¡±


    They nodded.


    ¡°There is something else you should know, Commander,¡± Raemint told him. ¡°We have apprehended the leader of the Bladeshifters.¡±


    Grisket''s eyebrows raised. ¡°Eltorian? Good Gods! How did you manage that?¡±


    ¡°Well, we kind of didn''t,¡± Dogwyn said, rubbing the back of his neck. ¡°A¡­ er¡­ sorcerer turned up and dumped him on our doorstep.¡±


    ¡°A sorcerer?¡±


    ¡°Called himself Lord Requar. And he was travelling with a Bladeshifter, of all people. Some guy with a massive crossbow. Ever heard of them?¡±


    Grisket frowned, rubbing his beard. ¡°No. Where did they go?¡±


    ¡°They were supposed to have come this way,¡± Raemint answered, frowning in worry. ¡°They were heading to Sunsee, to find Ferrian.¡±


    ¡°I never saw them,¡± Grisket replied, equally troubled.


    ¡°Well,¡± Dogwyn said, ¡°the Bladeshifters are very likely going to attempt to break Nightwalker out of the Guard House. Cairan''s got it covered, but¡­ you ought to know what you''re coming home to, Commander.¡±


    Grisket nodded soberly. Then he reached out and clasped each of their hands in turn, gave them a final nod of farewell, took the reins and galloped east, towards the Arlen Plains.


    They watched him go in silence, as the crows feasted by the side of the road.

 Chapter Seventy Three

    Little wings through door unseen


    Answers simpler than they seem.


    Ferrian stared in shock.


    He wasn''t sure which stunned him more: that a young Angel girl was standing at the bottom of a sealed, forbidden library, thousands of feet underground¡­ or that she looked astonishingly like Aari.


    For an instant, he wondered if Grath Ardan was playing tricks on him. During their journey here, Hawk had related his strange experiences in the Old Quarter, of his and Sirannor''s encounter with the Presence: a malicious entity born of trigon-tainted magic that had preyed on them by twisting their thoughts and creating illusions from their own fears.


    But, resemblance to his Freeroamer friend notwithstanding, Ferrian had never seen this girl before in his life, and Aari had never mentioned any siblings. If she was a trick, she was certainly a peculiar one.


    But still¡­ He glanced around nervously. He was standing in the middle of a room made out of trigon, and the whole of Grath Ardan existed in a reality that didn''t behave according to normal rules¡­


    ¡°Hello!¡± the girl said again. ¡°Are you Hawk''s friend?¡±


    Ferrian blinked at her. ¡°H-Hawk? You''ve met Hawk??¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± she replied brightly. ¡°He told me to come and find you!¡±


    ¡°What? Where is he??¡±


    ¡°Up at the plaza,¡± the girl answered. She giggled suddenly. ¡°People were throwing fruit at him. It was pretty funny!¡±


    Ferrian''s look of surprise turned into a frown. ¡°Throwing fruit at him? Is he locked up?¡±


    The girl shook her head, fringe flopping over her face. ¡°No. The guards put him outside, on one of the platforms. He can''t get off!¡± She giggled again, apparently finding this fact highly amusing.


    Ferrian folded his arms across his chest. ¡°Yeah, I''m sure Hawk doesn''t find that very funny.¡± Despite himself, his mouth twitched a little. The girl''s laughter was infectious.


    ¡°No. He seemed pretty sad. But he said he would be my friend!¡± She started jumping up and down, happily. Then she looked up at him, her eyes huge and hopeful. ¡°Will you be my friend, too?¡±


    The question caught Ferrian completely off guard. ¡°Um?¡± He rubbed the back of his neck. ¡°I... guess so?¡±


    ¡°Yay!¡±


    Without warning, the girl ran over and hugged him.


    Ferrian stood there, feeling highly awkward and embarrassed. He was certain that if he hadn''t been dead, he would be blushing intensely. If the girl was some sort of evil spirit, she was doing an awfully good job of disarming him¡­


    But he could feel the heat of her, and it was making him uncomfortable. She seemed real enough.


    He swallowed as it occurred to him that no one had ever hugged him before, at least that he could remember.


    Feeling suddenly emotional, he took a deep breath and extricated himself from the girl''s grip. ¡°What''s your name?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Li!¡± she replied.


    ¡°Uh, how did you get in here, Li? This library is locked up!¡±


    She turned, pointing to the opposite wall. ¡°Through the secret door!¡± she replied excitedly.


    Ferrian looked to where she was pointing, but could see nothing resembling a door. The wall was constructed of the same black, polished trigonic tiles, about three feet square, that lined the entire room. The panels extended upwards, gradually interspersing themselves with silvertine, until they merged some way up with the book-filled reading rooms.


    ¡°Um?¡± The girl''s hand went to her mouth, and she picked at her lip. ¡°It was there before...¡±


    Ferrian felt his hope sink slowly into murky darkness, something ominous floating to the surface instead. Oh no, he thought. Please. She can NOT have trapped herself in here with us¡­


    Raising his head, he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled: ¡°Mekka!¡±


    His voice echoed and disappeared, lost in the endless, vaulted rooms of Grath Ardan. He stared upwards for a long moment, but there was no sign of the black-winged Angel.


    Finally, sighing, he looked back at the girl. ¡°Don''t worry,¡± he said, trying to convince himself as much as reassure her. ¡°I''m sure it''s there somewhere...¡±


    ¡°Hey! Don''t touch that!¡±


    Ferrian had attempted to resume reading while waiting for Mekka to return. He and Li had made a brief, unsuccessful attempt to search for the ''secret door'', but every time they touched the wall, it turned into the floor, which complicated matters. Unfortunately, Li didn''t seem able to identify exactly where she had come in, but Ferrian could hardly blame her: Grath Ardan was an exceedingly weird and disorienting place.


    They had given up after a short time. Ferrian went back to the book while the little Angel skipped about him in circles on the glowing floor, humming to herself in an extremely distracting manner. Occasionally, she stopped and uttered random comments, or asked questions that Ferrian could not possibly answer, such as: ¡°How big is this place?¡± and: ¡°Why don''t all those books drop on top of our heads?¡±


    Or she stood close beside him, staring up silently, unblinkingly, in a very unnerving way.


    After awhile, growing bored of this, she had taken an interest in his Sword, which was leaning against the side of the lectern.


    It was sheathed, at least. Mekka had found an abandoned scabbard that had belonged to the ancient sorcerer that the Murons had slaughtered. It had been designed for a Sword of the Gods and thus fit his Sword of Frost perfectly, allowing him to carry it around safely.


    Li poked at the diamond-studded hilt. ¡°Is this a sword?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Ferrian replied sternly. ¡°It''s ridiculously sharp and insanely magical. Don''t play with it!¡±


    She stared up at him in that eerily intense way again, for a long moment. ¡°Can you do magic?¡±


    Ferrian shook his head, not looking up from the paragraph he was trying to read for the fifth time. ¡°Not really,¡± he muttered absently.


    Li was quiet for a moment longer, then made a humphing sound, spun, and sat down cross-legged on the floor.


    Giving up on the text he was reading, Ferrian rubbed his eyes and skipped ahead several pages. Nearly everything that he had read so far was clearly Lord Requar''s research. Experiment after experiment, followed by frustrated conclusions and theories as to why the desired result was not achieved.


    If he had wanted to read this, he could have simply stayed at the castle and gone through Requar''s notes.


    Sighing, he closed his eyes, mentally compiling everything that he had learned about trigon so far.


    Trigon originated in Caer Sync, as did silvertine.


    Both were liquid in their natural states, becoming a solid, indestructible metal when heated on a forge.


    They were opposing forces, each as strong as the other. When combined, they became extremely powerful, altering the nature of reality, but they also repelled each other.


    Ferrian thought back to the moment he had stood outside Arkana''s Aegis, trying to force the trigonic dagger into its recess on his Sword. The two weapons had resisted each other, almost as though alive: it had taken a great effort of will and physical strength to combine them.


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    So then. Silvertine repelled trigon. It seemed obvious now, that any kind of cure for a trigonic infection would require silvertine in some form.


    This had formed the basis for most of Requar''s research: he had been exploring various methods of using silvertine and magic on trigon.


    But everything he had tried had failed.


    Ferrian huffed in frustration. Why? It seemed perfectly logical¡­


    His eyes opened suddenly, breath catching in his throat as a thought occurred to him. Requar''s Sword! It was made of silvertine! Flint had described how the White Dragon had taken control of Ferrian while he was unconscious and attempted to use the Sword of Healing on Lord Requar. She must have known that it could work, that it could save his life, otherwise where was the sense in it?


    But¡­ it hadn''t. At least¡­ it hadn''t worked fully. Requar had not completely died, but he had not been saved, either. The trigon hadn''t been driven from his body.


    Ferrian wondered. Perhaps the Dragon''s magic hadn''t been strong enough? She was just a ghost, after all, a white shadow of a Dragon: as dead as he was. But Requar¡­ Requar possessed powerful healing magic¡­


    He shook his head in disbelief. Was it that simple? Was the Sword of Healing really the cure for trigon? Had the answer been staring them all in the face the whole time??


    He slammed his fist onto the book. Had he travelled all the way to Grath Ardan for nothing? Should he have stayed and tried to wake Requar, tried to get him to use the Sword on himself? But¡­


    Swallowing, he remembered the sight of Requar lying on the bed, horribly injured, wrapped in so many bandages that Ferrian had never even seen his face. Arzath had accused Ferrian of putting him in that state, had insisted that his brother''s mind was destroyed. He had seemed certain; there had been a haunted look in his eyes, behind the anger...


    Ferrian dropped his head into his still-bandaged hand, feeling devastated. Surely, the answer could not be so obvious. There had to be more to it! Requar had spent more than a century studying trigon; he could not have overlooked something as ridiculously simple as his own Sword being the cure! It wasn''t poss¨C


    ¡°What is this?!¡±


    The familiar voice came from behind him, startling him out of his revelations. He turned to see Mekka standing a few feet away, staring at Li. The expression on his face was one that Ferrian had not encountered before: he looked utterly stupefied.


    Mekka was someone who was rarely taken by surprise; he always seemed to know what was going on, prepared for any eventuality. But this little girl was clearly something that he could not, in his wildest imaginings, have expected.


    It was almost comical¡­


    Li got to her feet, returning Mekka''s stare with equal awe. She pointed at him. ¡°Your wings are black!¡± she exclaimed.


    Uh-oh, Ferrian thought. ¡°Li,¡± he turned to her. ¡°You don''t have to be afraid of him, he¨C¡±


    ¡°I''m not afraid!¡± she declared. ¡°Wow!¡±


    She darted towards Mekka and tried to touch his black feathers.


    The Angel reacted in a way that neither of them expected.


    He flinched, actually jumping backwards, as though a rabid animal had attacked him. The blood drained out of his face.


    He looked¡­ terrified.


    ¡°Li!¡± Ferrian called her back. ¡°Don''t bother him!¡±


    He stared at Mekka in surprise. The Angel was actually shaking.


    He took on a throng of spider-plants, Ferrian thought, and killed two Murons single-handedly, and he''s afraid of a little girl?


    ¡°How...¡± Mekka found his voice after a moment, and it came out almost as a whisper. ¡°How did she get in here?¡±


    Ferrian shrugged. ¡°Through some kind of secret entrance, apparently.¡± He gestured at the wall facing the lectern.


    Mekka turned and strode towards the dark wall, casting his gaze over it. He started pacing up and down in front of it, running his hands through his hair, looking distressed.


    Ferrian started forward. ¡°Mekka...¡±


    The Angel spun. ¡°Where is it?¡± he demanded, ignoring Ferrian, his words aimed like daggers at Li.


    The girl bit her lip, looking uncertain. ¡°Um. I don''t know...¡±


    Mekka advanced on her. ¡°Where is the door?¡± he pressed. ¡°Show me!¡±


    This time, it was Li''s turn to go pale.


    ¡°SHOW ME!¡±


    ¡°Mekka, stop!¡± Ferrian interjected angrily. ¡°You''re upsetting her!¡±


    Mekka rounded on him, and Ferrian took a step back. The Angel''s glare could have melted his Sword.


    ¡°She was smart enough to find her way inside,¡± Mekka said, ¡°she can find her way back out again!¡±


    ¡°Hawk sent her down here to find us,¡± Ferrian told him.


    ¡°Hawk?!¡± Mekka was furious. ¡°He should have known better!¡±


    ¡°What''s wrong with you?¡± Ferrian glared at him. ¡°She''s just a little kid!¡±


    ¡°She...¡± Mekka''s voice faltered, and he struggled to continue the sentence. ¡°She is¡­¡± His eye glimmered and he turned away abruptly. Then he launched himself into the air, stirring Ferrian''s hair with the rush of air from his wings, and quickly disappeared into the rooms above.


    Ferrian watched him go, and sighed.


    He walked back over to Li, who was sitting on the floor, on the verge of tears. He crouched in front of her.


    ¡°He''s not really angry with you,¡± he told her gently. ¡°He just...¡± he sighed again, sadly. ¡°You remind him of someone he lost.¡± He reached out and ruffled her hair. ¡°Stay here, okay? Don''t wander off. I have to go and talk to Mekka.¡±


    The girl nodded wordlessly.


    Ferrian got up and walked back over to the wall. Then he began the laborious process of following his friend, the entire library twisting and turning around him as he stepped from wall to wall.


    It took a long time to find Mekka, and Ferrian was beginning to consider giving it up as a hopeless task, when he came to the dark room.


    A grave, of sorts, had been built for the headless Angel sorcerer; Mekka had tidied the ripped books into a somewhat neater pile in the centre of the room. The light here was dim, the air stale and musty, and the room itself emanated such an intense feeling of dread and revulsion that Ferrian stepped away quickly from the arched doorway. He was about to turn back and search somewhere else, when he noticed a dark figure sprawled on the inky floor.


    Black wings lay askew.


    Mekka.


    With a gasp, Ferrian ran over to him, and found to his relief that the Angel was still breathing. Looking over him quickly, he saw no sign of blood or any wounds. Nevertheless, Ferrian looked around in alarm, half expecting a couple of Murons to step out of the shadows.


    Nothing moved, and there was no sound to be heard in the tense silence. Light glowed from the adjacent rooms through doorways in three of the walls, and from a single silver panel in the ceiling, but it only seemed to make the darkness deeper and more threatening¡­


    Then he looked down, and saw that Mekka''s hand was lying on top of something. He picked it up.


    It was his water canteen, but Ferrian noticed two things straight away:


    It was empty.


    And it had not contained water.


    Ferrian sniffed at it. Whatever it had contained, it had been strong, and Mekka had drunk all of it.


    Ferrian let his breath out in a rush of exasperation. ¡°Damn it!¡± he cursed aloud. Mekka had had no food or water throughout their entire journey through Grath Ardan, and yet he had managed to stash this away somewhere!


    What the hell is he trying to do, Ferrian thought furiously, drink himself to oblivion??


    Grabbing the Angel, he pulled him up into a sitting position, propping him against an empty bookcase, then shook him.


    ¡°Mekka!¡±


    The Angel''s head rolled limply. He did not wake.


    Ferrian looked around again. The black room was setting his nerves on edge. Getting up, he hooked his arms under Mekka''s shoulders and dragged him out of the room, into a brightly lit, foyer-like space. Setting him down on the floor, he went through all of his clothing, boots and satchel, searching for any further harmful substances, but he found nothing.


    Except for one thing.


    Ferrian''s bandaged hand lingered on the cloth-bound, oblong-shaped box.


    I should not have given him the dagger, Ferrian thought anxiously. Mekka was emotionally unstable, prone to bouts of melancholy and self-loathing, and was still grieving Aari to the point where Li''s appearance had driven him to drown himself in alcohol¡­


    Lord Requar stabbed himself with this.


    Ferrian was still not sure why the sorcerer had done such a terrible thing. Was he, too, so crushed by despair that he felt he could no longer live?


    Or had the dagger compelled him to do it?


    Could trigon actually affect people''s thoughts?


    It was a horrifying idea, one that Ferrian had never considered before, but he knew at once that he was right. He could feel the influence of trigon whenever he was close to it, and it was something more than just a magical reaction.


    It felt... wrong.


    Mekka gave me his word that he would not let the dagger fall into anyone else''s hands, Ferrian thought, but what damage will it do in his own?


    His hand tightened on the box.


    I should take it back¡­


    Yet still, he hesitated. What was he going to do with it? Hide it? How long would it sit quietly in the dust of Grath Ardan, waiting? Years? Centuries? Eventually, someone would stumble upon it and the horror would continue¡­


    No. The dagger had to be destroyed, and the only way to do that was return it to its origin. But neither he nor Hawk was able to reach Caer Sync. Mekka was the only one who could do it.


    Ferrian closed his eyes unhappily. I gave it to him, he thought. I have to trust him¡­


    Reluctantly, he let his hand slip away from the box. He stood up.


    For a long moment, he stared down at Mekka. Then he shook his head. There was nothing for it but to let the Angel sleep off his intoxication.


    Turning, he headed back to Li.


    ¡°Li! What are you doing??¡±


    For an unpleasant moment, Ferrian thought she was writing on the floor, but rushing up beside her, saw that she was merely drawing a picture. The dark charcoal lines stood out on the illuminated silver tile.


    ¡°That''s you!¡± the girl said, pointing to a rather awful stick-figure shape with large black blobs for eyes.


    Ferrian frowned, and bent to examine the drawing.


    ¡°And that''s Mekka.¡± She indicated an angry black scribble.


    ¡°What''s that?¡± Ferrian pointed at a wonky square in the middle of the picture.


    ¡°That''s the door!¡±


    ¡°The door, huh?¡± He looked up at the opposite wall, where an exit had stubbornly refused to show itself, then back to Li''s artwork. If only it were as simple as just drawing a way out¨C


    Ferrian gasped, and stood up suddenly. ¡°Drawing a way out!¡± he said out loud.


    Li looked up at him quizzically.


    ¡°Li! You''re wonderful!¡±


    The girl smiled. ¡°Are we going to draw a door?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Ferrian smiled back at her. ¡°Can I have the charcoal?¡±


    She handed it over. Ferrian hurried over to the wall, Li running after him. ¡°We''re going to write a way out!¡±


    Mekka had explained that they could not create an exit, because a door must exist in two different realities at the same time.


    But what if the door was already there?


    Li had obviously entered from somewhere, which meant there had to be a way out here, they just couldn''t see it.


    He didn''t intend to create a door. He intended to reveal one!


    He lifted a hand to the shiny black panel, then reconsidered, looking down at Li. ¡°Can you write, Li?¡±


    ¡°A little,¡± she responded.


    ¡°Can you write the word ''door''? D, o, o, r?¡±


    She nodded. Ferrian handed her the charcoal, and let her step up to the wall.


    Slowly, with great care and concentration, the little Angel marked out the letters. Ferrian had to watch closely to make sure she was doing it correctly: the charcoal was all but invisible on the trigonic panel.


    When she had finished, they stepped back.


    Nothing appeared to happen.


    Then Ferrian glanced upwards.


    ¡°YES!¡± he shouted, punching the air.


    About six feet above their heads, one of the black panels had vanished, leaving a perfectly square-shaped hole in the wall.


    Ferrian laughed and hugged the Angel girl, who squealed in delight.


    ¡°We did it, Li!¡±

 Chapter Seventy Four

    Brothers reunited


    Secrets reignited.


    Arzath opened his eyes.


    Cool darkness surrounded him. Somewhere to his left, a candle flickered silently, sending shadows dancing around the room.


    For a long moment he lay there, staring at the shifting light on the ceiling, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of restfulness and peace.


    And then he sat bolt upright, with a gasp.


    He looked around. He was in one of the small, unused dormitory chambers of Requar''s castle. It was sparsely furnished. There was a hearth, but it was unlit; a single candle sat on the mantlepiece, twitching restlessly in the draught. A chair was placed beside his bed, but there was no one in it.


    How did I get up here? he thought with a frown.


    He put a hand to his head, trying to remember the last thing that he had been doing¡­ and his eyes widened.


    His hand!


    He lifted his other hand, and stared at them in disbelief.


    Pale. Long-fingered. Healthy.


    Hurriedly, he pulled up each of his sleeves in turn, examining his arms, but there was no sign of trigon, no hint of the black disease.


    A strange feeling of unreality passed over him. He had been slipping into death, he knew. He had used the last dregs of his magic and strength to enter Requar''s mind a final time, and then¡­ nothing. He should have dissolved into a wraith by now.


    But here he was, alive. Better than alive. He felt brilliant, practically buzzing with energy.


    He summoned his magic. It came easily, with barely a thought. There was no pain. He did not have to drag it up through a slimy black morass, fighting dizziness and nausea. It was just there, a twisting, purple spark of energy flickering on his palm, bathing his skin in a violet glow.


    He waved his hand abruptly, banishing it, and stood up from the bed.


    He felt real. Reaching out to the woollen blanket that had been placed over him, he ran his hand over it, feeling the coarse, warm texture. Then he turned to the window.


    It was dark outside. Candlelight reflected off the small, dusty panes. He touched the glass; it was smooth and cool.


    Death, he thought in wonder, could not possibly feel this GOOD.


    He looked down at his hand again, as though he had never fully appreciated it before.


    Somehow, he had been healed. Somehow, he had escaped his horrifying fate.


    How could it be??


    Unless¡­


    He stared at the empty chair. Unless¡­


    No. His eyes widened. Surely not¡­??


    He ran for the door.


    A chink of light glowed under the dining room door. It had a fateful look about it.


    Arzath stood in front of it, bathed in the deep blue shadows that filled the foyer. He felt strange, as though his footsteps had wandered off the path of his own destiny into completely uncharted territory, with no idea where he was, where he was going, or what to expect.


    Of course, he thought, there was always the possibility that he would enter the room and simply find Flint sitting in his usual place by the fire, brooding¡­


    His pounding heart told him otherwise.


    Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he took hold of the handle and slowly pushed the door open.


    The dining hall was quiet and still, apart from a fire burning brightly at the far end of the room. The comfortable armchair beside it was indeed occupied ¨C but not by Flint.


    Realising that he was still holding his breath, Arzath let it out silently, and carefully closed the door behind him. Then he walked the length of the room, slowly, his boots making no sound on the blue and white rug.


    He stopped opposite the chair.


    Requar sat there, his head resting in his hand, eyes closed, apparently asleep. His hair was braided neatly in the usual fashion; the Sword of Healing stood propped against the side of the chair, its blue gems glinting in the firelight, blade hidden in its sheath. His left hand lay in his lap, a folded piece of paper held there loosely.


    Arzath stared at his brother for a long moment, the fire crackling beside him. Then he lifted his hand.


    The piece of paper slid gently from Requar''s unresisting fingers. It flew across the space between them with a soft rustle and landed in Arzath''s hand.


    Arzath remained still for a moment, watching, but Requar did not stir. Carefully, he opened the letter and turned to read it by the light of the fire.


    And then a soft voice broke the silence.


    ¡°You''re awake.¡±


    Arzath froze. It was a voice that he had thought long gone.


    Something raced through his veins: excitement? Fear? Or just shock?


    ¡°As are you, it seems,¡± he said when he finally recovered his own voice. He did not look up.


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    ¡°Do you have any idea what that letter means?¡±


    Arzath did not reply at once, continuing to stare down at Flint''s parting words on the parchment. Then he crunched it into his fist, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it into the fire. ¡°It is irrelevant.¡±


    He spun and strode over to the table, clutching the back of a chair to steady his suddenly quivering hands.


    Happiness, he thought. That was what the strange, unfamiliar feeling was. He felt light-headed.


    ¡°Are you feeling all right?¡±


    He resisted the overwhelming urge to laugh. ¡°F-fine,¡± he stammered instead. ¡°You,¡± he began after a moment, ¡°you cured the trigonis.¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    Finally, Arzath turned and looked at his brother.


    Requar was smiling.


    He looked like his old self again, but at the same time, different. There was a brightness in his eyes that had never been there before, a fierce faith in himself that could only have come from achieving the impossible. Requar had spent his entire life fighting ¨C not Arzath, but trigon ¨C and he had at last succeeded.


    It was an astonishing victory.


    Arzath found himself smiling as well, and felt something that he had never felt before.


    Pride. Not for himself, he was surprised to discover, but for his brother. Requar had returned, clawed himself back from the brink of total annihilation, and was now even stronger than before. Arzath felt himself filled with awe.


    A moment passed between them, a breathtaking spark of dazzling triumph.


    Then self-consciousness crept up on him and he looked away awkwardly.


    ¡°How?¡± Arzath asked, swallowing. ¡°What changed? Your Sword failed so many times before.¡±


    Requar looked at the fire for a moment before answering. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes. ¡°I underestimated the emotional component,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I was so focused on a physical cure that I did not consider that I, myself, was the obstacle.¡±


    Opening his eyes, he gazed into the flames. ¡°Silvertine requires positive energy to function fully. My own fear of failure was preventing it from working.¡±


    Arzath raised an eyebrow. Amongst a cartload of other things, he added privately. Guilt? Self-hatred? Grief? Lack of confidence?


    Arzath shook his head. You have no idea how far gone you were, Requar. No wonder the dagger claimed you so easily¡­


    He kept these thoughts to himself, however.


    ¡°And you no longer fear failure?¡± Arzath asked carefully.


    Requar smiled again, slightly. ¡°No,¡± he replied. ¡°When I woke up, my mind was strangely clear. I felt that¡­ I could achieve anything, and that I had nothing to lose.¡± He frowned. ¡°I do not know why this was so. I have used the Sword on myself in the past and it has not had such an effect.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I do not fully understand what happened.¡±


    And you never will, Arzath replied silently. Trigon shredded your mind. I had to wade through the gory remains and pull you back, reconstruct you from a single memory.


    A lie.


    He turned away.


    Requar could never be allowed to know the truth. He had gained the ability to repel trigon, something no sorcerer in history had ever before achieved. He was extraordinarily powerful now. He was strong. If his mind became tainted again, everything that they had painstakingly accomplished would be unravelled.


    The truth would destroy him, all over again.


    ¡°The trigonic dagger,¡± Requar said quietly. ¡°You stabbed yourself with it, didn''t you?¡±


    Arzath winced, and avoided looking at his brother. He took a deep breath. ¡°No,¡± he replied. ¡°I cut myself accidentally.¡± It was close enough to the truth.


    Requar sighed.


    ¡°It was foolish of me,¡± Arzath admitted. ¡°I¡­ should not have sought to attack you with such a thing.¡°


    He swallowed, his confession painful. ¡°I¡­ am... sorry.¡±


    He could feel Requar''s surprised gaze on his back.


    Go ahead and throw a fireball at me, he thought, gritting his teeth. It will be less humiliating¡­


    ¡°And where is the dagger now?¡±


    ¡°I returned it to the hidden alcove,¡± Arzath muttered. ¡°In your study.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Requar replied, ¡°it is not there now.¡±


    Arzath spun. ¡°What?¡±


    Requar regarded him, arms folded. ¡°I have searched the entire castle for the dagger,¡± he said. ¡°It is not here.¡±


    Arzath stared at him. Then his fist clenched. ¡°Damn it! One of them took it!¡±


    Requar gave him a troubled look. ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°It was not Flint,¡± Arzath said.


    Requar''s eyebrow raised. ¡°How can you be sure?¡±


    Arzath hesitated, remembering the sickened, horrified look on the man''s face as he was forced to shoot crossbow bolts repeatedly into the mass of writhing black tentacles growing out of Requar''s chest.


    ¡°Trust me,¡± he muttered darkly. ¡°It was not him.¡± He shook his head. ¡°It must have been Ferrian!¡±


    ¡°Why would Ferrian take the dagger?¡±


    Arzath turned and slammed his fist onto the table. Perhaps because it fits perfectly into a specially constructed recess on his Sword??


    He put his face in his hand. The boy was a lot smarter than Arzath had given him credit for.


    ¡°Arzath,¡± Requar said. ¡°If you know something...¡±


    He took a deep breath and let it out again. ¡°It was him.¡±


    ¡°Do you know where he has gone?¡±


    He stared morosely at the table in front of him. ¡°Grath Ardan.¡±


    ¡°Grath Ardan?¡±


    ¡°He decided to find his own answers.¡±


    ¡°Without even talking to me?¡±


    Arzath was silent for a long moment, trying to decide how to respond. ¡°You were¡­¡± he struggled for the right word, ¡°¡­ occupied.¡±


    Requar fell silent. Arzath turned to see him frowning at the fire.


    A twinge of pity stabbed at his heart. Better to be confused and frustrated, he thought, than dead.


    Leaving his brother sitting there, lost in a bewildering maze of lies and half-truths, Arzath went into the kitchen. Lighting the lantern on the counter with a snap of his fingers, he took it over to the water barrel against the wall. He set it down on an adjacent, empty barrel, and leaned on the edge of the water, staring at his reflection in its mirror-like surface.


    He looked amazingly healthy. His green eyes, he was surprised to see, were as sharp and bright as Requar''s were. The various sicknesses that had plagued him, ever since the encounter above the waterfall many weeks ago, were gone. His magic was back, and he was completely healed.


    And yet, his heart ached.


    He knew why. He knew what was different.


    He loved Requar.


    The truth of it floated on the surface of the water, like a contaminant. He had not wanted to admit it, but it had always been there. He had become aware of it the moment he had tried to wrench the dagger from Requar''s bloody chest. The pain of watching his brother die had felt the same as the agony he had experienced when Lady Fyona had perished.


    Exactly the same.


    Except that now, he could no longer summon enough anger and hatred to cover it up.


    He had spent most of his life hating Requar. Why? Instead of admiring him, he had been jealous; instead of helping him, he had feared him. Decades of attacks, and what had it accomplished? He had always wondered why Requar had never directly attacked him back, and he now realised why: because his brother had been preoccupied ruining himself.


    They both had been.


    He closed his eyes. He could not lose Requar again. He would die before he would let that happen.


    Flint and Ferrian were the only people besides himself from whom his brother could possibly find out the truth. If Arzath had to kill either of them or both of them to prevent that from happening, he would not hesitate.


    And yet¡­ a queasy sensation knotted his stomach. If Ferrian had managed to retrieve his Sword from the river, he was now in possession of a monstrously powerful weapon. If the boy learned how to use it¡­


    ¡°What do you intend to do now?¡± Requar''s voice came softly from behind him.


    Arzath scooped water into his hands from the barrel. ¡°I could ask you the same question,¡± he replied.


    ¡°I am going to find Ferrian, of course.¡±


    Arzath took his time drinking, then dried his face and hands on a cloth. ¡°Why?¡± he demanded, turning suddenly.


    Requar held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, walking back out into the dining room.


    Arzath raised an eyebrow. Oh, he thought. I''m not the only one keeping secrets, it seems!


    ¡°Why are you so interested in the boy?¡± he insisted, following.


    Requar stood facing the fire, with his back to Arzath. ¡°He asked me to help him,¡± he answered quietly.


    Arzath folded his arms. ¡°There is clearly more to it than that!¡±


    Requar did not respond immediately. Finally, he half-turned, a small smile on his face. ¡°When you deign to tell me what it is you are keeping from me,¡± he said, ¡°perhaps I may be inclined to tell you.¡±


    Arzath''s eyes narrowed. Damn you!


    He was beginning to remember why Requar infuriated him.


    Arzath stewed for awhile, then sliced his hand through the air. ¡°Fine!¡± he said. ¡°Do as you wish!¡± He strode around the table.


    Requar turned. ¡°What are you going to do?¡±


    ¡°Leave,¡± he replied, without turning around.


    ¡°To where? Your castle is in ruins!¡±


    ¡°What of it?¡±


    ¡°Well, you can hardly go ba¨C¡±


    And then the entire wall of the dining room, with its row of tall, elegant windows, exploded inwards.

 Chapter Seventy Five

    A castle attacked, but loathe to fight


    Out of the darkness and into the night.


    Requar lifted his head from the floor, shards of glass trickling off him. Dazed, he looked up.


    Where the wall of the room had been was now an enormous, gaping black hole. Night air washed through, tinged with the acrid smell of smoke. And something else was there, in the swirling dust¡­


    Firelight glinted dully on the scales of a huge, taloned claw.


    His eyes widened.


    The claw moved away, the entire castle shaking as the creature shifted position.


    A¡­ Dragon?! he thought in disbelief.


    He pushed himself to his feet, glass and bits of stone sliding off the blue shield glimmering around him. A large heap of broken white masonry and timber ceiling beams lay strewn across the room and the splintered dining table.


    There was no sign of his brother.


    ¡°Arzath!¡± he cried.


    A terrible coldness raced through him. Arzath had been walking right beside the windows when it happened¡­


    An earsplitting roar almost deafened him. He stumbled as more pieces of the room collapsed around him.


    Lowering his arm, he saw a gigantic reptilian head, dusty, battered horns sweeping upwards from its ancient hide. Orange eyes glowed like the heart of a volcano, fixed on him. Its mouth opened slowly, rows of black teeth revealed in an angry grin.


    Requar turned and ran.


    The Dragon''s head surged through the hole, its huge jaws opening wide at his back¡­


    He spun into the kitchen doorway just as its jaws snapped together with a thundering crack, missing his swirling cloak by a breath.


    Heart pounding crazily, he stood with his back pressed against the wall. Then, cautiously, he peered around the doorframe.


    The Dragon extricated its head from the room, ripping more of the ceiling away as it did so.


    With a quick, deep breath, Requar spun and raced back out of the kitchen, heading for a section of wall that was still intact, directly opposite him.


    He made it as a burst of fire flooded the room, smashing into the kitchen where he had just been standing a few seconds earlier.


    Leaning against the wall, he summoned more of his magic, holding it ready along with his shield as he waited for the inferno to subside. When it did, he stepped at once away from the wall and made a wide, sweeping motion with his hand.


    The pile of rubble and timbers flung itself out of the hole, smashing into the Dragon''s head.


    It roared again, enraged.


    Requar ran forward.


    Arzath lay on the floor, covered in dust. Not bothering to check if he was alive, he grabbed his brother and continued running, flinging them both into the far corner as another burst of fire filled the room.


    Pushing himself upright, he turned anxiously to his brother.


    ¡°Arzath!¡±


    To his relief, Arzath was alive, and conscious. ¡°What the hell?!¡± he exclaimed as Requar helped him sit up. Purple remnants of his shield flickered around him.


    ¡°It''s a Dragon,¡± Requar told him.


    ¡°A Dragon?!¡±


    Getting to his feet, Requar moved to the wall, glancing through the hole.


    ¡°The Aegis must have failed.¡± He frowned. ¡°It was supposed to last for another thousand years...¡±


    Arzath got to his feet as well, brushing dust off his sleeves. ¡°Fantastic!¡± he said sarcastically.


    Requar looked across the room. Everything was on fire. Burning timbers dropped from the ceiling, crashing onto the table in showers of sparks.


    His Sword of Healing lay at the far end of the room, on the floor.


    Reaching out a hand, he summoned it.


    It flew upwards and towards him, but at the same moment, a section of ceiling collapsed. The Sword bounced off the wood and clattered to the floor.


    Cursing, he glanced quickly out of the hole, and, ignoring Arzath''s scream of warning, sprinted across the room, leaping over debris.


    Flinging the obstruction away with his magic, he snatched up his Sword just as a burst of fire hit him.


    His shield protected him, flaring up in a bright blue glow, but the fire was immensely hot. Crouching on the floor, he protected his face with his arm as the torrent of flame engulfed him. Gritting his teeth, he endured it. Sweat trickled over him. He could feel his magic rapidly depleting, but he summoned more energy, building it up inside him¡­


    The instant the flames died away, Requar sent a huge, white-hot ball of fire back at the Dragon.


    It exploded into the beast''s face in a flash of scintillating white light that lit up the night. A rainbow-coloured halo spread outwards from the impact point.


    The Dragon screamed.


    Panting, Requar got to his feet, to see a storm of violet lightning erupt over the Dragon, striking at it like sizzling snakes that crawled over the beast''s wings and danced over its scales. Smoke and the smell of seared flesh filled the air.


    Making the most of Arzath''s distraction, he hurried through the burning room, debris crashing around him. To his left, he caught a glimpse of the family portrait, blackened and alight, but he hardly spared it a glance.


    ¡°Let''s go!¡± he shouted to Arzath.


    Reluctantly, his brother left off his attack and followed Requar into the foyer.


    The marble floor trembled beneath their feet as the Dragon thrashed and screamed in pain and anger. A chandelier plunged downwards and shattered, narrowly missing them. They raced out the front doors, onto the bluff.


    Breathing heavily, they stopped at the edge of the cliff, and looked back at the castle.


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    The Dragon reared up, like a great, scaled bird in a white nest, its ragged wings spread wide, and ripped the sky apart with its roar.


    Requar gazed sadly as walls fell apart and towers toppled in the creature''s wrath. His beloved castle was burning and crumbling before his eyes. It had not always been a peaceful place to live¡­ but it had been his home. It had been his dream.


    He closed his eyes.


    ¡°We can fight it!¡± Arzath said. ¡°The two of us! Together!¡±


    Requar opened his eyes and looked at his brother. Arzath''s green eyes were fierce, excited. ¡°No,¡± he replied. He shook his head. Then, Sword in hand, he headed for the path.


    * * *


    ¡°Mekka!¡±


    Ferrian shook the Angel. ¡°Mekka, wake up!¡±


    Mekka stirred and groaned softly. Ferrian helped him to sit up.


    The Angel clutched his head. ¡°Ugh¡­ w-what?¡± he complained.


    ¡°We found the way out!¡±


    ¡°So did I.¡±


    Ferrian shook him again, angrily. ¡°Don''t be stupid! Pull yourself together!¡±


    ¡°Leave¡­ me alone!¡± he shoved at Ferrian groggily.


    Ferrian grabbed his jacket and shook him hard. ¡°Mekka! We found the secret door! Don''t you care?¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    Ferrian glared at him.


    ¡°I''m of no use¨C¡±


    Ferrian shoved him back against the wall. ¡°Stop it! Cut it out! We need you!¡±


    Mekka looked miserable. He swallowed. ¡°I cannot come with you.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because she¡­ she will follow me.¡±


    Ferrian stared at him. ¡°That''s what you''re afraid of? Don''t be ridiculous!¡±


    Mekka shook his head. ¡°I cannot protect her.¡±


    Ferrian gripped his shoulders. ¡°Mekka, she''s not Aari!¡±


    ¡°No.¡± A tear leaked from his green eye. ¡°She¡­ she''s his sister.¡±


    Ferrian''s hands slipped away. ¡°What? How do you know?¡±


    ¡°The resemblance is too strong. She is exactly like him!¡± He put his face in his hands. ¡°What is she doing down here? Why did she come in here? Why did I come here??¡±


    ¡°Mekka,¡± Ferrian waved a hand at the maze of rooms around them. ¡°Look at this place! The Angels don''t care about Grath Ardan! No one''s been down here for Gods know how many years! There''s nothing here but books and dust! They probably posted some token guards to stop kids from messing around!¡± He shook his head sadly. ¡°The Governor didn''t beat you up for trespassing,¡± he said. ¡°He beat you up because he was afraid of you.¡±


    Mekka said nothing. He remained with his head bowed, face in his hands.


    ¡°The guards are not going to hurt Li,¡± Ferrian continued softly. ¡°She''s just a little kid. They will tell her off, nothing more.¡±


    Mekka shook his head. ¡°I cannot do this,¡± he whispered, voice breaking. ¡°I should not have come here...¡±


    Ferrian looked at him despondently, and his gaze fell upon the Angel''s pouch, where the trigonic dagger lay buried, like an insidious parasite.


    ¡°You need to get out of here,¡± he said quietly. ¡°You need to get rid of that dagger. It''s messing up your thoughts.¡±


    Mekka was silent for a moment more, then slowly let his hands fall from his face. He looked up at Ferrian, blearily through his hair, and nodded.


    Mekka accompanied Ferrian on foot through the library. Still affected by alcohol, he had trouble flying straight. In fact, he could barely walk straight; his passage through the rooms achieved mostly by falling from wall to wall.


    NOW who''s the graceful one? Ferrian thought, rolling his eyes.


    Thankfully, the Angel had recovered somewhat by the time they reached the lowest chamber. Ferrian wouldn''t have wanted Li to see him in such a dreadful state. Still, dust smudged his face, hair and clothing, and cobwebs trailed from his wings.


    Mekka stumbled over to Li and dropped to his knees before her, as though she were an empress.


    ¡°I am sorry, Li,¡± he told her, hanging his head. ¡°I should not have spoken to you the way I did. Please, forgive me.¡±


    The Angel girl blinked and looked up at Ferrian.


    Ferrian nodded at her.


    She put a finger to her cheek in serious consideration, as though determining his fate. Then she said, brightly: ¡°Okay!¡±


    Mekka reached inside his jacket and pulled out one of the black feathers that he used for fletching his arrows, and presented it to her on open palms.


    Li''s eyes widened as she took it. ¡°Wow!¡± she breathed.


    ¡°You must not show it to anyone,¡± Mekka said seriously. ¡°Let no one know that you have it: especially not your parents. It is a secret. Do you understand?¡±


    Li nodded in awe. Stuffing the feather down the front of her tunic, she rummaged in her own pocket and stuck her small, closed fist out in front of her.


    Mekka held out his hands again, and the girl opened her fingers.


    A tiny, fluffy feather, white and copper, floated down into Mekka''s gloved palms.


    He stared at it, then cupped his hands over the feather reverently.


    ¡°Hey, Li,¡± Ferrian said, gesturing at the hole in the wall above them. ¡°Why don''t you go ahead?¡±


    ¡°Sure!¡± Happily, she skipped past them, fluttered upwards and crawled into the dark, square opening.


    Stashing the feather away carefully, Mekka got to his feet. They stood for a moment, staring up at the hole.


    ¡°Well done,¡± Mekka congratulated him quietly. He hesitated, then turned to Ferrian remorsefully. ¡°I owe you an apology as well.¡±


    Ferrian waved a hand. ¡°Just¡­ take care of yourself.¡±


    Mekka nodded, folding his arms and looking away. ¡°I will go directly to Caer Sync,¡± he said. ¡°I will drop the dagger into the Pit, and then I will go and find Hawk.¡±


    Ferrian looked at him anxiously. A dark, cold, hard wedge had lodged in his stomach, as though a part of the black room had broken off and stayed with him.


    He didn''t want Mekka to go. Something about the whole thing wasn''t right.


    Something bad is going to happen, he thought gloomily, and there''s nothing I can do about it.


    I''m tired of feeling helpless.


    He said nothing, however, merely swallowed and nodded.


    ¡°I hope you find what you are looking for,¡± Mekka said. ¡°I hope your journey has been worth it.¡±


    He started to move away, but Ferrian called him back. ¡°Mekka!¡±


    The Angel turned.


    ¡°Be careful.¡± He swallowed again. ¡°And¡­ come back.¡±


    The two of them regarded each other, black walls gleaming darkly around them, silver tiles emanating a soft light beneath their feet. Grath Ardan sat closed on its pedestal, still and quiet and filled with all the knowledge in the world.


    ¡°I do not intend,¡± the one-eyed Angel told him softly, ¡°to leave my friends behind again.¡±


    Then he leapt into the air and disappeared into the mouth of the hole, as though the trigon wall swallowed him.


    What if you have no choice? The words whispered in Ferrian''s mind, but there was no reply from the vast, silent library.


    The forest was cold, slumbering in the deep blue shadows that preceded dawn. An icy mist clung to Mekka''s skin and feathers as he pulled himself out of the cleft in the tree, and his breath came in visible puffs. He found himself shivering, but was grateful for the crisp, clear air that flowed into his lungs. It was invigorating after the mustiness of Grath Ardan.


    He had not truly believed that he was trapped in the library ¨C one thing he had learnt in his trade was that there was always a way out ¨C but nevertheless, it felt good to be out in the open again.


    Li sat on the branch ahead of him, a little ghost in the gloom, dangling her legs over the edge. They had climbed quite some way up in pitch darkness through the inside of the tree; the narrow space was too small to fly, but the corridor that led to it was straightforward, though cramped. Mekka judged, from the width of the branch and the empty space around them, that they were a considerable height from the ground.


    Mekka turned, examining the trunk. The cleft was hidden in a twist of the wood, practically impossible to spot from the air. He marvelled at how Li had found it. He, himself, had spent half his life roaming this forest, and had never known it was here.


    There are always more secrets to be found, he thought, no matter how well you know something.


    A moment of ruefulness passed over him. He realised, suddenly, that he missed this place: its mystery, its solitude. Sitting up in the trees alone, watching the dawn brighten the mountains from the canopy¡­


    What would my life have been like, he thought, staring at his black-gloved hand resting on the grey trunk of the tree, if I had never left Arkana?


    Would Aari still be alive?


    He knew that such rumination was pointless. Perhaps it was the prophecy that haunted him, but he had never felt completely in control of his life; his decisions had never seemed entirely his own. He felt it now. He had tasks to complete, but someone else had set them for him.


    Did the Gods write? he wondered. Was his destiny, right this moment, being spelled out across the pages of that ancient book far below his feet?


    Turning, he stared at little Li, sitting on the branch, carefree as a sparrow.


    It can not be a coincidence that Hawk met her, of all the Angels in Arkana, he thought.


    He hoped that the Gods were amusing themselves greatly by tormenting him so.


    ¡°You need to go home now, Li,¡± he told her, walking along the branch. ¡°Your parents will be worried.¡±


    She rolled her eyes as she looked up at him. ¡°My parents,¡± she replied, ¡°are worried when I''m sitting in my room!¡±


    ¡°They have a right to be,¡± Mekka answered, folding his arms. ¡°They are your parents.¡±


    Li sighed. Then she got up, and gave him an imploring look. ¡°Can''t I come with you?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± The word came out more sharply than he intended. ¡°Absolutely not!¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± Her disappointed look sent fine cracks through his heart.


    He crouched in front of her. ¡°I am going somewhere that isn''t safe,¡± he told her sternly. ¡°You must not follow me.¡± The cracks deepened. ¡°You must never follow me!¡±


    Abruptly, he stood up, and turned away. ¡°And don''t ask me to be your friend, either.¡±


    Li was silent. Mekka was sure some pieces of his heart dropped away into oblivion.


    ¡°Okay,¡± she said simply, but her voice was missing its usual cheerfulness.


    Mekka did not look at her, but unfortunately, she stood in the peripheral vision of his good eye, and he could see her staring up at him. After a long moment, without a word, she took off.


    He watched her small white wings until they vanished in the misty canopy.


    She is not claustrophobic, as Aari was, he thought. The darkness had not bothered her much. But Mekka thought he knew what she was afraid of.


    Being alone.


    For a long while he stood on the branch, as the forest lightened gradually around him. Then he spread his black wings and flew to meet his fate.

 Chapter Seventy Six

    Town of white on scorching night


    Shifting blade shall now take flight.


    In the middle of the dusty plains, a white town shimmered on a hill, like a ghostly mirage in the moonlight.


    Freeroamers stood watchfully around their Guard House: two by the back door, two patrolling the verandah, and three circling the perimeter of the yard. They were almost invisible in the shadows, save the occasional glint of silver where their badges caught patches of starlight. A sliver of moon sat on the edge of the plains below. The night was still but far from silent; even this late in the evening, swarms of male cicadas sang their grating serenade in the trees.


    The racket was beginning to irk the sentries.


    So much so that one of the Freeroamers patrolling the boundary picked up a stone and hurled it at the big oak tree that leaned over the House. Several of the insects dropped to the ground, dead, but the rest just continued buzzing their tiny drums, oblivious.


    "Gah, shuddup," the young Freeroamer muttered under his breath. "Can''t hear meself think!" With a glare at the clicking, black-armoured tree, he turned and headed back towards the House. As he did so, he caught sight of Lieutenant-Commander Cairan on the verandah swing his great bow in the direction of the disturbance.


    Quickly, the Freeroamer gestured to himself, making an apologetic sign. Cairan scowled and signalled for him to keep his eyes sharp for infiltrators. Then the Centaur disappeared around the corner of the porch.


    At that moment, the stone that the sentry had just flung came flying back at great speed, striking him precisely in the back of the neck.


    The Freeroamer dropped without a sound.


    Swiftly and smoothly, a shadow detached itself from the oak tree and dragged the unconscious man into the undergrowth.


    A minute later, the Freeroamer resumed his patrol, albeit with a slight swagger in his step.


    In his cell, Nightwalker opened his eyes.


    Turning his head, he saw a dark-cloaked figure standing by the bars, holding up something rather wonderful that glinted and jingled in the faint starlight washing in from the tiny slit window.


    He smiled. "About time." He pushed himself up, swung his legs off the bed and stood up, yawing and stretching. "Got breakfast for me, too?"


    "I''ve got better than breakfast," the figure teased.


    Nightwalker sauntered up to the bars and leaned against them. "I thought they warned you not to come within arm''s reach of me?"


    "Oh, I''d prefer to be much closer than that." Moving close to the bars, she reached in and stroked his face seductively with the keys.


    "Are the others in position?" he asked as Teska moved away to unlock the cell door.


    "Oh yeah," she replied. "Toooo easy. And too much fun." As the lock clicked, she twirled in her cloak and opened the door for him.


    Nightwalker swung out of his cell. "Too much fun," he murmured. Then suddenly he seized her and flung her against the bars in a passionate kiss.


    She returned the favour hungrily, her hands running over his naked torso.


    His own hand caressed the curves of her body, moving slowly downwards until it reached her thigh, where her knife was sheathed.


    His fingers slipped around the hilt.


    Teska''s hand suddenly gripped his own, with a strength that belied her small stature. "Now what," she breathed against his lips, "would you need that for?"


    Nightwalker held her gaze, eyes glinting. "You wouldn''t want me to go unarmed, would you?"


    Teska stared up into his eyes. "No, of course n¨C" She stopped as he laughed silently at his own dire joke. "That''s not funny, Nightwalker!" But she was cracking up herself, now. She punched him in the ribs. "Stop it!"


    "No, you''re right," Nightwalker agreed, taking deep breaths, partly to get a grip on himself, and partly because her blow had slightly winded him. "You''re right, it''s not funny at all."


    He rested his arm on her shoulder. "What will be far more amusing..." his lips found hers again, "will be the look on Flint''s face... when I point that stupid crossbow... at his head..."


    Teska wrapped her arms around his neck. "Can I have that crossbow when you''re finished with it?"


    Nightwalker shook his head. "I''m afraid not," he replied regretfully.


    Teska frowned in disappointment. "Aww," she said. "Why n¨C" She gave a slight jerk, and seemed to be having trouble getting the rest of the sentence out. Her dusky skin went pale, her expression turning from confusion to fear and realisation.


    "Because," Nightwalker sighed. "I don''t need you any more."


    He removed the knife from the back of her neck, hot blood gushing over his hand as he did so. Gently, he let her sink to the floor. He had severed her spinal cord, so that she could not move.


    Crouching in front of her, he wiped her own knife on her uniform. "I didn''t want to do that," he told her apologetically. "But if you''re willing to betray the Freeroamers so easily, how can I trust you? Why wouldn''t you double-cross me, as well, hmm?"


    Blood spilled from Teska''s lips as she choked, struggling to breathe. Tears slipped from her beautiful dark blue eyes like stars falling from the night sky.


    "That''s what got you into the Freeroamers in the first place, isn''t it?" Nightwalker continued. "You told me yourself that you were thrown into the Royal Dungeons for treason. Selling Sirinese military secrets to the Darorian Army. Tsk, tsk." Lifting his knife, he stroked her cheek, catching her tears on the blade, watching them mingle with the blood. "I can''t abide traitors," he whispered. "I''m sorry."


    Watching her suffer was painful. His blade traced the line of her jaw and moved down to her throat. With a quick motion, he ended her horror.


    When the light had gone from her eyes, he leaned forward and kissed her one final time. "What a waste," he muttered, licking the blood from his lips. He stood up. "Damn, I need a smoke."


    He walked over to the battered wardrobe standing against the back wall. Sticking his blood-streaked knife into the door, he opened it and retrieved his clothes. Unfortunately, none of them contained any smoking weed or weapons. Flint had discarded all those in the bush somewhere near Meadrun. Nightwalker was annoyed.


    Don''t worry, Flint, he thought as he tugged his boots on, awkwardly with one hand. I''ll find you, and that creep sorcerer, too.


    He shrugged his jacket on, not bothering with a shirt. Metal clinked as he did so. This jacket was his pride; it contained souvenirs of all the people he had killed. He smiled, looking forward to sticking some piece of both Flint and Lord Requar on it. He would make a special place for them.


    Banging the wardrobe door closed, he pulled out his knife and started across the shadowy guardroom, then hesitated and walked back to Teska. Removing her badge, he pinned it onto his left sleeve, in the same position the Freeroamer''s wore theirs. Satisfied, he went quickly to the small table in the middle of the room and unhooked the oil lantern hanging above it. He did not light the lantern, but instead carried it on the end of his knife towards the door.


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    As he reached the wooden ramp, a movement to his right caught his eye. He spun, then relaxed. He''d forgotten there was another prisoner in here.


    The kid scrambled up to the bars of his cell, wide-eyed in part horror, part excitement as he stared at Teska''s body. "Nightwalker!" he hissed. "Let me outta here, man!"


    Nightwalker looked at the ceiling, pretending to consider the youth''s request. "Mmm, I don''t think so," he replied. "You''ll get in my way." He continued up the ramp.


    "No I won''t! I won''t!" the youth pleaded. "I''ll help you escape! I''ll... I''ll watch yer back!"


    Nightwalker ignored him.


    "C''mon, man! Please! Just unlock the cell! You can do whatever you want, an'' I''ll go my own way!"


    Nightwalker paused at the door. Then he turned and walked back down the ramp. "Actually," he said, setting down the lantern, "there is something you can do for me."


    "Anything!" the boy said, looking awed that the leader of the Bladeshifters was actually acknowledging his existence, let alone wanted a favour. "You name it!"


    Nightwalker glanced up at the closed door of the guardroom, then sidled close to the bars. He raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to do this, kid? You''re probably not gonna like it."


    "As long as it gets me out of here, I don''t care!"


    Nightwalker grinned. "Fantastic. Ready?"


    The boy nodded eagerly.


    Nightwalker plunged his knife into the boy''s eye. "Shut up."


    Yanking the blade free, he twisted an earring from the boy''s ear. "Much obliged," he said drily, giving a bow. Then he left the unfortunate prisoner staggering convulsively against the wall of his cell, leaking blood all over the floor.


    Retrieving his lantern, Nightwalker moved back up the ramp to the door. There he paused, listening.


    Teska had related detailed information on the movements, positions and shift changes of all the Freeroamer guards. The fools were all expecting the Bladeshifters to attempt to break in, so they''d sent most of their men to skirt the perimeter of the yard to stop anyone coming anywhere near the Guard House. There was also a second team further down the hill, no doubt to sweep in behind the Bladeshifters and block their escape route.


    What none of them had planned on was an attack from behind their very backs.


    Turning the doorknob quietly, Nightwalker peered out into the hall.


    A single oil lantern, turned down low, burned on the wall beside the guardroom door. To his left, the corridor turned a corner that led to the back door. To his right, it stretched away through an open door into a pool of blackness ¨C the reception area. Halfway down the hallway between him and the reception was a flight of stairs leading upwards, and a closed door.


    There was no one to be seen anywhere.


    Nightwalker smirked. Spread your folks a little thin, haven''t you, Cairan?


    He considered the floor. Dusty, worn floorboards that probably creaked like hell. But there was no help for it.


    Slipping out into the hall, he began walking as casually as possible towards the darkened entrance room. He''d guessed correctly: the floorboards complained with each step. He winced, but kept his pace measured as he passed the staircase. Hopefully, to anyone listening, he sounded like he belonged there.


    No one appeared.


    The knife in his hand started twirling.


    He felt a sweat break out as he passed the closed door. He kept his ears sharp for any sound, especially the ominous clack of hooves. He wanted to avoid that big black Centaur at all costs. Those horse-folk could kick like murder¡­


    He reached the entrance room with no sign of trouble. The main doors and casements were secured, leaving only faint grey slits to identify the closed shutters.


    Nightwalker hesitated just inside the threshold, slipping into the shadows beside the door, relying on instinct to warn him if anyone else was hiding in the room. After a couple of minutes staring at shadows, he satisfied himself that the room was indeed deserted and moved over to the desk.


    With a careful glance back into the hall, Nightwalker set his lantern down, unscrewed the top and lit it. Taking one of the papers from the desk, he set it alight and then shoved it in a copy of Equestrian Warfare Tactics as a bookmark. Then he opened the lantern''s well and splashed the remaining oil across the table and the floor.


    The distant sound of the back door opening sent his heart stuttering. He managed to duck behind the desk just as a Freeroamer came strolling around the corner at the far end of the hall.


    Nightwalker did not panic, but remained crouching, still and silent, as the flames on the desk flared up with a whoosh.


    The footsteps in the hall stopped. Then suddenly they became hurried. Nightwalker heard a gasp.


    "What the¡­?"


    The Freeroamer knocked the burning book onto the floor and stamped on it. A moment later, he collapsed with blood streaming from the back of his neck.


    Moving swiftly now, the Bladeshifter snatched the dead constable''s badge, closed the foyer door and moved over to the locked and barred main doors. As quietly as possible, he unlocked them with the keys he''d stolen from Teska ¨C wincing slightly with the click ¨C then silently slid the heavy crossbar aside.


    But he didn''t leave at once. Instead, he slipped over to the nearest shuttered window, with a glance over his shoulder at the room.


    The flames were quickly consuming the desk. He had to get out of there, fast.


    But not yet. He needed to wait¡­


    On cue, Cairan turned a corner of the verandah. Peering through chinks in the shutters, Nightwalker held his breath as the Centaur''s black bulk passed him. Fortunately, the Freeroamer was looking out towards the trees, and had not yet noticed the flicker of fire within the Guard House.


    Keep moving, Nightwalker urged silently. That''s it, you big ugly beast, keep clopping along¡­


    Then the scuff of more urgent footsteps rounded the other end of the porch. Nightwalker crept over to the other window to overhear a sudden whispered conversation.


    ¡°¡­Bladeshifters have been spotted on the southern boundary."


    "How many?"


    ¡°Three confirmed."


    "There will be more than that. Most likely, they have us surrounded. Has there been any conflict, or anything else out of the ordinary?"


    "Not as yet, sir."


    "Good. Signal to the perimeter sentries to retreat as discreetly as possible. Form into tight patrol lines around the House. No one is to engage until I give the order. Is that clear?"


    ¡°Yes sir."


    The subordinate Freeroamer moved quickly out of sight. Cairan remained standing at the western corner.


    Turn the corner, Nightwalker willed. Come on¡­


    He needed only a second to slip out the main doors. Once outside, the rest of his escape was already taken care of. His Bladeshifters knew what they were doing, unlike these blue-sleeved pansies. Perhaps he could make it while the Centaur had his back turned¡­


    Cairan turned and started back the way he had come.


    Nightwalker mouthed a vehement curse. Behind him, the flames were roaring, catching on hanging banners and licking the ceiling. Smoke swirled around the room. Anyone passing the windows could not now fail to notice the glare of fire between the shutters.


    Darting back to the other casement he tensed, knife raised. His heart drummed as passionately as the insects in the trees. Exhilaration ran through him, fuelled him. Danger was what he lived for.


    He felt like dancing.


    The response came quickly. There was a brief clatter of hooves on the porch; then the doors burst inwards with violent force.


    Nightwalker sprang.


    Not towards Cairan, but out the window.


    Despite his swiftness, an arrow missed him by inches, lodging in a verandah support.


    Nightwalker fled around the eastern corner just as another Freeroamer rounded the southern end. Without hesitation, the Bladeshifter sprinted directly towards him. The young Freeroamer let out a startled cry, raising his sword.


    Jamming his knife in his own mouth, Nightwalker spun, grabbed the railing with his good hand and brought his legs around in a sweeping kick to the Freeroamer''s head, knocking him down and dropping over the railing himself in the same movement.


    No sooner was he on the ground than he was running. Behind him, the verandah shook as Cairan pounded after him. Arrows grew out of the dirt all around.


    Nightwalker ran for his life, aware that one mistake would see him with more bristles in his back than a ladies'' comb. Behind him, desperate orders rang through the night. He could sense the Centaur sighting up at his back, and wondered if the drone of cicadas was the last thing he''d ever hear...


    A Freeroamer raced out of the tree shadows in front of him, his bow already releasing its arrow¡­


    Gasping, Nightwalker raised his knife, knowing it was already too late¡­


    But the arrow sailed over his head, producing a sharp cry of pain from somewhere behind him.


    Not looking back to see who''d been hit, hoping viciously it was the Centaur, Nightwalker kept running. As he reached the Freeroamer-disguised-Bladeshifter, the man gave him a thumbs-up and a gold-toothed grin.


    Nightwalker grinned back in relief and nodded. His comrade gave a birdlike whistle and suddenly Bladeshifters were pouring out of the trees from every direction, screaming, howling and loosing arrows and all manner of projectiles at the Freeroamers.


    Pandemonium erupted. Amid the confusion, the Guard House exploded into flames.


    As he retreated into the cover of the forest, Nightwalker couldn''t resist turning around to look. His glee was short-lived, however.


    Longbow in hand, blood streaking from an arrow lodged in his shoulder and eyes burning fiercer than the fire backlighting him, Lieutenant-Commander Cairan thundered across the yard towards him.


    "Crap," Nightwalker swore, and ran.


    But he didn''t run blindly. His escape had been carefully planned out beforehand. Teska had given him precise directions as to where to run. He just hoped fervently that he remembered them correctly¡­


    The hillside was steep and treacherous, pockmarked with hidden gullies, depressions and ridges. Running down it in the dark was suicide, but Nightwalker was nimble and had rehearsed every step of the way thoroughly in his head. Locked up and bored in his cell, there had been little else for him to think about, except for ways of decapitating Flint¡­


    A tree splintered close to his head, causing him to duck. Panting, he leapt over an inconspicuous dark patch of undergrowth that he knew to be a concealed death trap, landed on a slide of gravel, slipped and fell. He let the loose rocks and dirt carry him down to the base of a ridge, then hastily scrambled to his feet.


    Cairan burst out of the trees above him, sighting him with his bow.


    It was point blank range. There was nowhere for Nightwalker to go¡­


    Then the Centaur''s hooves caught the hidden tripwire.


    He pitched forward spectacularly, flying head over heels off the ridgetop. He hit the ground heavily and tumbled away down the embankment, kicking up sprays of bracken and dirt as he disappeared from sight.


    Gasping and panting, Nightwalker leaned against the ridge wall, but found enough breath to laugh.


    He laughed and laughed.

 Chapter Seventy Seven

    Broken, bruised and cannot run


    He who walks the night has fun.


    Cairan lay at the bottom of the gully, breathing heavily into the dirt and dry eucalyptus leaves. Something warm trickled down his face, and he was forced to blink it out of his eye.


    He tried to push himself up, but swords of agony lashed at him, almost sending him tumbling again into a black abyss.


    A scream tore from his throat.


    Both of his front legs were broken. He had felt them snap on the way down, and loose shards of bone shifted at the slightest movement. Gritting his teeth, he clutched at the ground, fighting unconsciousness.


    ¡°A nice chase,¡± a voice said, slightly breathless, from somewhere nearby. ¡°But you really should watch your step in the dark.¡± The voice laughed.


    Cairan glanced up without lifting his head, blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, trying to focus through the black mist of pain.


    A slender figure limped into view, the metallic objects on his jacket glinting in the light of the fire raging on the hilltop above them.


    Cairan didn''t bother to reply. Grimacing, he looked around for his bow, but was fairly sure it had smashed to pieces in the fall. Arm trembling, he reached to his waist and pulled a knife from his belt.


    ¡°A pity it''s you,¡± Nightwalker said, regarding him. ¡°I would have preferred to kill Grisket personally. But, nevertheless...¡± He shook his head. ¡°You Freeroamers are finished. Your Guard House is on fire, your people are dead, and your esteemed Commander is nowhere to be seen!¡±


    Cairan just stared at him, saying nothing.


    Nightwalker cocked his head on one side, spreading his arm. ¡°No last words?¡± he said.


    Cairan was silent, and lay still, save for his chest heaving.


    ¡°Not even to call me a bastard? Or tell me to go to hell? Or proclaim that I can''t possibly get away with this?¡±


    The Centaur did not reply.


    Nightwalker shrugged. ¡°Suit yourself. I''ll tell you something for free, though.¡± He tapped the silver badge on his shoulder with his knife. ¡°You were betrayed!¡±


    Smiling, he turned away, knife twirling. Then suddenly he stopped, the blade in his hand going still. He stared down at it for a long moment.


    ¡°Poor, sweet Teska,¡± Nightwalker murmured. ¡°You made me kill her. I think...¡± he lifted his head, gazing at the shifting firelight on the pale trunks of the trees. ¡°I think I may have loved her...¡±


    He spun back towards Cairan, knife resuming its twirling. ¡°She reminded me of my first girlfriend,¡± he went on, conversationally. ¡°The previous Bladeshifter leader killed her. So I killed him.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Sometimes, life is simple.¡±


    He stood in front of Cairan again, staring down at him. ¡°You Freeroamers,¡± he pointed with his knife, ¡°have to make everything complicated! Protecting people! Pah! What''s the point? The strong always take whatever they want, and there''s nothing you can do about it!¡±


    He tossed his knife in the air and caught it again. ¡°I know you sent a prison wagon for me,¡± he went on. ¡°My Bladeshifters took care of that, as well. Damned if I''m going to rot in the King''s dungeons!¡±


    He spat, then walked forwards.


    Cairan slashed at him, but Nightwalker was fast. He parried the blow and kicked the knife from Cairan''s grip faster than he could blink.


    ¡°Nice try!¡± Nightwalker smirked. Moving to Cairan''s side, he placed his boot on the Centaur''s flank.


    Cairan kicked at him, but the movement sent shudders of pain through him. Fighting the agony, he lunged, but Nightwalker dodged out of reach.


    ¡°Goodnight, horsey,¡± Nightwalker said.


    He spun his knife so that it pointed downward, at Cairan''s belly.


    Then he raised his hand¡­


    ¡°G''night, Eltorian,¡± a voice said.


    Nightwalker froze. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder.


    A very large crossbow filled his vision, the tip of the bolt pointed at his head.


    At the other end of it perched a wide, floppy hat.


    ¡°Flint!¡± he hissed.


    Flint gave him a smile. ¡°Ain''t so glad to see me this time, huh?¡± he said.


    Nightwalker stood up abruptly, eyes searching the surrounding forest, but saw nothing but flickering shadows.


    ¡°And where,¡± he asked nervously, ¡°is your sorcerer friend?¡±


    Flint gestured with his crossbow. ¡°Behind you.¡±


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    Every hair on the back of Nightwalker''s neck prickled up. He whirled.


    There was nothing there but a dark, rock-strewn hillside.


    To his fury, he heard Flint chuckle.


    The skin all over his body burned. His hand tightened on his knife.


    I will hack your head off slowly, Flint, Nightwalker thought, seething. Tiny bit by tiny bit. With one of your own bolts¡­


    He turned, still eyeing the darkness between the trees. He couldn''t be entirely sure that Flint was bluffing; that sorcerer had the ability to camouflage himself...


    No, he thought, after a moment. Lord Requar wasn''t here. If he was, he would have shown himself by now. That bastard wouldn''t have been able to resist.


    ¡°Saving Freeroamers, now?¡± Nightwalker sneered. ¡°Why don''t you go ahead and get your own badge?¡±


    Flint stared back at him. ¡°Maybe I will,¡± he replied.


    Even in the darkness, Flint looked different. The way he held himself a little straighter. His hazel eyes were harder, more focused, lacking fear. He was leaner, too, than the last time Nightwalker had seen him, as though food had been hard to come by.


    He looked as though he had gone through some hardship, and survived.


    A flutter of warning stirred Nightwalker''s stomach. He knew that look.


    It was the look of a man that had nothing left to lose. Or to live for.


    He watched Flint carefully. ¡°Why the hell did you come back here?¡±


    Flint raised his Justifier. ¡°To kill you,¡± he replied simply.


    Nightwalker''s blood turned an unpleasant, sickly cold.


    This time, he meant it.


    Nightwalker forced a laugh. ¡°If you wanted me dead,¡± he said, ¡°you''ve had plenty of opportunities! And last time went so well!¡±


    ¡°It will go even better, this time!¡±


    ¡°Well!¡± Nightwalker said, spreading his arm. ¡°Here I am! What are you waiting for?¡±


    Flint was silent a moment, but didn''t lower his bow. ¡°I wanna know somethin'',¡± he said quietly.


    Nightwalker let his arm fall to his side, sighing. ¡°Sure,¡± he muttered. ¡°I''ve got all night...¡±


    ¡°Why''d you do it?¡±


    He rolled his eyes. ¡°You''ll have to be a lot more specific¨C¡±


    ¡°My sister!¡± Flint said, voice and eyes hard. ¡°Why''d you kill her?¡±


    Nightwalker couldn''t stop himself from bursting out laughing, delighted at the flare of anger in the other man''s eyes. ¡°I''m flattered!¡± he told Flint. ¡°Really! But unfortunately,¡± he shook his head, smiling, ¡°it wasn''t me!¡±


    ¡°Like hell it wasn''t!¡± Flint shot back. ¡°Six years ago, in Hillbank! I came back home to find our house on fire!¡± His eyes burned with years of pent-up grief and fury. ¡°I had to drag my sister''s charred corpse out of the wreckage!¡±


    Nightwalker put his hand to his chest and sighed. ¡°How sad...¡±


    ¡°You bastard!¡± Flint''s eyes narrowed. ¡°I asked around the village afterwards! It wasn''t no accident! A black-clad figure with a metal jacket was seen skulkin'' around the house, an'' you''re tryin'' to tell me it wasn''t you!¡±


    Nightwalker spread his arms again, and turned around in a slow circle. ¡°Take a good look at my jacket, Flint,¡± he said, amused. ¡°Do you see anything belonging to your sister there?¡±


    He took his time, making sure that Flint was thoroughly able to scrutinise all his souvenirs. When he turned back, Flint''s Justifier was lowered, and he looked uncertain.


    The expression on his face was hilarious.


    ¡°Oh dear,¡± Nightwalker said. ¡°I hope you didn''t carve out a bolt just for me...¡±


    Flint''s eyes hardened, and he hefted the crossbow up again. ¡°So maybe it wasn''t you!¡± he growled. ¡°But you know who it was, don''t you?¡±


    Nightwalker just smiled at him. ¡°I would love to tell you who murdered your precious sister, Flint,¡± he said. ¡°But I''m afraid I can''t.¡±


    He saw Flint''s jaw clench and his hands tighten on his Justifier.


    Nightwalker strolled towards him, twirling his knife. ¡°Do you know why?¡±


    He stopped with the crossbow right in front of his face. ¡°Because,¡± he said, lifting his blade and tapping the end of the bolt with it, ¡°she isn''t dead!¡±


    The look of shock on Flint''s face lasted only a second before the loudest roar any of them had ever heard shook the forest.


    Then the canopy above them burst into flames.


    Flint picked himself up off the ground to find Nightwalker gone and the entire forest on fire.


    Hurriedly, he snatched up his Justifier and slung it on his back, shoved his hat on his head, and scrambled over to Lieutenant-Commander Cairan.


    The Centaur was still conscious, but weak with pain. His legs were broken and his dark skin and hide were streaked with blood and sweat and dirt.


    ¡°L-leave me,¡± Cairan whispered. ¡°I cannot walk. G-go while you still can...¡± With a quivering hand, he unpinned his badge and pressed it into Flint''s palm. ¡°T-take this to Commander Trice. T-tell him what happened...¡±


    Flint looked around. The forest was roaring, burning leaves falling onto them, the heat becoming intense. In moments, there would be no escape route¡­


    He stared down at the badge for only a moment. Then, before he could think about what he was doing, he shoved it back at Cairan and took a firm hold of the Centaur''s arms.


    ¡°Brace yourself,¡± Flint told him. ¡°This is gonna hurt!¡±


    Then he began dragging the Centaur down the gully.


    * * *


    The mountain pass was dark, a sliver of moon making itself seen now and again through gaps in the high peaks, like a furtive spy. Stars sprawled brilliantly overhead, glittering in an endless sea of black.


    Below, a dim white globe floated along the trail, occasionally making darting movements, like a tiny, lost, newborn moon.


    ¡°You cannot be serious!¡± Arzath''s voice rang on the cliffs as he scrambled after his brother. ¡°You do realise, don''t you, that the Dragon is going to follow us!¡±


    ¡°I am aware of that,¡± Requar''s voice drifted back to him.


    ¡°It can sense our magic!¡± Arzath went on. ¡°It will sniff us out like a hound!¡±


    ¡°Likely,¡± Requar replied, stopping at the ford, ¡°it deliberately hunted us down in this valley.¡± He paused. ¡°For revenge, I presume...¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± Arzath said, hurrying up beside him. He stood watching his brother direct his spell over the river, checking the flow. The white light reflected in the water and gleamed on wet rocks. ¡°You would prefer to wander around with a Dragon on our tail?¡±


    Requar started over the shallows. ¡°It is one of the last of its kind,¡± he said. ¡°I have no wish to be responsible for the extinction of a magnificent race¡­¡±


    ¡°WE''RE the last of our kind!¡± Arzath reminded him vehemently.


    Requar spun in the middle of the river. ¡°You want to kill it just because it exists?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Arzath replied, glaring at him, ¡°I want to kill it because it is going to EAT US!¡±


    A furious roar answered his comment, echoing through the valley.


    They both looked up.


    Requar turned and started running, his boots splashing through the river.


    ¡°Arrggh!¡± Arzath said in frustration, and ran after him.


    They were navigating a clutch of boulders when a massive shape slid across the sky above their heads, swallowing the stars.


    Requar extinguished his seeking spell with a quick wave of his hand, and they both dropped into a crouch, shields ready.


    The Dragon soared silently onwards, however, drifting languidly over the crags, moonlight glowing through its wings, heading for the forest.


    They watched it, tense, until it had disappeared from sight.


    ¡°Brilliant,¡± Arzath exclaimed, getting to his feet. ¡°Now it is going to wait for us at the bottom of the path!¡±


    Requar whirled on him, glaring. ¡°Will you quit with the sarcastic comments? You are getting on my nerves!¡±


    ¡°Oh!¡± Arzath jumped off the boulder. ¡°You are the one who didn''t feel like slaying the Dragon! We could have fought it back at the castle, when we had the chance! Now, it is going to ambush us!¡±


    Requar turned away. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he muttered, igniting his spell again with an angry snap of his fingers, ¡°I should have left you as a demon-wraith!¡±


    Arzath strode up beside him, eyes widening. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he retaliated, ¡°I should have left you as¨C¡±


    He cut his words off just in time, with a sharp breath.


    Requar stopped, and spun. ¡°Left me as what?¡±


    ¡°Nothing!¡± Arzath stormed ahead, fists clenched.


    ¡°If that Dragon gets in my way,¡± he vowed, ¡°I WILL kill it!¡±

 Chapter Seventy Eight

    A Dragon claims the town of white


    Morning dawns but soon comes night.


    Flint emerged from the treeline, coughing, embers trailing smoke from his hat. For a moment he paused, fighting for breath, sweat dripping off his face. Then he took hold of Cairan''s arms again and heaved him the rest of the way down the hill.


    Reaching the dry grass of the plains, he collapsed to his knees. His lungs burned and he couldn''t seem to stop coughing.


    Somewhere along the way, the Centaur had stopped screaming and gone limp. Flint wiped sweat out of his stinging eyes with his sleeve, and checked for a pulse.


    To his surprise, he found two strong heartbeats.


    He shook his head, coughing. ¡°Tough buggers, you Centaurs,¡± he rasped, patting Cairan''s arm.


    Lifting his head, he looked up at the dark, orange-tinged sky.


    An enormous Dragon circled the top of the hill, in and out of the swirling smoke. The ground trembled every time it roared.


    The entire hilltop was on fire, and the upper parts of the town as well. Occasionally, the Dragon spewed more fire into the conflagration, sending sparks spiralling into the sky to dance with the stars.


    Flint looked around himself. People were scattered in all directions, fleeing across the plains like ants. Some were huddled in small groups, staring in paralysed horror at the Dragon destroying their town.


    There was no sign of the Bladeshifters.


    Flint was so wearied and shocked from the night''s events that he hardly cared.


    A Dragon is flyin'' around in the Outlands.


    My sister''s not dead.


    The Freeroamers are all but wiped out.


    And Eltorian Nightwalker escaped...


    Numbly, he knelt in the glow of the fire, watching the trees burn.


    After awhile, he became aware of a commotion behind him. Heart leaping into motion, Flint staggered to his feet, turning.


    It was not the Bladeshifters causing more havoc, as he had feared. It was a rider, galloping across the plains from the north-west, on a horse as red as the firelit dirt.


    People were cheering.


    One of the Freeroamers? Flint thought.


    Running out onto the plain a short way, he cried out, as loud as his parched throat could manage: ¡°Hey! Yo! Over here!¡± and waved his hands in the air, trying to attract the rider''s attention. Then he took his hat off, and waved that as well.


    To his relief, the horse swerved and headed in his direction.


    The rider reined in close to Flint in a cloud of dust that sent him coughing again.


    Both the rider and his horse looked exhausted. The horse''s chestnut flank heaved and shimmered with sweat. The bearded man atop her was indeed a Freeroamer, with his cobalt sleeve and silver badge, and a triangular hat on his head. He looked haggard with fatigue.


    ¡°Cairan!¡± the man cried, and practically fell off his mount. Flint helped him to his feet, and discovered that he, too, was crippled.


    He helped the Freeroamer over to his companion. The man fell to his knees at the Centaur¡¯s side, placing a hand on his black, blood-streaked flank, looking distraught. ¡°Gods!¡± he gasped. ¡°No!''


    ¡°He''s alive,¡± Flint told him, then wondered uncertainly if it wouldn''t have been better to leave Cairan to the flames after all. With those shattered legs, he probably wasn''t ever going to walk properly again.


    Flint swallowed, closing his eyes. Just wanted to save somebody, he thought dismally. Just once¡­


    ¡°You!¡± the Freeroamer said. ¡°My Constables told me about a bloke with a crossbow who was travellin'' around with a sorcerer. That you?¡±


    Flint nodded, feeling misery weighing down on him. A sorcerer who is pretty well dead by now, he thought.


    He didn''t want to think about it.


    Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and gestured at Cairan. ¡°We need to get ''im out of here,¡± he said. ¡°Find a cart, or somethin''...¡± He stood up, looking around.


    A small crowd of villagers had gathered nearby, but they kept their distance, and one eye on the Dragon. The town was burning, smoke clouding the streets, but there might be something salvageable on the outskirts¡­


    ¡°I''m gonna go look for somethin'',¡± Flint announced. ¡°Stay here an'' keep an eye out. Nightwalker''s on the loose.¡±


    ¡°Gods thank you,¡± the Freeroamer said, holding out a hand.


    Flint took it. ¡°Starshadow Flint.¡±


    ¡°Commander Trice.¡±


    Flint nodded, and Trice touched the pointed brim of his hat in gratitude.


    Flint hesitated for a moment, looking down at them. These two might be the only surviving Freeroamers, and they were both heavily injured. He didn''t like abandoning them out here in the open, but he didn''t have a choice.


    He swallowed, taking a final glance around the plains, but saw no black-clad shadows in the dark.


    They''ve probably run off, he told himself, like the rats they are¡­


    With little else for him to do, he hurried towards the town.


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    Flint made his way between the white buildings, keeping low, smoke forcing more fits from his tortured lungs. His eyes watered as his searched the haze.


    There were very few vehicles to be seen in the empty streets, and the ones that were, were either on fire or not suitable. He passed a wagon, but it was too large and unwieldy.


    Keeping to the lower roads and alleys, pushing through gateways, he rounded the hill, and finally found what he was looking for at the back of the tavern.


    A small dray cart, loaded with a couple of beer barrels.


    Climbing onto the cart, Flint kicked the barrels off one by one. They rolled down the street and came to rest in a grove of large, shady trees opposite the tavern. Then he jumped off, took hold of the shafts and began pulling the cart towards the plain.


    He was just rounding a shed by the side of the road, the cart rattling off the cobbles and onto the dirt, when he felt a strange, sharp prick on his skin.


    He put a hand to his neck.


    Then the sky became the ground, and he fell into blackness.


    Commander Trice paced, back and forth, awkwardly and painfully, using his sheathed sword for support. Doing so aggravated his injury, but he was too restless to sit around waiting.


    Quite a crowd had gathered around him, now. Seeing him arrive, many people had returned from where they had fled, especially as the Dragon no longer appeared to pose an immediate threat.


    After its initial attack, the creature had largely ignored the townsfolk, flying off eastwards instead and slaughtering one of the hillbeasts that roamed the dusty flatland. The Dragon had returned to the summit of the hill with its prize and sat there now gorging itself, the sound of crunching shell and tearing flesh echoing horribly in the morning stillness.


    The fire had almost burnt itself out. A few buildings remained aflame, but the forest was starkly black and smouldering, embers crackling in patches here and there, smoke drifting up to smudge the pink blush that spread across the brightening sky with the approach of dawn.


    Flint had still not returned.


    Grisket had sent a couple of villagers cautiously to look for him. They had discovered an abandoned dray near the entrance of the town, but no trace of the man with the giant crossbow.


    A few people told him that they''d seen Flint before, and Dogwyn had mentioned that he had belonged to the Bladeshifters. Grisket wasn''t sure what to think about the fact he had allied himself with a sorcerer, but the man had saved the life of a Freeroamer, and that was certainly something worth noting.


    He wondered if Flint had had a sudden change of heart and gone crawling back to Nightwalker, but he hadn''t seemed like the type. Most likely, he thought morbidly, Nightwalker had discovered his treachery and done away with him¡­


    Grisket shook his head, feeling helpless. There was nothing he could do to help Flint. Neither he nor Cairan were in any condition to effect a rescue or to fight Nightwalker. A handful of the townsfolk were armed, but they wouldn''t stand a chance if the Bladeshifters regrouped and launched another attack. Grisket had a feeling that some of those black-clad lowlifes were still hanging around, but the best he could do was set some folks on watch and keep alert.


    No other Freeroamers had turned up. This fact wrenched at Grisket, like a fist trying to rip his guts out. Everyone he had left at the Guard House was either dead or missing. He couldn''t accept that the Freeroamers were finished: doing so brought him dangerously close to breaking point.


    Nevertheless, the cracks in his soul were large, and he felt his efforts to hold them together slipping¡­


    Cairan had regained consciousness some time ago, as the men lifted him carefully into the cart. They had given him some water, but the Centaur had said little. He had a defeated air about him that worried Grisket, and had tried to give the Commander back his badge, but Grisket would have none of it. He tried to reassure his friend that he was not at fault for what had happened, but Cairan remained silent, the words simply rolling off him.


    Yet, Grisket felt, hypocritically, that he could no longer retain his own badge.


    He looked at the townsfolk sitting around in the dirt. Those that caught his eye did so hopefully, as though expecting their Commander to go up there and slay the Dragon personally.


    They have no idea how difficult it is to kill a Dragon, he thought despondently. They cannot comprehend it¡­


    He thought momentarily of Sirannor. Gods, let him be all right¡­


    Making a sudden decision, he hobbled through the group towards a couple of men who remained a little apart from the others.


    The two barkeepers: Valeran and Middry.


    Middry sat on the ground, sleeves rolled up, arms resting on his knees, eyes red-rimmed in his lean, weathered face. Valeran stood beside him, looking defeated.


    Grisket lowered himself painfully to his good knee in front of the older barkeeper. Middry looked up at him, his normally shifty eyes now watery with grief. ¡°Aldrin¡­ was in the Guard House.¡± His voice was hoarse, thick grey moustache trembling.


    Grisket put his hand on the other man''s shoulder. He knew what it was like to lose a son. More than one. ¡°And Brisk?¡± he asked quietly.


    Middry shook his head. ¡°Don''t know. Gone.¡±


    Middry, like Sirannor, had grown up a soldier, but after the death of his wife had retired for a quieter life in the Outlands. He had set up a tavern in Forthwhite, fiercely competing with the well-respected Valeran at the Hungry Deer. He was terrible at it: watering down his beer and fleecing his customers, and his two sons, bored with country life, were known troublemakers. But none of them had ever caused any real harm.


    This barman was now the most experienced fighter amongst them.


    Grisket caught his eye. ¡°You''re an old war horse, Middry,¡± he said. ¡°Think you can protect these people?¡±


    Middry just shook his head again.


    ¡°There''s no sense in this,¡± Grisket growled in a low voice. ¡°No sense in any of it. Gods know.¡± He gazed up at the smouldering hilltop. ¡°There''s nothin'' we can do against Dragons. But I formed the Freeroamers to protect the Outlands against those punk Bladeshifters¡­¡± He tried to push himself back to his feet. ¡°Damned¡­ if I''m gonna¡­ let ''em win!¡±


    Valeran, noticing him struggling, stepped over quickly to give him a hand.


    Bracing himself, Grisket unpinned his badge from his sleeve and shoved it into Valeran''s aproned chest.


    The portly barkeeper stared at the gleaming badge in astonishment. ¡°But¡­!¡±


    ¡°I need someone to lead these people to safety,¡± he explained, face serious. ¡°I''m not up to it. But everyone trusts you.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Valeran objected, face going pale. ¡°I¡­ I can''t!''


    ¡°I''ll do it.¡±


    Middry climbed to his feet and stood with his arm held out, palm upward.


    Valeran eyed Grisket and quickly shoved the badge into his rival''s calloused hand.


    Grisket nodded at Middry approvingly. ¡°Take everyone south to Skywater. Head across the plains west, then skirt the mountains, keeping to the forest road.


    ¡°If the Dragon attacks, flee into the mountains and hide till it''s safe. I will join you when I can.¡±


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Valeran asked.


    Grisket gestured back at the cart behind him. ¡°Got to get help for Cairan. Sunsee was on fire when I left; the infirmary''s probably been destroyed. Next best place is Selvar.¡±


    He hoped that Sel Varence, hidden as it was in a canyon at the edge of the Tentaryl Mountains, might be overlooked by the Dragons. It was the largest city in Daroria, home to eccentrics and experts from all over Arvanor. There was bound to be skilled healers there. Not all of them were entirely trustworthy, of course, but perhaps Mekka could help him in that regard¡­


    It was a long journey, however, and he could only pray that the Centaur would survive it.


    He steadfastly pushed thoughts of Aari aside.


    ¡°Good luck to both of you.¡± Putting a hand on each of their shoulders in turn, he turned and started limping back towards the dray.


    Someone screamed.


    People leapt to their feet in panic all around him.


    The Dragon had lifted itself from the top of the hill, great wings beating the smoky air, glowing with an orange cast in the morning light.


    But its attention was not drawn to the Humans.


    Approaching from the south-west was a huge, dark shape, like an inky blotch leaking onto the blue fabric of the sky.


    It came fast, trailing a black stain behind it.


    As it neared, Grisket could see that it was Dragon-shaped, but deformed and monstrous, with too many spikes and long tentacles that whipped at the air around it. Its wings were skeletal, a ghostly mist swirling where skin had once stretched, and its head was a mass of razor teeth, its eyes empty, hollow sockets, like a skull.


    ¡°What in all the Gods of Arvanor,¡± Grisket breathed, ¡°is that?!¡±


    The Dragon above the hill roared, startling them all ¨C a long, drawn out bellow that rose in pitch to a bone-chilling shriek. It flew to meet the black monster.


    Whirling, Grisket yelled at Middry: ¡°Go! Go now!¡±


    Without hesitation, the barman started barking orders. His rough voice held a commanding ring to it that the villagers, shocked and terrified, obeyed without question. Gathering their belongings and children, they started running west.


    Grisket hobbled as quickly as he could manage to Foxxin, and pulled himself up. The dray cart was already harnessed to the saddle. He had barely taken the reins when the chestnut horse, spooked by the collision of the two beasts in the air above, bounded forward and bolted across the plains, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

 Chapter Seventy Nine

    Hunted by hate, a beast of sky


    Nowhere to run, nowhere to fly.


    Morning light crept through the forest, setting the leaves alight, one by one, with golden fire.


    The sorcerer brothers crouched in the shadows of two ancient oaks that formed an archway over the path. Ahead, through the trees and tangled undergrowth, the Valewood Forest ended at a dusty road. Beyond the road lay quiet, warm fields and gently rolling hills.


    In the field closest to the road sat the Dragon.


    They could just see its scaled, sunbathed hide through the branches, and the deep, burning embers of its huge eyes.


    It stared, silently, unblinkingly at the forest.


    Waiting for them.


    Arzath glared at his brother across the golden path of sunlight that lay between them. ¡°I hope,¡± he hissed through clenched teeth, ¡°that you have something in mind?¡±


    Requar did not reply. Instead, he reached over his shoulder and withdrew his Sword of Healing from its sheath. The silver blade caught the sunlight in a dazzling flash.


    Arzath stared at him incredulously. ¡°That''s your plan?¡± he whispered. ¡°You wish to make it stronger?!¡±


    His brother remained silent, watching the Dragon. The beast made no sound or movement; it was a massive, intimidating, deadly part of the landscape. Only the smell of it, smoky and pungent, gave it away.


    ¡°The Dragon has dreamed of vengeance for a thousand years,¡± Requar murmured. ¡°It has filled itself with anger and hatred to sustain it all that time.¡± He glanced at Arzath. ¡°Much as you did. But perhaps¡­¡± he paused. ¡°If I can use my Sword on it, I can convince it that we are not its enemies¡­¡±


    ¡°Requar,¡± Arzath hissed. ¡°That thing does not consider us its enemies! It considers us its breakfast!¡±


    Sighing, Requar got to his feet. ¡°Just distract it, Arzath!¡±


    Then he was gone, invoking his camouflage spell and melting into the trees and light.


    Clenching his fist in frustration, Arzath put it to his forehead and closed his eyes. Remaining where he was for a few moments to prepare himself, he finally took a deep breath and got up.


    Stepping out of the shadow and into the light, he strode along the path and out into the middle of the road.


    The Dragon stared at him, crouched in the field like a monstrous cat, wings folded, head lowered.


    His heart raced. He felt like an insect in its presence.


    This was not a thing that could be cowed by magic or charmed by lies.


    This was a thing that could eat him whole, shield or no.


    As he met its eyes, the hairs on his neck stood up and his insides grew cold.


    He had not felt so vulnerable since he had lost his magic, and Kyosk had tried to slaughter him with his own Sword. But this time was different.


    This time, he was not weak, nor frail.


    This time, he could ¨C and would ¨C fight back.


    He noted with a measure of satisfaction that he and Requar''s previous assault on the Dragon had not been in vain; charred patches spotted the beast''s body from his lightning, and Requar''s spell ¨C mostly intended to blind and distract it ¨C had not been without damage: a large patch of melted scales and raw flesh scarred the Dragon''s face, just below its left eye.


    The Dragon''s fearsome eyes narrowed, slowly, almost imperceptibly.


    Indeed, it was angry.


    Arzath''s fingers twitched, a spark jumping between them involuntarily as his magic pressed against him, trying to burst free. He longed to unleash another storm onto the Dragon, but he didn''t know where Requar was.


    Damn him.


    This is ridiculous!


    Instead, he folded his arms, to hide his trembling hands. The Dragon''s eyes were half closed, now. He could feel its rage, radiating out of it, hotter than the sunlight beating on his face. Thin streams of smoke leaked from the Dragon''s nostrils. Mingled excitement and terror rippled along Arzath''s spine. Sweat tricked down his temple, and he resisted the urge to brush it away.


    ¡°My brother,¡± he said aloud to the sunlit, Dragon-filled morning, ¡°does not want to kill you.¡±


    The Dragon continued to stare at him for a moment. Then its jaws split, like a cavern opening.


    ¡°Your brother,¡± it said, its voice huge and deep, like a mountain speaking, ¡°is wise.¡±


    ¡°I, on the other hand,¡± Arzath went on, ignoring it, ¡°would prefer to see your smouldering corpse lying in this field.¡±


    The Dragon lifted its head, black, razor-sharp teeth filling his vision. A rumbling sound emanated from deep within its body. Arzath made sure his shield was in place, and braced himself.


    But instead of fire, booming laughter burst from its throat, rolling over the countryside, scattering birds from the trees. A few rabbits fled from the wheat field, darting across the road into the forest.


    Where are you, Requar? Arzath thought desperately, glancing around, but there was no sign of his brother.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± the Dragon replied, its eyes wide and blazing.


    And then it lunged at him.


    Arzath threw himself to one side just as the great jaws snapped into the space he had occupied a second earlier. As soon as he hit the ground, he turned and threw a ball of lightning at the Dragon''s head as it swung around for a second bite.


    Magic slammed into the Dragon''s face with a sizzling explosion, knocking the beast aside. Arzath scrambled to his feet in the wake of the ground-shaking roar, and started running, circling into the wheat field.


    Fire spewed from the Dragon''s jaws in an arc, washing over him.


    His shield flared purple, and the air was suddenly filled with raging flame.


    The heat was intense. Even through his shield, he felt as though his skin was about to blister any moment, but there was nothing he could do but protect his face with his arm and hope that he had enough energy to withstand it¡­


    The inferno continued. Arzath''s clothing began to smoulder.


    Requar! he screamed silently. Whatever the hell you''re going to do, do it NOW!


    On cue, a brilliant white light flared, visible even through the flames and reddish-purple glow of his shield.


    The fire died away, and the white light diminished into a cool blue glow.


    To his astonishment, Arzath looked up to see that Requar was on top of the Dragon, having plunged his Sword into the base of the thing''s neck, just above its shoulder blades!


    The Dragon swung its head around, trying to snap at the Human sorcerer on its back, but was repelled.


    Furious, the Dragon breathed fire over its own body.


    Arzath gritted his teeth, but was relieved at the blue flare of Requar''s shield.


    Roaring, the Dragon danced thunderously about the field. Arzath flung himself to the charred ground as its huge, spiked tail swung at him.


    He picked himself up a moment later to see the beast spread its wings and lift into the air.


    ¡°No!¡± he cried.


    Hastily, he tried to summon a storm, but his attack missed wildly, lightning bolts striking at random, setting the already burning field further ablaze.


    The Dragon beat away over the hills, taking Requar with it.


    Requar clung to the Dragon''s neck for dear life, braced against one of its huge spikes, both hands on his Sword, which he had plunged into the creature''s flesh up to the hilt. He had not expected this to be an easy thing to accomplish, but trying to use his Sword on the Dragon while attempting to stay alive in the process was exceedingly difficult, to say the least.


    Especially as the Dragon kept swerving and rolling in the air, trying to shake him off.


    It almost succeeded.


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    Fighting to keep his grip, he returned his hand to his Sword, heart leaping wildly in his chest. Wind whipped into his face, throwing his long white hair and cloak about him. For a moment, the Dragon ceased its manoeuvring long enough for him to concentrate on his Sword.


    Abandoning his protective spells, he flooded all of his magic into the blade, hard and fast.


    He wasn''t prepared for the sheer enormity of the Dragon''s soul.


    It was like pouring water into an ocean.


    Normally, magic and life force could be distinguished in living things as two separate forms of energy¡­ but the Dragon was different. It was both life force and magic combined into something else¡­ something vast and powerful and almost incomprehensible¡­


    Requar had never encountered anything like it before. He struggled past his awe, trying to focus, to channel his healing magic, seeking the creature''s mind¡­


    A moment later, he found it.


    A cavern of eyes surrounded him. Thousands of them, huge and orange and hungry as fire, crowded together until nothing existed but their soul-destroying glare.


    Requar withered before them, like a leaf in an inferno.


    Gasping, he fell to his hands and knees, only to find another great eye beneath him, its orange-red depths swirling languidly, like molten magma, diamond-slitted pupil slicing right through him like a hot blade.


    He clutched his head, feeling as though he were being crushed and dismembered, collapsing and burning and falling apart; there was a roaring, screaming sound that filled him, and he could not tell if it issued from the Dragon or himself¡­


    His lungs felt constricted, and he struggled to breathe. He was being consumed by the force of that orange gaze, and panic danced around him with threatening glee...


    Holding himself together with an effort, he scrabbled for the words that he had come here to say, even though they now seemed futile.


    The war is¡­ over, he gasped. You are¡­ free. There is no one¡­ left to fight. Your vengeance¡­ serves no purpose. Those who¡­ imprisoned you are¡­ long dead, and their¡­ descendants are¡­ destroyed¡­


    Shadows crept around the edges of his vision, reducing it to a narrow tunnel with the great eye a terrible fiery pit at its centre. He could not look away from it, though the pain of his final words ripped at him, like the shriek that howled around and through him, attempting to dash his consciousness away¡­


    I¡­ I¡­ I¡­ destroyed them¡­.


    His magic gave out, and his mind fled. Dimly, through the grey haze of his scorched thoughts, he was aware of his hands slipping off the hilt of his Sword, a sensation of falling, of emptiness, and then he knew no more.


    Exhausted, sweating, Arzath trudged down a grassy hill and started across another field. The sun had risen high overhead, a white eye burning him almost as fiercely as the Dragon had done.


    He had been forced to Mind Sweep the entire countryside at regular intervals in order to find his brother. The Dragon had carried him a long way.


    To his immense relief, however, he found that Requar was still alive, though the Sweep revealed a greatly weakened magical aura. His life force, though, was still strong.


    Fool! Arzath thought furiously. Why must he insist on doing everything the complicated way?!


    He discovered Requar sprawled in a dandelion-strewn field, his Sword a blaze of reflected sunlight a few yards away.


    There was no sign of the Dragon.


    Arzath collapsed to his knees beside his brother, and checked ¨C unnecessarily ¨C Requar¡¯s pulse and breathing, which were both present. There did not appear to be any injuries, either; he was merely unconscious.


    Sighing heavily, Arzath sat on the ground beside Requar and closed his eyes, waiting for him to wake.


    A short time later, he heard a sound beside him and opened his eyes to find Requar stirring. He reached out and helped his brother to sit up.


    Requar put a trembling hand to his head. The heavy expenditure of magic had taken its toll. His skin was pale, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.


    ¡°That was an idiotic thing to do,¡± Arzath chastised, glaring at him.


    Requar rubbed at his head, closing his eyes. ¡°I feel terrible,¡± he replied hoarsely, ¡°thank you for asking.¡±


    Huffing, Arzath got to his feet, strode over to retrieve the Sword of Healing, and handed it back to his brother. He felt a little weak and shaky himself. They had fled the castle without any supplies, and the fight with the Dragon, plus a two hour hike over the hills, had been draining.


    ¡°We will need to find water and food,¡± he declared, watching the horizon warily for any sign of the winged beast. ¡°We are in no condition to fight the Dragon again if it returns¨C¡±


    ¡°It won''t.¡±


    Arzath looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. ¡°Do you mean to say, that your ridiculous plan actually worked?¡±


    Requar regarded his Sword, turning it over in his hands. ¡°I believe so.¡±


    ¡°What makes you so sure?¡±


    Requar pushed himself to his feet with his Sword and staggered, clutching Arzath''s arm for support. ¡°Because,¡± he said, giving his brother a small smile, ¡°it didn''t kill me.¡±


    * * *


    The sailing boat glided over the smooth surface of the sea, drifting quietly into the harbour, the morning sun a ripple of light behind it.


    Gently, Tarin the fisherman docked his boat and secured it, before hopping nimbly up onto the weathered planks of the pier.


    An abandoned settlement stood before him. Tents were ripped or collapsed, canvas hanging off their frames like old skin; broken buildings protruded charred support beams, like carcasses with their ribs pointing at the sky. At the back of the camp rose a wall of sheer red cliffs, like a natural battlement; beyond them rose ranks of cone-shaped mountains and sharp, craggy ridges. The sky overhead was a brilliant sweep of clear blue, a peculiar sight over the Isle; no remnant of the Aegis was visible any longer.


    There were no seabirds, either.


    Tarin looked around, swallowing nervously. There was no one to be seen, nor any sign of a living thing, but the black mounds littering the encampment suggested plenty of death.


    A cold, dark feeling wormed its way through his gut.


    He knew that the Dragons had all departed, and, as Commander Trice had astutely pointed out, were not likely to return. Reason told him that the Middle Isle was the safest place in Arvanor to be at this moment.


    But his intuition told him differently.


    There was something strange, here.


    Something wrong.


    Reluctantly, the fisherman took a few steps forward, unwilling to set foot on the land.


    Damned if I''m gonna wander around in that lot, he thought.


    Some way off in the middle of the camp, a little to his right, lay the gigantic corpse of a slain Dragon, its head mutilated.


    With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Tarin cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled: ¡° ''allo? Anyone about?¡±


    His voice disappeared into the ruins and red rocks.


    There was no reply.


    He waited, but no one showed themselves, if there was anyone still alive to do so.


    Turning, he stared out across the water. Though he had only just arrived, he longed to hop back into his boat and sail away from this place. However, he had promised Commander Trice that he would wait¡­


    The cold feeling in his gut turned suddenly to solid ice, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Though he was not aware of having heard a sound, he felt strongly that someone was behind him, staring at him.


    He turned.


    A man stood at the landward end of the pier. He was clad in impressive armour, with an orange cape. A huge sword, shaped like a Dragon''s wing, was gripped in one black-gauntleted fist.


    Tarin knew little of the Darorian Army, or military ranks, but the man''s elaborate armour obviously suggested someone important, perhaps the General himself.


    He did not, however, like the threatening way that the man held himself.


    ¡°I, uh¡­ I''m lookin'' for someone by the name of Captain Sirannor,¡± he said uncertainly.


    The armoured man stared back at him unblinkingly, his eyes cold and pale beneath his ornate helmet. ¡°That is I,¡± he responded.


    Tarin knew at once that he was lying. He did not look like a Freeroamer, nor anyone that Tarin wanted on his boat.


    Swallowing, he began to back away.


    The man walked towards him, along the pier.


    Turning, Tarin hurried to his boat and leapt aboard.


    Boots thundered on the pier as the man ran after him.


    Tarin lunged for the mooring line, but was too late.


    He lost his head.


    General Dreikan reversed his swing as the fisherman''s head bounced onto the pier and rolled into the sea, spraying blood across the planks. His sword sheared through the mast of the boat with one swipe, toppling it with a clatter and splash. Then he began hacking at the vessel, viciously, until water leaked through the shattered hull.


    Straightening, he stood and watched as the boat floundered and slowly sank into the bloodstained water of the harbour.


    ¡°This,¡± he said quietly to the wreckage and decapitated body, ¡°is my island. No one arrives here.


    ¡°No one leaves.¡±


    Then he turned and walked back along the pier.


    Dreikan made his way across the camp, orange cloak sweeping over the corpses as he went, until he arrived at the command tent.


    Throwing the flap aside, he entered.


    The room was silent and empty. Everything was exactly as he had left it; the table in the middle of the room still strewn with maps of the planned attack on the Dragon, chairs sticking out haphazardly where his now dead commanding officers had left them.


    Except for one thing.


    A stylish black sword, one of those once carried by his lieutenants, was embedded in the end of the table, point downward in one of the maps.


    Walking slowly around the table, scanning the room with his eyes, he stopped beside the sword. Glancing downwards, he noticed that the section of map that the blade was pinned to depicted a valley to the north of the one where the ambush had taken place.


    The valley where he had fought and slain Sirannor Vandaris.


    Smiling, Dreikan took the sword in his free hand and pulled it out of the table. Then he turned and went to the room at the back of the tent.


    There was no one there, either.


    The room was small, and surrounded by solid rock. There were not many places to hide.


    Stepping over to the bed, Dreikan turned his sword in his hand and plunged it downwards. Then he withdrew it and moved over to the wardrobe, smashing his blade into it, sending splinters of wood and whispers of cloth falling to the floor.


    Dreikan regarded the wreckage for a moment. Then he walked back out into the main room.


    The girl stood at the other end of the room, just inside the entrance flap.


    She appeared to be unarmed, though she wore the black armour beneath ¨C Dreikan noted with interest ¨C one of his own long coats.


    For an instant, despite himself, he was struck by the girl''s resemblance to Sirannor. The expression on her young face was so familiar¡­


    ¡°Trying to imitate your father?¡± Dreikan mocked, the smile returning to his face. ¡°How amusing. But do not expect to die as gloriously as he did.¡± He turned away contemptuously. ¡°You are a child. You are not worth my time.¡±


    ¡°And yet,¡± she countered softly, ¡°you hunt me.¡±


    Dreikan strolled around the room, twirling first one sword, then the other. When he glanced in her direction again, she was gone.


    Unhurriedly, he followed her.


    Slashing aside the tent flap with one of his swords, he emerged into the sunshine to catch a glimpse of her vanishing into the ruined tents on the other side of the encampment.


    ¡°So,¡± he called. ¡°You are fond of playing games, girl?¡±


    He started across the compound, in her direction. ¡°Very well,¡± he said. ¡°Let us play.¡±


    Carmine darted amongst the tents, moving as quietly as she could manage, though she was sure her heart would give her away, it beat so loudly in her ears.


    She wished, desperately, that she had a plan.


    But she didn''t.


    She sought only to annoy Dreikan, to force him to notice her.


    The way he had tossed her aside with barely a glance, after Sirannor''s death, as though she were a thing not even worth killing, angered her. She allowed the memory of that moment to fill her with fury, keeping it close.


    She feared that if she did not, she would simply slip off the end of the pier and end herself.


    But she was not so drowned in grief to delude herself into thinking she stood any chance of actually duelling the General. She could handle herself well enough with a sword ¨C Hawk had taught her how to fight after she was attacked in an alley in Sel Varence, years ago ¨C but she had nowhere near the expertise to take on someone like Dreikan.


    Even her father had lost to him.


    A fresh wave of pain flooded her, and she was forced to pause around a corner, trying to calm her ragged breathing; squeezing her eyes closed, she fought the tears that threatened to spill from their corners.


    She had to think of another way.


    Mekka had taught her skills, as well. She had never been good at being quiet, always restless and fidgety, impatient for something to happen. He had been patient with her, however, and eventually she had learnt how to be still and silent, how to calm her thoughts and look at things differently, in ways that other people would not expect.


    This was what she needed, now.


    Think more like Mekka, she told herself. Not like Hawk.


    There was a soft sound from nearby, an almost unnoticeable scuff.


    Dreikan knew how to be discreet, as well.


    Opening her eyes, Carmine peered around the corner to see his shadow spill across a piece of canvas. Quickly, she moved away.


    As she led him randomly through the ruins, she focused her mind on a solution, thinking of what she had to hand, and finally, she thought she might have found the faintest stirrings of an idea.

 Chapter Eighty

    The Tower stands in mist and gloom


    Within its heart lies Angel''s doom.


    Caer Sync rose like a ghostly spear out of the mist of the Singing Cliffs, and disappeared again into brooding fog. Green patterns climbed its smooth, pale sides like hexagonal vines. The sound of bells and chimes lifted upwards invisibly from the endless storm of water below.


    All around was a pale, yellowish nothing; the sea had vanished, the sky was a memory, and the forest had been left behind.


    The Holy Tower was all that remained amid the creeping mist.


    Through the chill gloom, a black-winged figure emerged, small against the giant spire, sweeping around it in a slow arc, the mist stirred into restless eddies as it passed.


    Mekka circled the Tower, keeping low enough to feel the icy spray of the falls, out of sight of the small windows that girthed the stone above him, like dark eyes. He would have preferred to come in darkness; his black feathers stood out too starkly against the fog and white stone, but there was nothing to be done about that, now.


    Shortly, he passed around to the southern side of the Tower, and the large entrance platform came into view. Alighting soundlessly, he folded his wings and moved swiftly into the shadowed recess of one of the golden gates.


    There he went still, pressing himself against the wall, carefully watching the platform, the opposite gate, and the swirling fog.


    There was no one to be seen.


    Nevertheless, he remained cautious for a minute or two, before reaching into his jacket and producing a lockpick. With a deft flick of his wrist, he was through the gate. Closing it silently behind him, he moved into the dark, curving corridor.


    A few steps later, he arrived at an arched entranceway, leading to another, smaller platform.


    Beyond it opened a vast, empty space.


    The Sanctuary.


    Mekka paused where he was, just inside the threshold. The stones of the wall seeped cold through his feathers and clothing, and seemed to permeate right through to his bones, as well.


    For a moment, he closed his eye.


    He had only ever been inside Caer Sync once before: on the night his mother had tried to dispose of him. He could remember nothing of the incident, but it was a fact that haunted the back of his mind.


    Looking up again, he stared at the opposite archway for a long moment, but nothing moved there.


    Tek''Hari, the current Syncwarden, was the only person allowed inside the Sanctuary, but there was no sign of him.


    There was no reason to believe he might be here, either. As far as Mekka knew, he only visited for maintenance purposes, or to open the gates for Ascension or Descension events, when Arkanian citizens chose to end their lives.


    Slowly, Mekka stepped out onto the platform.


    No torches were lit. The cavernous chamber was brightened only marginally by a dim haze of light filtering through the tiny, triangular windows. The sound of the Cliffs below filled the space with dancing music. It was quite beautiful, but had a restless tone to it, as though the bells were too eager.


    Every now and then, a great booming sound echoed off the walls.


    Mekka lifted his gaze upwards.


    The sight of Excelsior''s Clock stopped his breath in his throat.


    He had never seen it before. It was huge.


    The clock had several arms of varying sizes, but most were silent, save the largest and slowest, which tolled with a bone-shuddering ominousness, as though counting down to the end of the world.


    Perhaps, Mekka thought nervously, it is.


    The face was covered in hundreds of mysterious glyphs, arranged in a beautiful, circular pattern. Only a few of them had ever been translated; they were so ancient that their meaning had long been forgotten.


    Excelsior''s Clock was also a gate. It was opened regularly to admit those Angels who had decided that it was time for them to die.


    Ending one''s life by ascending to Excelsior was a matter of honour among Angels, an occasion to be celebrated. Death by any other means was something to be ashamed of. That was why murder was so abhorred in Angelican society: to deprive someone of their chance to ascend was the most heinous of crimes, and such criminals were usually thrown into the Pit.


    Most Angels believed that the Goddess resided at the summit of the Tower. Mekka wasn''t sure if that were true, and didn''t particularly care. He was never going to reach Excelsior, whether it existed or not.


    He cast his gaze downwards.


    The Dark Gate, in comparison, was relatively featureless. It was just a grating.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The trigon-forged bars had, however, been cast into the forms of twisting vines and leaves, as though whoever had created it had, at least, sought to make it beautiful.


    There was a beauty to darkness, Mekka realised. He had always liked the night.


    As he stared down into the impenetrable depths of the Pit, Mekka felt a sense of, not horror, but sadness creep over him.


    He was not happy enough to ascend to Excelsior.


    But his regrets could carry him all the way to the bottom of infinity.


    Are my wings truly made of trigon? he thought gloomily. Do I belong down there?


    He leapt off the ledge.


    Slowly, he circled down through the empty chamber, the light dimming as he descended, the windows ¨C and the world beyond them ¨C retreating.


    He landed on the Gate in a crouch.


    Turning to his satchel, he retrieved the cloth-bound bundle, unwrapped it, and opened the box.


    The trigonic dagger lay there, gleaming darkly.


    It did not seem as horrifying as it once had. It seemed almost¡­ normal.


    He felt suddenly that the knife belonged to him, as though it had been his all along, and that Ferrian had been right to give it to him.


    An overwhelming sense of everything falling into place came over him, like a revelation.


    He was supposed to be here.


    Reaching into the box, he took out the dagger, and held it in his hand.


    And then he knew something else.


    He was not supposed to drop it into the Pit.


    As he watched, the dagger shimmered, and a pale, ghostly copy detached itself, held in a transparent hand that was not his, and yet, somehow, it was the same. Slowly, the apparition turned the dagger-image in its hand and plunged it, almost gently, into his chest.


    Mekka felt nothing ¨C the real dagger was still clutched in his hand ¨C but his thoughts began to grow heavy, weighing him down, as though he were sinking into a morass.


    His mother was right, he thought despondently, to bring him here. He should have been cast into this Pit as an infant. It was only due to the kindness of a soft-hearted woman that he had survived.


    And what had he accomplished, as a result?


    Nothing but an endless string of failures.


    He had no family, and no real home. His dearest friend was dead, and the woman he loved was in love with someone else. He had been an outcast from the beginning: hated, feared and rejected. What was there for him, in the world outside this Pit?


    What was there?


    Perhaps, he thought, tears leaking down his face, blurring his vision, he was not evil.


    But he was a mistake.


    The Governor''s voice floated down to him, from somewhere high and distant, punctuated with the pain from each blow of his fat fist. You are a mistake, you black-winged scum! You worthless abomination!


    Yes, Mekka agreed, seeing again his own blood splattered on the tiled floor of the Governor''s office. Lifting a hand, he touched his patched eye. I am an abomination.


    The ghostly hand repeated its action, the dagger disappearing silently into his chest.


    Placing both hands on the knife, following the motion of the apparition, he turned it slowly until its tip pointed towards his heart.


    I do not belong in this world.


    A kind of cold peace came over him, smoothing out his thoughts, his anguish sliding away into the void. Only the dagger was left, with its wicked, sharp edges, promising a swift end to him...


    Slowly, Mekka brought the dagger close, until it rested against his chest. He drew a final breath.


    His hands tightened on the hilt, and¡­


    ¡­ the floor opened up beneath him.


    The shock of the sudden lurch kicked Mekka''s survival instinct alive. Dropping the knife, he lunged to the side, catching hold of a section of the Dark Gate as it split into four segments, moving slowly to lay flat against the sides of the shaft.


    A vast abyss yawned below.


    Gasping, shaking in horror, Mekka clung to the Gate. Dazed, he lifted his head to look upwards.


    An Angel stood on the platform, high above, near the mechanism that controlled the Gates.


    ¡°Tek!¡± Mekka cried. ¡°Close the Gate!¡±


    The Angel ignored him. Instead, he walked forward to the edge of the platform and stared down at Mekka, his eyes hidden behind the gleam of his spectacles.


    Releasing his hold on the grating, Mekka beat his wings to fly upwards, but instead lurched downwards again, his stomach rising into his throat. With another desperate lunge, he grabbed the edge of the Gate again.


    An immense, invisible force pulled him downwards, and a strong wind was building, rushing into the Pit like a gigantic maw drawing in a breath.


    Seeking to swallow him.


    ¡°Tek!¡± he screamed.


    Though just moments earlier, Mekka had wished for nothing more than to end his life, some part of his brain was panicking, beating against him wildly, like a rabid animal.


    It was true, that he wanted to die.


    But not like this!


    He had no desire to find out what lay in the depths of that Pit...


    ¡°You are exactly where you should be, Mekk''Ayan!¡± the Syncwarden''s voice drifted down to him. ¡°I am finishing what your mother started!¡±


    ¡°This is murder!¡±


    ¡°This is not murder,¡± Tek replied calmly. ¡°This is disposal of vermin...¡±


    Gritting his teeth, Mekka reached out for a higher handhold. Slowly, with great effort, he began to pull himself up the grating. He dared not try to fly. The wind and pull of the dark force was too strong.


    His fear and despair felt like terrible weights that were shackled to him, dragging him down. Perhaps fighting the Pit was futile.


    But he was going to try.


    ¡°It seems,¡± he called up to the Syncwarden, ¡°that your family has a penchant for killing people!¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°Your son,¡± Mekka replied, ¡°murdered my friend!¡±


    ¡°My son,¡± Tek yelled down angrily, ¡°resides in Excelsior!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Mekka yelled back. ¡°He doesn''t!¡± Panting with the effort of his climb, he pulled himself up further. One handhold at a time. ¡°He was abducted by a sorcerer and tortured! His wings were cut off, and he went insane!¡±


    ¡°LIES!¡± Tek screamed, his voice bouncing around the chamber, punctuated by a boom from the clock, far above. ¡°You filthy scum! How dare you say such things?!¡±


    ¡°He was locked up in a prison cell,¡± Mekka went on, brutally, ¡°and murdered before he had a chance to be executed!¡±


    Tek was hovering in the middle of the chamber, now. Mekka squinted up through the hair whipping about his face to see the Angel glaring down at him, his fists balled in fury. ¡°I will not listen to this blasphemous nonsense!¡± Tek yelled, but his voice quavered. ¡°Just fall into the Pit and DIE!¡±


    His last words were a scream.


    Mekka''s arms burned as he fought to retain his hold on the Gate. ¡°Believe whatever you want!¡± he called. ¡°But Cimmeran was a tragedy! And Aari did not deserve to die!¡±


    Tek flapped about the chamber in agitation. Mekka had clearly rattled him. ¡°H-his name was Cim''Hari!¡± Tek cried.


    ¡°Not any more!¡± Mekka yelled back. ¡°Don''t be like him, Tek! Don''t do this! Close the Gate!¡±


    Mekka''s grip was weakening. The rush of wind ripped black feathers from him, sending them spiralling into the darkness.


    He couldn''t hold on much longer. The force was becoming stronger.


    Tek continued to circle in distress. But for a moment he paused, glancing across at the mechanism.


    For an instant, a spark of hope flared in Mekka. But it was extinguished almost at once as he noticed, with horror, that Tek was sinking.


    The Syncwarden seemed to realise this himself a moment after Mekka had. Flapping his golden-brown wings, he tried to gain height.


    He got nowhere.


    Tek beat his wings wildly, trying in vain to escape the pull of the Pit, but he continued to descend, inexorably.


    The dark force had a hold of him.


    There was nothing Mekka could do.


    Crying out in terror, Tek was caught by the wind and flung downwards.


    But he had no wish to die either. As he passed Mekka, he threw himself at the black Angel, grabbing hold of his wing.


    Mekka, unable to bear the weight of both of them, lost his hold on the Gate and they both tumbled away, vanishing into the Endless Pit.

 Chapter Eighty One

    The storms have been there from the start


    The snow, the ice, is from the heart.


    A book sat on the dusty table, its gilded binding gleaming dully in the steady, unchanging glow of the library.


    Ferrian stood a few feet away, arm outstretched, bandaged hand held forth, silver eyes focused intently on the small tome in front of him.


    He stood that way for several minutes.


    Silence filled the library around him. The book-lined walls watched him, waiting.


    Nothing happened.


    The book did not move.


    Even the dust did not stir.


    Finally, letting his breath out in a huff of frustration, Ferrian let his arm slump to his side.


    It''s hopeless, he thought in dismay. This is never going to work!


    He had spent the past few hours studying magic, or at least, the type of magic that had been taught at the SOMS. Much of it had been of surprisingly little use to him, focusing on building up magical energy gradually, learning to harness it a little at a time.


    Ferrian didn''t need to know how to acquire magic; he already possessed it.


    His problem was that he had way too much of it.


    He had, however, memorised some techniques for controlling it, but so far none of them had worked.


    Perhaps, he thought, it was just a matter of practice.


    Or perhaps he was doing something wrong.


    Sighing again, Ferrian paced around the pillared room in annoyance. In fact, he knew what he was doing wrong. He needed to summon his magic if he wanted any of the spells to work.


    But if he summoned the Winter in here, it would rip apart the library and turn all of the books into chunks of ice.


    It surprised him that the Winter hadn''t followed him into Grath Ardan already. But this place existed in a different reality: perhaps the Winter didn''t work in here at all?


    Slumping with his back against a pillar, Ferrian stared morosely at the rows of dusty, useless books surrounding him. He had thought that he could figure this out on his own, learn how to control the Winter by himself. But now he realised that it was too difficult a task, too overwhelming, and the information in Grath Ardan too tedious to wade through.


    He needed help.


    Closing his eyes, he wished sadly that Lord Requar had not stabbed himself. He was sure that the sorcerer would have been able to teach him something.


    But Requar was gone, and even if he did still live, was in no condition to help Ferrian with anything.


    But he thought he knew someone who could.


    He just didn''t want to ask.


    Opening his eyes, he stared around himself hopelessly. It didn''t seem as though he had a choice. In resignation, he sat cross-legged on the floor, closed his eyes again, and concentrated.


    Whiteness enveloped him, cool and serene.


    It was so peaceful and familiar that for a long moment he could not remember why he had abandoned this place. But his concentration spell slowly brought his thoughts back into focus, allowed him to remain lucid.


    The crystal sat nearby on its silver-grey pedestal, glimmering and beautiful.


    But there was no song.


    Ferrian listened carefully, but there was no sound to be heard in the pale emptiness.


    Walking over to the pedestal, he sat down beside it.


    Dragon? he said tentatively.


    There was no response.


    I''m sorry for ignoring you. I was¡­ I am¡­ afraid of you. I don''t like it when you take over my body without my knowledge.


    Silence.


    The white void had an aching, desolate quality to it. A flicker of worry stirred within him. Was she gone?


    No, he reasoned. She could not be gone. It was her magic, or her will, that was keeping him bound to this half-alive state. If she had left, surely he would fall completely dead.


    The Dragon must still be here, somewhere.


    I don''t know what you''re doing in my mind or what you want from me, he went on. I know that you stopped me from perishing because you wanted to save yourself, but I didn''t ask to carry you around, let alone manipulate me! I don''t know what I''m supposed to do, now!


    Again, he waited, but received no reply.


    Ferrian sighed in despair.


    Above him, the diamond scintillated, throwing rainbow shards into the whiteness.


    The crystal that Arzath had shattered, releasing the Winter and the Dragon, and lodging both of them inside him.


    Ferrian did not bother to ruminate on why this had happened to him, in particular. He had spent his entire life asking that question, and he didn''t suppose there was an answer. He just wanted to move on.


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    He regretted that he had had to die to do so¡­


    No.


    The voice was melodious and echoing. Surprised and relieved, Ferrian turned to see a great silver eye open in the white space to his left.


    I have done nothing, the Dragon said.


    Ferrian stood up. The eye was intimidating. He could see his reflection in it, though was surprised to see that he looked as he had before he had died.


    You¡­ you turned me into a walking corpse, he accused the Dragon.


    I gathered your magic back to you, she replied. Your life force, I could not recover. I feared, as you do. I did not wish my existence to be extinguished. As you did not want yours to end.


    I would have gladly died in the snow! Ferrian retorted angrily.


    No, the Dragon said. You would not.


    Ferrian found himself glaring at the eye, despite himself. But he could not argue the truth with a creature that shared his own mind. He looked away, instead.


    You made me use the Sword of Healing, he muttered, determined to prove his point.


    I did not, the Dragon repeated.


    Ferrian felt irritated. I have no memory of what happened! he told her. Flint and Arzath told me that I walked in and picked up the Sword and tried to use it on Lord Requar!


    You did not wish him to die, the Dragon replied.


    But I know nothing about the Swords! Ferrian went on, exasperated. How could I have used it? And why?


    My knowledge is yours.


    Ferrian looked back at the eye. Are you saying, he said, that you knew all along the Sword of Healing could cure trigon?


    Yes.


    Ferrian stared at her in astonishment. Why didn''t you say something??


    The great silver eye regarded him, its black pupil shifting. You, the voice replied sadly, did not ask.


    Ferrian was aghast, but realised she spoke the truth. An ancient being occupied his mind, and it had never occurred to him to ask her questions.


    He stared into the whiteness, feeling devastated. I have to go back to the castle, he whispered.


    Yes.


    Are they dead? The sorcerers?


    The Dragon hesitated. They may be, she answered vaguely. They may be not.


    Well, Ferrian thought, she''s a Dragon, not a God. He supposed she wasn''t omniscient.


    He shook his head. He didn''t feel able to help anyone unless he could first learn how to manage the Winter.


    I need to know how to control the magic, Ferrian told the Dragon, turning back desperately to face the silver eye. Please. The Winter has been keeping its distance. Tell me how you are doing it¡­


    I have done nothing, she repeated.


    Ferrian and the eye stared at each other. But, he said, confused. You must have¡­


    The snow falls gently. The storms lay quiet, because you wish it to be so.


    Ferrian blinked at her. Then he shook his head in denial. No! I can''t be controlling it! The Winter destroyed whole towns! And the royal entourage! It killed people! I never wanted that!


    You drew the Winter to you, the Dragon explained patiently. You embraced it. You gloried in its power. It brought you happiness.


    The great eye looked suddenly sorrowful. I merely flew along with you. Your joy was my joy.


    A coldness spread through Ferrian that he hadn''t experienced for a long time. H-how long, he stammered, have I been able to control it?


    The eye blinked, slowly, and Ferrian knew what she was going to say. He found himself drowning in his own reflection.


    Always, the Dragon said, her voice soft and musical and sad.


    Ferrian found that he could no longer stand, and sat abruptly on the floor. B-but, he said, staring in disbelief at the pale nothingness beneath him, I''ve been running from it my whole life¡­


    You ran, the Dragon said gently, because you were afraid. You felt that you were different from other Humans. Even as a child, they treated you with suspicion. You were rejected by your own kind.


    Your sadness and fear called the Winter to you. It was designed to protect and preserve. That is its purpose.


    I¡­ I don''t need a guardian, Ferrian said, brushing away a tear that spilled suddenly from his eye. I don''t need powerful magic to freeze anyone who doesn''t like me¡­


    But that, the Dragon replied, her voice heavy with melancholy, is what you wished. Is it not?


    Ferrian''s mind drifted back through his past, and a memory of the gypsies appeared: the week they had been stuck at Merinriver Break, unable to proceed because the bridge was ruined. The children didn''t want to play with him. They had avoided him, run away between the caravans, made fun of his eyes when they thought he couldn''t hear them¡­


    And then, the Winter had come.


    Ferrian shook his head fiercely, clutching it with his hands.


    Above him, the Dragon began to materialise, gleaming, pearlescent scales spreading outwards from her eye, huge horns curving around him like gigantic spiralling icicles, vast feathery wings tracing themselves out of the white mist.


    Slowly, the Dragon lowered her head and placed it on the ground before him, both eyes watching him like mirrored pools. They seemed to leak, silvery trails running over her huge snout, and Ferrian realised with a wrench of his heart that she was crying.


    I, too, was afraid, the Dragon told him. Once, the deep ice and chill breath of the wind sustained me, but I grew old, and the world changed, and the winters in the mountains were no longer cold enough.


    The Humans of a small village worshipped me. They sought the services of a sorcerer to ensure that I did not perish. The sorcerer created a spell for me, a beautiful song, and set it in a crystal within my cave, that I may be surrounded by eternal Winter, and protected.


    But the passing of time claimed me, regardless.


    I did not want to go. I wished a part of me to linger in the world, so I hid myself within the diamond, and watched my body crumble away.


    Death saddens me, she continued, great eyes closing. The extinguishing of life is something that I cannot bear. The bright glow that exists for but a moment, then is gone¡­


    I found peace within the snow and never-changing coldness of the dark mountain stones, where nothing grows and there was no life to burden me with grief.


    But then my crystal was stolen, and broken. Now I reside within you, Ferrian. I feel all that you feel: your joy, your sorrow, your pain, your fear. I observe the tragedy of life from your eyes.


    The huge silver eyes slowly opened. I can only observe. Your will is your own. The Winter is yours to command. I am but a memory who does not wish to die.


    Ferrian''s face felt wet with tears. But we''re both dead, now, he said despondently.


    The Dragon regarded him. There exists one who can restore the spark, she said. You must return to him. You must ensure that he is not destroyed by the evil you call trigon.


    But, Ferrian said, swallowing, what if it''s too late?


    The Dragon lifted her head, turning away, gradually fading back into the mist.


    Then, she said, voice drifting away with her ghost into the pale glow, much will be lost, and neither you nor I will ever again be whole.


    Opening his eyes, Ferrian stood up and walked across the illuminated floor tiles and around the pillars, until he stood once again a few feet from the table in the centre of the room, with its single book.


    Reaching over his shoulder, he withdrew the Sword of Frost from its sheath.


    For a moment, he stared down at it. His reflection had returned to its bloodless, hollow-eyed form, but his silver eyes still held life, and a new determination burned there.


    Setting the Sword point downward on the floor with a soft chink, he gripped it tightly with one hand and stretched the other out, towards the book.


    Then he summoned the Winter.


    It came in a cold, burning rush through his body. Concentrating hard, he did not allow it to burst free but instead willed it downwards, into his Sword.


    Wind picked up and swirled around the room, quickly gathering into a gale, moaning like a tortured soul and pulling books off their shelves. The sound of flapping paper filled his ears. The Sword glowed and leaked shimmering silver mist, and frost spread outwards across the floor, clouding the silvertine tiles.


    Ferrian ignored all of it, staring intently at the book.


    He didn''t care if he ripped the whole of Grath Ardan apart.


    He WOULD move that book...


    It leapt off the table almost before he had finished the thought.


    It was so sudden that Ferrian momentarily lost concentration. The Winter roared, and he felt the magic surge, ice filling the room¡­


    Panicking, he struggled to regain control, to banish it, but it was too strong¡­


    In desperation, he released the Sword.


    The Winter died away at once as the blade clattered to the floor, and Ferrian found himself standing in the middle of a frozen room.


    A few papers drifted to the ground.


    Ferrian blinked in shock.


    And then realised that he was holding the book.


    It was a solid chunk of ice in his hand.


    I did it, he thought in astonishment, as victory surged through him.


    I can control the Winter!

 Chapter Eighty Two

    A prison with too many eyes


    The wingless Hawk may yet still fly.


    Hawk lay with his hands behind his head, dozing. The cry of a seabird drifted down through his half-aware consciousness, and an unusual warmth on his face slowly brought him awake.


    Opening his eyes, a sudden glare pierced his brain, like a spear.


    He sat up.


    Rubbing his face, he peered around. Golden sunlight blazed over the city, clear and bright, causing the tall, white-walled buildings to glow and reflecting off windows and gilded roof tiles. Angels were out in force, the festival still merrily ongoing, the giant Seraph silent and majestic and strange amidst it all.


    The sun? Hawk thought groggily. How long had he slept? He was sure it had been snowing a moment ago...


    Sliding over to the edge of his platform, he looked down. The heavy clouds that had blanketed Fleetfleer had descended to the level of the treetops; Hawk could see nothing of the forest below, only a thick, fluffy carpet that stretched as far as he could see, and clung to the downward-pointing spires that projected from the undersides of the buildings.


    Hawk frowned. The Winter appeared to be retreating. What did that mean? Had something happened to Ferrian? Or had the kid finally learned how to control it?


    He stared anxiously down into the endless clouds, feeling as though he were a million miles away from anything that was important. It had been a full day since he had sent Li to find his friends, and almost as soon as she disappeared into the forest, Hawk had regretted it. If anything happened to the little girl, he would not be able to live with himself. He knew nothing about Grath Ardan: the place could be riddled with booby-traps, or she might have gotten lost¡­


    Sighing heavily, Hawk pushed himself away from the edge, rested his arms on his knees, and hung his head. He was tired of sitting on this damned platform, doing nothing. He was dismayed that he had been denied the opportunity to see the great library for himself.


    What were Mekka and Ferrian dealing with, down there? What had they discovered?


    He sighed again. He supposed they would tell him all about it, when they got out.


    If they got out.


    Lifting his head, Hawk stared bitterly at the pale-winged Angels flocking about the plaza, enjoying themselves in the reawakened sunshine: sitting on steps, eating their weird, candied fruit, playing instruments and generally having a grand time. They all seemed to have lost interest in him, at least: hardly anyone bothered to glance his way. Even one of the guards had buggered off: only one was left, slouching on his spear and looking infinitely bored, and occasionally ¨C Hawk was sure ¨C asleep.


    Earlier that morning ¨C while it was still cold and dark ¨C an Angel had come to interrogate him. He had been a thin man, with grey wings and short grey hair, and officious-looking blue robes. Hunched by the brazier, hugging himself, he''d looked uncomfortable and loath to be there, as though he''d rather be enjoying his breakfast in a warm tower.


    He had asked his questions perfunctorily, including, of course, how Hawk had managed to infiltrate the Aegis.


    Having anticipated this moment for several hours, Hawk had already prepared his responses, deciding on a combination of honesty and outright lies. He told the truth about who he was and where he was from. However, he thought it wise not to mention that he''d arrived with the infamous black-winged Angel and a dead half-sorcerer wielding a massively powerful weapon that could rip a hole in reality.


    Instead, he had told the interrogator that he had already been present in Arkana before the Aegis went up.


    It was a brash lie: Hawk had no idea how long the Aegis had been in place, but to his relief the Angel had smiled in satisfaction, as though Hawk had confirmed his own suspicions.


    They''re too arrogant to believe that someone could possibly break their Aegis, Hawk thought. In fact, he wasn''t sure that they''d have believed him even if he had been honest...


    The Angel also wanted to know, of course, how Hawk knew of Grath Ardan and why he was trying to break inside.


    Hawk opted for the truth, or as close to it as he could manage, replying that he had learned of the library from an exiled Angel named Aari''Zan ¨C who was now dead ¨C and that he had come seeking a cure for a sick friend.


    The interrogator had stared at him for a long moment, as though weighing his responses, then asked if Hawk had accomplices.


    The Freeroamer told him that he had come alone, but he wasn''t sure the Angel bought that one.


    The interrogator turned after that and simply walked away, without asking any further questions, no doubt to relate Hawk''s replies to the Council so they could decide if he was worth bothering with.


    Hawk yelled after him to hurry up deciding his fate, or they''d have to pry his frozen corpse off the platform, but he got no response.


    He had been genuinely afraid of freezing to death¡­ he just hoped that the return of the sun was a good sign...


    The sight of the festival-goers was making him hungry. His stomach made a mournful gurgling sound. Reaching out to the sack of food that the guards occasionally threw across, he rummaged in it, but there wasn''t much left other than a small piece of bread. He was even starting to crave those strange, sickly-sweet forest fruits¡­


    A sudden tap on his shoulder caused him to drop the bread halfway to his mouth and reach for his non-existent sword. Cursing, he spun.


    It was the Angel girl.


    ¡°Li!¡± he gasped. Pushing himself up to one knee, he glanced across at the guard.


    The golden-armoured Angel stood with his back to the platform, winged helmet glinting, white feathers ruffling slightly in the breeze.


    ¡°Did you make it inside Grath Ardan?¡± Hawk whispered, turning to the girl.


    She nodded.


    ¡°And my friends? Did you find them?¡±


    She nodded again, coppery eyes bright.


    ¡°Are they alright? What are they doing?¡±


    She cocked her head on one side, staring upwards in consideration. ¡°Mmm, Ferrian was reading a book,¡± she answered. ¡°A big one.¡± She stretched out her arms to emphasise the size of the tome.


    Hawk nodded. ¡°Okay. That''s good. And Mekka? The Angel with black wings?¡±


    Li was quiet for a moment before replying: ¡°Mekka yelled at me.¡±


    Hawk frowned. ¡°He yelled at you? What did he do that for?¡±


    Li shrugged. ¡°He was grumpy.¡±


    Hawk sighed, and rolled his eyes. ¡°Mekka''s grumpy with everyone. Don''t let him upset you.¡±


    It was clear that his words came too late, however. The little girl looked downcast. ¡°He didn''t want to be my friend,¡± she said.


    Hawk regarded her sadly. No, he thought. He wouldn''t. But he didn''t have to be a jerk about it¡­


    ¡°Yeah, well,¡± he said flatly, ¡°Mekka has issues.¡± He eyed Li. ¡°Did he come out with you?¡±


    The Angel girl nodded. ¡°He had to go and do something important. And I had to go home first.¡± She stared guiltily at her feet. ¡°I got into trouble for staying out so long...¡±


    Hawk raised his eyebrows. ¡°And then you snuck out again, anyway, to come and see me?¡±


    She looked up at him, suddenly beaming. ¡°Yes!¡±


    You''re a treasure, Li, Hawk thought, unable to stop himself smiling.


    His smile faded a moment later, however. Something didn''t feel right, and he wasn''t sure what it was.


    ¡°Uh, Li,¡± he asked her. ¡°How long ago did you come out of the library?¡±


    ¡°Umm...¡± she thought about it, looking serious. ¡°I don''t know? It was getting light in the forest when we climbed out of the tree...¡±


    Dawn, then, Hawk surmised. He''s been gone a good few hours...


    The feeling of wrongness tightened into a cold ball, as though a leftover chunk of Winter remained lodged in his hollow stomach.


    He must have gone to the Tower to dispose of that creepy dagger, Hawk thought. But surely, it wouldn''t take so long? He only needed to get inside, toss the knife into the Pit, and then get the hell out of there, right?


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Unless he ran into trouble along the way.


    Hawk looked across the plaza, at the white spire of Caer Sync rising above the elegant towers of Fleetfleer like a great spear holding up the sky. It was so vastly high and unfathomable that it was difficult to believe that it was a real thing.


    ¡°How far away is the Tower, Li?¡± he asked.


    ¡°It''s on the other side of the city,¡± she replied. ¡°On the edge of the cliffs. There''s a huge waterfall there! It''s really beautiful! And it sings!¡±


    ¡°Cool,¡± Hawk replied absently. ¡°Do many people visit Caer Sync?¡±


    ¡°Not really. Only sometimes, when they want to go to Excelsior.¡±


    ¡°Excelsior?¡±


    ¡°Yes! That''s where the Goddess lives! In a palace at the top of the Tower!¡±


    ¡°And, uh¡­¡± Hawk hesitated. ¡°What''s... at the bottom of the Tower?¡±


    ¡°Mmm, that''s the Pit. It keeps going down and down forever. There''s bad things in there. If you''re sad or scared then you get sucked in and you can''t get out again!¡±


    Hawk looked at her in horror. ¡°If you go in there when you''re sad, you get swallowed up by a bottomless Pit?¡±


    Li nodded, giving him a look as if to say: Everybody knows this. ¡°But nobody goes in there unless they want to. Except if they did something wrong.¡±


    Hawk felt the icy chunk expand to flood his entire body. If you''re sad. Or scared. Or did something wrong.


    There''s bad things in there.


    You can''t get out again.


    It goes down and down forever...


    Crap, Hawk thought, his heart beginning to race. Crap, crap, crap¡­


    ¡°Hey, you!¡±


    They both looked up, startled.


    The guard had noticed Li.


    ¡°You there! Little girl! Get away from that platform!¡±


    To Hawk''s surprise, the Angel girl sat down stubbornly, folded her arms across her chest, and gave the guard a defiant look.


    The guard stepped up to the edge of the plaza, gripping his spear in both hands. ¡°Your parents will hear of this! Move away NOW!¡±


    Li did nothing.


    The guard''s eyes narrowed. ¡°Do NOT make me come over there!¡±


    Li stuck her tongue out at him.


    Spreading his wings, the guard leapt across the gap, alighting on the platform. He grabbed Li roughly, dragging her to her feet.


    Unfortunately, he was sharper than Hawk gave him credit for, and swiftly dodged the fist aimed at his head.


    Hawk recovered quickly, instead grabbing the guard''s spear.


    The guard shoved Hawk backwards, but both retained their hold on the weapon. The guard tried to headbutt Hawk, but he had anticipated this, and slammed the spear into the other man''s face.


    Still, the guard did not let go. They wrestled furiously.


    ¡°This will¡­ gain you nothing!¡± the guard said, blood leaking from his nose.


    Hawk tried again to bash the guard with the hilt of the spear, but the Angel dodged this time, and Hawk found the blow reversed, smashing into his own nose. Staggering a little, Hawk threw himself back on the guard before his vision had cleared.


    ¡°It will gain me¡­¡± Hawk slammed his gauntleted fist into the guard''s abdomen. The Angel was armoured with silvertine, but it was enough of a distraction for him to follow up with a hard right at the man''s head.


    ¡°¡­ personal satisfaction,¡± Hawk finished, as the guard clattered to the ground.


    Picking up the spear, he leaned on it, took a deep breath, and gave Li a thumbs up. ¡°Nice one, Li!¡±


    The girl beamed.


    The guard was correct, however. Gaining himself a weapon was not a lot of use when he was still trapped on a platform a few hundred feet in the air, and had, unfortunately, failed to grow wings.


    He needed to think of something, quickly.


    Casting his gaze over the plaza, no one was nearby or appeared to have yet noticed anything amiss.


    But he was out in the open, in full view of a large crowd.


    It was only a matter of time.


    Dropping beside the guard, Hawk hastily unfastened the golden helmet and shoved it at Li. ¡°Take this over there,¡± he told her, pointing beside the brazier. ¡°Hurry!¡±


    While she was doing that, he did the same with the breastplate. The armour was remarkably lightweight, impossibly shiny and highly ornate. The Watch would have been jealous.


    He handed the plate to Li as well, then checked the crowd again.


    Any moment now, someone could glance this way. He needed more time.


    He needed a distraction¡­


    His gaze fell upon the giant Seraph, in the middle of the plaza.


    ¡°Hey, Li,¡± he said, when she had returned from depositing the armour beside the brazier. ¡°Think you could go and wake up that Seraph?¡±


    The girl''s eyes went wide.


    ¡°Poke it, or¡­ throw something in its face, or, hell, pick its nose for all I care! Just¡­ make sure that everyone is looking at it. Can you do that?¡±


    Li blinked, looking a little pale. She stared across at the Seraph, then back at Hawk.


    ¡°Please, Li,¡± he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. ¡°I wouldn''t ask if it wasn''t important.¡± He glanced across at the distant, ominous white line of the Tower, splitting the golden sky in two, and swallowed. ¡°I think¡­ Mekka might be in trouble.¡±


    Li looked over at the Seraph again, then turned back with a serious expression on her young face, and nodded.


    Hawk smiled, scuffing her hair. ¡°You''re an awesome kid, Li!¡± he told her.


    Smiling back, the little girl took off across the plaza.


    Hawk watched her go, then looked down at the unconscious guard, and got to work.


    Li darted amongst the crowd, slipping between the market stalls until she reached the centre of the plaza.


    A large and beautiful fountain was situated there, tinkling and glittering in the sunshine. Three golden-winged children, carved from white marble and pouring water from large amphorae, reclined elegantly at the top. Three real Angel children, trying to shove each other off the statue, sat amongst them.


    They weren''t supposed to be there: sitting on the fountain was forbidden, but everyone did it anyway. Li wished she could be naughty with them, instead of just doing bad things on her own.


    But other kids ignored her. No one ever paid any attention to Li: except her parents, which paid her too much attention.


    She wished she could be like Mekka, living in the forest and having adventures. Her tutor had told her stories of the Black-Winged Angel that were meant to scare her, but they only made her excited and restless.


    She looked around at the crowd. People bustled by on every side, going about their business and talking and enjoying themselves.


    No one so much as glanced down at Li.


    She set her mind determinedly. Well, she thought, everyone is going to notice me NOW¡­


    Directly in front of her, in a wide circle beside the fountain, knelt a large group of people, heads bowed, wings folded, hands on their chests in prayer. Floating a little way above them were two giant, bare feet.


    Above those feet rose the rest of the Seraph.


    Six enormous wings stretched out from it, moving lazily in the air, creating a breeze. Its head was high above her, long golden hair falling about its face, mingling with its white robes. Two of its eyes were closed; the third, smaller eye in its forehead was open, staring ahead unblinkingly. Two golden rings rotated above its head, flashing when they caught the sunlight, their hundred blue eyes staring in all directions.


    Looking up at the Seraph, Li felt her confidence waver. The Seraphim were holy: no one had ever touched one before. Merely being in their presence was a privilege. They were holding up the Aegis, keeping Arkana safe from danger.


    But Hawk said that Mekka might be in trouble. She chewed at her lip. And Hawk needed her help.


    Hawk was her best friend, now. He promised.


    Taking a deep breath, Li flew upwards, higher and higher, until she was level with the Seraph''s huge face.


    It filled the world.


    The blue eye stared into her, and she felt as though she could no longer breathe.


    The two main eyes remained closed.


    She forced herself to fly closer.


    Shaking, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the black feather that Mekka had given her.


    Then she reached out and gently brushed it against the Seraph''s mighty nose.


    At first, nothing happened. Li continued to tickle it.


    And then¡­ the great eyes opened.


    Li''s eyes opened wide with them.


    They were golden, and appeared to be filled with swirling clouds. A ring of blue surrounded each vast pupil.


    Li froze, her wings barely able to keep her aloft, and found that she could not look away.


    From somewhere below came a commotion, the sound of people yelling and crying out: in panic, in fear, in awe, she wasn''t sure.


    And then one of the huge hands closed around her.


    With a gasp, Li dropped her feather.


    It''s going to crush me! she thought in terror.


    ¡°I''m s-sorry!¡± she stammered, eyes filling with tears. ¡°I j-just wanted to help my friend!¡±


    The Seraph regarded her, blinking slowly. Then it held up its other hand, the black feather tiny between its thumb and forefinger, and stared at it.


    It blinked again.


    It looked back at Li.


    Then it leaned down and placed the little Angel gently back on the ground, and resumed its former position, hands against its chest, the great eyes closing once more.


    Hawk''s hands flexed as he adjusted his grip on the spear. Whatever Li had done, it had worked: the Seraph had opened its eyes, creating quite a stir.


    Certainly, no one was looking in Hawk''s direction.


    Hawk forced himself not to be distracted by the giant Angel as well. He had something more important to concentrate on.


    Namely, not plummeting to his death.


    Okay, okay, he told himself, feeling his heart trying to run away from his chest. I can do this¡­


    The gap between his platform and the edge of the plaza was slightly too far to jump; the Angels wouldn''t have chosen this floating slab of stone as a prison if they thought their captive could simply leap to safety. The stones of the plaza ended in a smooth, rounded-off ledge, held up by giant buttresses that curved away beneath, like the rib cage of the city, disappearing into the clouds below. There were no railings anywhere, no crevices, no handholds of any kind to grab on to.


    Except for the brazier.


    Hawk wasn''t sure if it was fixed in place or not, but it was large and heavy-looking, and surrounded by an ornate, gilded-metal grille.


    It was a couple of feet from the edge. He didn''t think he could reach it on his own, but with the added length of a spear, with a hooked tip¡­


    ¡°I can do this,¡± he repeated aloud, jumping on the spot to calm his nerves. Then he backed up to the farthest edge of the platform, took a firm grip on the spear, and tensed.


    Carmine knew I was an idiot when she agreed to marry me, Hawk thought. She can''t blame me for dying doing something stupid, right??


    Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.


    Then he opened his eyes, fixed them firmly on the golden brazier¡­ and ran.


    His heart stopped in mid-air as he leapt, thrusting the spear forward¡­


    ¡­ and then he was falling¡­


    A sudden jerk, but he managed to hold his grip¡­


    He blinked.


    It took him a moment to realise that he was neither falling, nor dead.


    The spear had caught in the brazier, and he clung to it, with nothing beneath his feet but several hundred feet of air and cloud and forest.


    Hawk let his breath out in a rush of relief.


    Then he began pulling himself up.


    A few moments later, he sat on the edge of the plaza, wanting nothing more than to collapse with relief, but he was not safe yet. Quickly, he looked around himself.


    The crowd was beginning to disperse, wandering back from where it had flocked around the Seraph. The giant Angel itself had resumed its former pose as though nothing had happened.


    Hawk grabbed the guard''s armour and put it on as quickly as he could manage, then extricated the spear from the brazier and stood up.


    Placing the spear against his shoulder, he began walking nonchalantly across the plaza.


    Of course, he looked nothing like an Angel: the lack of wings was a dead giveaway. But if he acted like he was supposed to be there, mimicking the movements of a guard, perhaps anyone glancing his way wouldn''t look twice¡­


    The sun glared down on him, like a spotlight, making him sweat beneath his black Freeroamer clothing and Angel armour. He knew that he looked ridiculous. He felt ridiculous. The plaza seemed suddenly infinitely big, the nearest alley a hundred miles of blazing white stone away.


    But it seemed that Li''s commotion had claimed everyone''s attention enough that incredibly, no one noticed him. Excited babble filled the plaza, and many people kept looking back at the Seraph.


    Hawk made it to the shadow of an alley, and carefully lounged there, taking deep breaths.


    A moment later, someone wandered over to the edge of the plaza. Hawk noticed him stop suddenly, and peer at the platform that he had just vacated.


    And then, the Angel laughed.


    His laughter brought a couple of others over to see what was going on. Then they, too, started laughing.


    Hawk knew that he needed to find somewhere to hide, but he couldn''t resist watching.


    On the platform, the guard awoke, rubbing his head. Confused at the amused group of observers ¨C or, Hawk corrected, admirers ¨C he looked around, and then down at himself.


    His reaction was worth everything that Hawk had been through.


    And it was a long way down to the forest floor to retrieve his clothes.


    In the distance, someone whistled.


    Smiling, setting his spear against his shoulder once more, Sergeant Hawk turned and strolled down the alleyway.


    It was all he could do to stop himself whistling as well.

 Chapter Eighty Three

    In darkness shall the truth be found


    In silence, far beneath the ground.


    In the quiet, grey gloom of the Sanctuary, dim streamers of light slowly brightened to gold as the Winter mist drew away from Caer Sync.


    The light fell on empty space, dust motes drifting in the deep silence.


    Excelsior''s Clock boomed, once, the echoes fading away into the stone.


    The Dark Gate lay open, a gaping maw, the four segments of the grating lying flat against the sides of the Tower, pointing downwards, like teeth.


    All was still, with no breath of wind.


    But the blackness went down forever.


    Somewhere, far in the depths, two Angels had been swallowed.


    Mekka felt something slam into his head.


    At first, he thought it was the wall, or some obstacle in his path, however unlikely a prospect that was. But then the blow came again, and he realised that Tek was punching him in the face.


    We are plummeting to our deaths in the Pit, Mekka thought with incredulous anger, and he is attacking me??


    Another blow sent lights sparkling into the darkness.


    Mekka could see nothing. The blackness was absolute, as though he had gone completely blind. He had no way of knowing if he had. He wasn''t even entirely sure that he was conscious¨C


    The next burst of pain convinced him.


    It also warned him that this state was not going to continue for much longer if Tek kept this up.


    Swinging his own fist upwards, Mekka was rewarded with a crunch and a scream. He guessed that he had smashed the Syncwarden''s glasses.


    He felt disoriented. Due to the feel of wind rushing past, he presumed that they were still falling.


    But falling into what?


    Would they simply continue to tumble downwards like this until they eventually died? Or was there something worse¨C


    Another blow glanced off his shoulder. Mekka lashed out again, but encountered only empty air. He kicked instead, and received another cry, but it sounded odd.


    ¡°You have doomed us both!¡± Mekka yelled, but his voice came out wrong: distorted and unintelligible.


    He felt Tek latch onto his wing and claw at his clothing. He grappled with the other Angel, trying to shove him away.


    Then somehow, Tek''s hands found his throat, and locked around it.


    Mekka tried to prise his fingers away, but Tek only squeezed harder, blocking off his windpipe. Mekka punched at him, feeling his fists impact, but the Angel did not let go. He struggled, kicking and ramming his knees into Tek, to no avail.


    I am being murdered, Mekka thought desperately, by the father of the man who killed Aari!


    A mixture of terror and anger washed through him, mingled with endless shades of pain.


    No!!


    His vision went purplish around the edges. He thought it was the approach of death; he could feel himself weakening, hear a buzz in his ears as his awareness retreated, but through the haze of agony, he realised that he could see.


    Dimly, he could make out Tek''s determined, murderous expression as he strangled the life out of Mekka. There was a deep, violet glow surrounding them, as though they had gone past mere darkness and into some other, unknowable realm¡­


    Mekka''s vision was fading back into a blackness that would soon turn to nothingness. Weakly, he scrabbled at Tek. He caught hold of the collar of the man''s robe, as though to pull him closer.


    He stared up into the other''s eyes: darkly golden, reflecting the demonic purple glow.


    With the last of his strength, he made a small movement with his wrist.


    There was a ring of metal, and for a moment that hung in eternity, they were both very still.


    Then Tek made a choking sound, and a dark line of blood leaked over his lips, spilling onto Mekka.


    His grip loosened.


    As Tek fell away, Mekka withdrew his spike and gasped, choking in his effort to get air back into his lungs.


    His head swam, the purple glow whirling around him as his consciousness struggled back from the brink of oblivion.


    A few moments later, still panting and wheezing, he realised that he was no longer falling.


    He seemed to be suspended in the air, floating.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Tek''s body fell away from him in slow motion, trailing a line of blood that drifted after him in wet globules.


    Mekka stared at it, mesmerised.


    Below Tek was an enormous pool of liquid, filling the entirety of the shaft like a black lake. It was from here that the purple glow emanated; silver and violet light shimmered across the surface.


    Trigon, Mekka thought in awe. A lake of liquid trigon.


    As Tek''s body neared the surface, something strange happened.


    It began to melt.


    The trail of blood turned black, and an inky stain spread outwards from the wound Mekka had inflicted in his neck, dissolving his skin. Then his flesh turned black as well, and his bones and feathers, all of it liquefying into a shapeless trigonic puddle.


    The puddle then broke up into large globs, which fell slowly downwards until they merged with the lake, sending ripples across its surface.


    Mekka should have felt horrified, but instead, a strange thrill passed through him. This was what trigon was! It was the liquefied remains of dead Angels!


    And silvertine, he thought, was the same thing. The only difference was that those Angels had gone gladly, and these poor souls had died wretched¡­


    But I''m still alive!


    He stared down at the dark lake in wonderment. No terrible force pulled him downwards to join generations of other Angels that had succumbed to the Pit. He floated in space, feeling weightless, unburdened. Feeling¡­


    Alive.


    He had killed an Angel, and he did not regret it. Something had ignited inside him with Tek''s death¡­ a fierce, burning sense of victory.


    Everyone who has tried to throw me into this Pit has FAILED!


    He almost felt like laughing.


    And then he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.


    A small object floated a few yards away to his right, turning over and over in the middle of the shaft, glinting in the violet gloom.


    Mekka moved towards it, finding no resistance, but his movements were slow, as though he were underwater.


    Reaching out, his gloved hand closed around the hilt.


    It was the trigonic dagger.


    His dagger.


    Looking down at it, he felt no fear; only a sense, once again, of rightness: as though the weapon had been made to fit perfectly in his hand. He remembered that he had tried to kill himself with it, but realised now that he had been too hasty. He had not yet accomplished what he had come to Arkana to accomplish. His life would end when he was ready, on his own terms, in his own way, and no one ¨C NO ONE ¨C was going to take it from him.


    Lifting his head, he looked upwards, and saw darkness reaching out before him.


    But there was light at the end of it.


    Light.


    And death.


    He flew upwards.


    The Pit let him go.


    * * *


    Li fled. Pushing through the stunned crowd that had formed a circle around the fountain, she raced amongst the jumble of abandoned market stalls until she found one with space to hide.


    Crawling under the hanging canvas, she huddled in the darkness, her face burning with shame and excitement.


    Everyone had indeed been looking at her.


    The adults had been shocked. The kids had gawped. The worshippers looked outraged.


    But the huge, golden gaze of the Seraph had been most terrifying of all.


    She shivered, and gulped.


    It wasn''t long before people started wandering back into the market and resuming their usual business. The owner of the stall under which she hid returned, but instead of selling his fine fabrics, seemed more interested in gossiping with the customers about what had just happened.


    Li heard a guard interrupt the conversation, asking if anyone had seen the Human, who had escaped.


    No one had.


    They went back to complaining about the lack of respect from kids these days¡­


    Li tried to think what to do. She couldn''t go home; her parents would lock her up, they would never allow her to go outside ever again. She had dared to disturb a Seraph!


    She was going to be in trouble for the rest of her life!


    Brushing away tears, she hunched in the too-warm shadows with the smell of cloth and dyes, until the stallholder finally decided to go and get something to eat. Peering out, Li scrambled from her hiding place and scurried around the backs of the stalls, and around a group of people watching some musicians, until she reached the edge of the fair.


    A bright, open expanse of stone lay before her, ending in open air at the edge of the city. A few people wandered around here and there.


    Swiftly, she took flight across the space, alighting on Hawk''s platform.


    Hawk was indeed gone. There was no sign of him.


    Li looked around anxiously, wondering how he had escaped. She chewed her lip. Had he jumped off?


    She went and knelt at the edge of the platform, staring down into the clouds. She hoped he wasn''t down there clinging to a tree branch, or worse, splattered on the ground¡­


    She was wondering if she should go and look, when a large, cold, dark shadow fell over her.


    Li looked up.


    Her eyes went wide.


    Something huge passed overhead, momentarily blocking out the sun.


    Something with scales, many teeth, and enormous wings that glowed red even through the Aegis.


    A Dragon.


    * * *


    Ferrian paced across the silver tiles of Grath Ardan, smudging his fingers with charcoal as he fidgeted with it.


    After awhile he stopped, and looked at the book in the centre of the chamber.


    It was an incredible thing, that book. But so far it had proved ¨C aside from a useful spell or two ¨C largely disappointing. Most of the information he had learned since arriving here contained things that he could have figured out himself, eventually, if he had given them enough thought.


    He closed his eyes. The conversation with the White Dragon still burned in his mind.


    He had been responsible for the Winter all along. He had thought he was running from it, thought he had been afraid of it, when really it was people that he feared. People, and their prejudices and superstitions, and what they would do to him if they discovered he could use magic.


    Everything that the Winter had done had been because he either wanted it to happen, or feared it would.


    He had never consciously realised that this was so, but he could not deny the truth of it.


    He opened his eyes. He knew what the Winter was, now, and where it had come from, and who had done this to him. And he understood that it was a part of him, whether he wanted it to be or not, whether he tried to control it or not.


    The Winter would always be there.


    He accepted that.


    But there were still pieces of his life missing.


    He stared at his reflection in the black wall. He was sure the Dragon had those answers, too. She must, if she had been with him all his life.


    But she had not revealed them to him.


    Why? Was it simply because he had failed to ask, or did she want him to discover the truth on his own? Or, he thought uneasily, was it something too horrible to know?


    He had considered going back inside his mind and asking the Dragon, but was loath to inflict more emotion on her. The image of the Dragon weeping haunted him. He had not realised that she was so sad, and that part of that sorrow, that pain, was his, passed on to her...


    He started pacing again. Besides¡­ this felt more¡­ personal.


    Drawing level with the lectern, he stopped, staring at the great tome.


    I came all this way for answers, he thought. I might as well know ALL of them¡­


    The lack of a heartbeat made him feel calmer than he ought to as he stepped up to the book.


    Gently, he touched the cover and it flipped open at once, rustling and finally settling on blank, ancient pages.


    Ferrian stared down at the brownish parchment, wondering what secrets were buried there.


    Perhaps, he thought uncertainly, there is nothing to be found...


    And if there was¡­ was it really something that he wanted to know? Or should know?


    He hesitated for a long moment, simply staring down at the page.


    There was a reason for everything that had happened in his life, and if the truth was written in here, he could not leave without knowing it.


    If the Dragon wouldn''t tell him, he might never get another chance.


    Slowly, he lifted the charcoal and set it on the page.


    Then, very carefully, as though it were the most powerful spell in the world, he wrote one word.


    Ferrian.

 Chapter Eighty Four

    By light of stars or hidden moon


    All roads only lead to ruin.


    Heavy feet struck the road in a slow, ponderous rhythm, like rocks pounding the dirt, sending puffs of dust into the still night air. Two bulky shapes plodded along, dark in the gloom save the dull gleam of starlight on their craggy golden backs.


    ¡°I''m ''ungry,¡± one of them complained.


    The other glared back at him, his eyes tiny glints of silver deep in the crevice of his face. ¡°You ate two cats already,¡± he growled. ¡°An'' we got this fer after.¡± He held up the body of a decent-sized dog by its shaggy tail.


    Crysk scrunched his face up in the darkness. ¡°Don''t feel like dog,¡± he sulked. ¡°Feel like Human.¡±


    ¡°Dere weren''t none,¡± Grogdish reminded him, ¡°so stop moanin''!¡±


    They walked along in silence for a while, the only sound their heavy footsteps on the road. The countryside smelt unhealthily of fresh grass, sickly flowers and green things. Crysk didn''t like it. He stomped harder so that the reassuring tang of the dry dust drifted up through his nostrils.


    ¡°Where are we goin''?¡± he complained again.


    His companion grunted in response.


    ¡°Where are we goin''?¡± he repeated.


    Another grunt.


    ¡°Are we dere yet?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Grogdish snapped. ¡°We''re goin'' to the Red Mountains!¡±


    ¡°Are dere other Grik clans dere?¡±


    ¡°Dunno.¡±


    Crysk was silent for a moment. ¡°Maybe,¡± he lamented, ¡°we''re da only Griks left inna world!¡±


    ¡°In dat case,¡± Grogdish replied, ¡°I''m da Clanmaster. An'' I order you to shut yer gob!¡±


    Crysk sulked in silence. He resented Grogdish being the Clanmaster. Crysk ought to have that title. The Rockfather himself had bestowed upon Crysk special powers, after all. First he had brought Lord Arzath back to life, and then he had miraculously survived the massacre at the castle. The Rockfather had led him to a magnificent, Muron-killing sword, which Clanmaster Kyosk had unfairly stolen from him.


    Crysk had been chosen for greatness, but unfortunately there was now no one left to appreciate this fact.


    Grogdish showed his appreciation by punching Crysk in the face, so Crysk no longer bothered trying to convince him.


    He wished he had that sword back, though.


    He stared moodily at the moon, bobbing ahead of them.


    After a few moments, his rocky brows shifted in perplexity.


    Crysk knew little about the moon. He rarely paid it any attention, knowing it only as a bright white blurry round thing in the night sky, high and distant. He was fairly sure, however, that it only moved when you weren''t looking at it, and that it didn''t ordinarily wander around a few feet above country roads, occasionally veering off into the forest. It also appeared to be accompanied by a pair of peculiar purple stars.


    ¡°Look at dat,¡± he said, pointing. ¡°Da moon is walkin'' around down ''ere wiv us!¡±


    The other Grik lifted his gaze from the road and scowled at Crysk. ¡°What are you talkin'' about?¡±


    ¡°Dere!¡±


    Grogdish peered ahead for a long moment. Then, quite suddenly, he stopped.


    ¡°Rockfaver''s balls!¡±


    Grogdish peered ahead for a long moment. Then, quite suddenly, he stopped.


    ¡°Rockfaver''s balls!¡±


    Crysk stopped as well, and eyed Grogdish. ¡°What about ''em?¡±


    ¡°Dat''s dem!¡±


    ¡°Dat''s the Rockfaver''s¨C¡±


    ¡°No, you slug!¡± His grating voice held a sharp edge of fear. ¡°Dat''s dem!¡±


    Crysk frowned. ¡°Dem what?¡±


    The larger Grik turned on Crysk and grabbed him angrily by the throat. ¡°DEM, you idi¨C¡±


    ¡°Good evening, gentlemen!¡±


    The moon suddenly sped forward and hovered over the two Griks, freezing them in silvery-white luminescence.


    Requar gave his brother a sidelong glance. ¡°Yours, I presume?¡±


    Arzath strode forward, glaring at the Griks, eyes fiercely aglow with magic. ¡°What are you two Griks doing out here?!¡±


    The creatures just stared back at him, their eyes wide ¨C or at least, as wide as beady Grik eyes could manage. Requar had done nothing to them other than shine a light in their faces, but they seemed immobilised with fear.


    Their fanged mouths hung agape. One still had his hand frozen on the other''s throat.


    Arzath''s eyes flared, bathing them in purple light. ¡°What,¡± he demanded again, ¡°are you doing here?¡±


    The larger one held up a slain dog in its rocky fist. ¡°Dog?¡±


    Arzath continued glaring at them. ¡°Did you kill anyone?¡±


    ¡°Dere was no one to kill,¡± the Grik replied meekly. ¡°Da town was all smashed up. Everybody gone.¡±


    Requar frowned.


    ¡°We''re da only Griks left inna world!¡± the other one whined.


    Arzath raised an eyebrow at him. ¡°Really?¡± Lifting his hand, he snapped his fingers, igniting them with violet sparks, and held his hand out towards the Griks. ¡°That''s fortunate...¡±


    ¡°Arzath, please!¡± Requar grabbed his arm, scowling. ¡°That is not necessary!¡±


    Arzath turned his glare on his brother. Then, after a moment, wrenched his arm away and grudgingly extinguished his magic.


    Requar regarded the Griks. ¡°We are merely passing through,¡± he told them, ¡°on our own business. We mean you no harm. You are free to go where you will.¡± Then he stepped forward, until he was very close to them.


    ¡°However,¡± he went on quietly. ¡°If you harm a Human, or even so much as touch one, we will know about it. And...¡± Lifting a hand, he slowly curled it into a fist in front of the face of one of them. ¡°Your heads will instantly crack and explode into dust, as though crushed in the mighty fist of your own Rockfather.¡±


    He pierced them with his blue gaze. ¡°Understood?¡±


    The Griks managed to nod.


    Stepping back, Requar nodded to Arzath, and they passed around the Griks, one on each side, leaving the hapless creatures terrified statues in the middle of the road.


    Arzath stared at him as they walked away, eyebrows raised.


    Requar returned his gaze, and lifted a finger. ¡°That,¡± he said, giving his brother a weary smile, ¡°is how you threaten someone.¡±


    A few miles later, the sorcerers arrived at the town of Meadrun.


    Or¡­ what was left of it, at least.


    The moon was new, swaddled in its dark blanket; only the dim light of the stars and their own magic illuminated the vast scene of devastation.


    Requar stood where once a leafy bush and his camouflage spell had hidden him as he followed two hunters into the village. Then, only a few weeks before, a lantern-lit street had stretched before him, though its welcome from the night had been less than warm, for both the hunters and himself.


    Now, there was nothing but empty darkness lined with shattered silhouettes.


    He trailed along the road after Arzath, staring around in disbelief.


    With a tired wave of his hand, he sent his spell gliding over the wreckage. The ball of light picked out fallen stones and broken planks in stark relief, like bones; the skeletons of dwellings that had been blasted apart.


    ¡°None of these buildings are scorched,¡± he observed aloud. ¡°This was not a Dragon attack.¡± He frowned anxiously. ¡°The debris is flung outwards from the road, as though by a powerful force...¡±


    ¡°Ferrian,¡± Arzath said darkly from a few yards away.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Requar turned to him.


    ¡°There are traces of his magic all over the place,¡± Arzath went on, touching the ground where he crouched, lit by the glow from his eyes. ¡°Fading, but still present.¡±


    Requar shook his head and waved his own light spell away, too fatigued to maintain it any longer.


    This is exactly what I hoped to prevent from happening! he thought in dismay.


    He put a hand to his aching head, closing his eyes. Why did Ferrian flee the castle in such haste? If only he had spoken to me, this tragedy could have been avoided!


    Ferrian had sounded so lost, so desperate, when Requar had communicated with him through the castle shield. He must have had a compelling reason to leave.


    Unless¡­


    Unless something had happened to cause him to change his mind¡­


    ¡°Arzath,¡± he said quietly, opening his eyes. ¡°You were waiting for me inside the castle with Ferrian. Did you talk to him?¡±


    His brother got slowly to his feet. ¡°We had a conversation,¡± he admitted, not looking at Requar.


    Requar stared at him. ¡°What did you tell him?¡±


    Arzath folded his arms and turned his head to look at Requar. The purple glow in his eyes diminished and finally went out, so that Requar could no longer discern his expression. ¡°I told him,¡± Arzath said, ¡°that you could not be trusted.¡±


    Requar looked away sadly into the ruins. ¡°I see,¡± he murmured.


    So, that''s it, he thought despondently. Arzath got to him first, and convinced Ferrian that I was someone to be feared. That was why he left on his own.


    He shook his head. The worst of it was, that Arzath would not even have needed to lie...


    ¡°Well?¡± Arzath said from across the road. ¡°Are you going to tell me that I was wrong?¡±


    They stared at each other in the darkness for a long moment. Silence seemed to crowd around them, holding its breath. No wind stirred the heavy weight of the words that hung in the air.


    ¡°Lord Requar?¡±


    They both turned in surprise.


    A figure emerged cautiously from around the corner of a ruined building, carrying a small lantern. The dim orange glow revealed a slender, feminine figure, with a bow slung over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows.


    Requar recognised her immediately. It was the hunter he had saved in the tavern¡­ the same tavern that now lay ruined directly behind his back.


    ¡°My lady! I did not expect you to return here.¡±


    ¡°Nor did I expect you,¡± she replied in equal astonishment. ¡°And¡­ please call me Lila. I did not introduce myself properly last time.¡± Her gaze flicked nervously to Arzath.


    ¡°This is my brother,¡± Requar reassured her. ¡°He is also a sorcerer, but you need not fear him.¡± He shot Arzath a stern look to make his point.


    ¡°I see,¡± Lila replied, still looking guarded.


    Requar walked towards her, entering her circle of light. ¡°Do you know what happened here?¡± he asked her.


    Lila hesitated, eyes shifting between him and Arzath, who remained where he was in the shadows. ¡°Another sorcerer came through here,¡± she said. ¡°He rode a white horse, and brought a terrible storm that destroyed the village. Most people did not have time to flee.¡± She shook her head. ¡°I did not see it myself: I heard of it from those few who managed to survive. Tael''s parents live here, so we returned to check on them.¡± She took a deep breath. ¡°They live, but have suffered hard blows to the head. We are not sure if they will recover.¡± She swallowed. ¡°Some Griks came through here earlier, as well. We were forced to hide from them; Tael and I, and some other villagers who have returned to rebuild the houses.¡±


    She looked up at him uncertainly. ¡°They¡­ may not be so welcoming, but¡­¡± she swallowed again. ¡°There are others who are injured, and¡­ when I saw that you were here, I thought¡­ perhaps, if it is not too much¨C¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Arzath strode suddenly out of the darkness, imposing himself into the circle of light, glaring at the woman. ¡°We have been attacked by a Dragon and have no energy to spare. We are in need of rest and provisions. If you expect any help from us then you will do as we say and provide us with anything we need!¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± the woman said, looking taken aback. ¡°I...¡±


    ¡°With apologies for my brother''s extraordinary impoliteness,¡± Requar interjected, ¡°he does have a point. I am in no condition to help any of your people without rest.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I am very weary, and my magical energy is almost gone.¡±


    ¡°O-of course.¡± Lila took a step backwards, blushing with shame. ¡°I¡­ I should not have been so hasty. We¡­ we do not have much, but I will see what I can find for you.¡±


    With a quick bow, she hurried away into the ruins.


    When she was gone, Requar lowered himself to the ground, resting his back against the wall of the ruined tavern. ¡°Tactful,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°It worked, didn''t it?¡±


    Requar shook his head. ¡°That was not your doing. I saved her life, and now she feels she owes me a debt.¡±


    Arzath leaned against the wall opposite, folding his arms. ¡°Excellent. That could be useful.¡±


    Sighing, Requar gave up, and allowed his eyelids to close as he waited for the hunter to return.


    * * *


    Consciousness returned to Flint slowly, and grudgingly. His eyes, when he managed to force them open, refused to focus. His head felt both heavy as a stone and light as a feather at the same time, while a dull ache lurked somewhere at the back of his neck.


    He groaned.


    After a minute or two, his drowned thoughts regained their footing and his vision cleared.


    The first thing he recognised was his hat.


    Worn and floppy, and speckled with scorch marks where embers had rained down on it, but unmistakably his hat.


    It sat neatly on top of his Justifier. The crossbow was unloaded, quiver full of bolts set carefully beside it.


    And beside those, on a bale of hay, a black-clad figure patiently waited.


    It was not Eltorian Nightwalker.


    Flint frowned, blinking. ¡°Darkstar?¡± Then he sighed in realisation. Of course. It was one of her damned poisoned darts that had brought him down.


    ¡°So,¡± he muttered, then coughed, his throat still scratchy from the smoke he''d inhaled. ¡°Where''s Nightwalker? Surprised he ain''t here already, gloatin'' in my face¡­¡±


    The young Bladeshifter woman remained silent, watching him from beneath her long black fringe.


    Flint looked around. He was in a barn. Sunlight poured through the open hayloft in a wide, bright beam, falling on neatly stacked bales of hay. Farming implements and tools hung on hooks on the walls, far out of Flint''s reach. It was stiflingly hot in the barn, filled with the scent of dry grass. The main doors were closed, and no sound could be heard from outside, not even crickets or cicadas.


    Flint stood upright, bound by his ankles, wrists and waist to a wooden support pole.


    There was no one else there.


    Just the two of them.


    The quiet, too-warm atmosphere filled him with dread.


    ¡°Waitin'' for the rest of ''em, eh?¡± he said, mostly to break the eerie silence. ¡°What''s takin'' ''em so long? Plannin'' a farewell party?¡±


    Darkstar blinked at him slowly. ¡°They''re gone,¡± she replied softly.


    ¡°Eh?¡±


    ¡°The ''shifters. Nightwalker. They scrammed some time ago. I stayed behind.¡±


    Flint shook his head in confusion. ¡°What? What''d I ever do to you? So I ditched the Bladeshifters: what''s it to you? Or are you tryin'' to get back at Nightwalker for somethin''? Cause he''ll be pissed if he can''t stick a bit of my Justifier on his jacket...¡±


    She tilted her head to one side, regarding him with an enigmatic smile, as though waiting for him to figure something out.


    Flint stared at her. He had never had much to do with Darkstar. She had always kept to herself, in the shadows; rarely speaking, never laughing, always watchful. Most of the time, she was out and about on nefarious tasks for Nightwalker.


    Flint couldn''t think of any reason she would want to target him specifically, unless she was seriously obsessive about protecting that obnoxious, spiky-haired...


    ¡°Well,¡± she declared softly, unfolding her legs and pushing herself off the stack of hay. ¡°Bye, Flint.¡±


    She started to walk away, towards the doors.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Flint called. ¡°What? D''you want to tell me what the hell this is all about?!¡±


    The young woman paused, and then sighed in part boredom, part resignation. ¡°I hoped you''d figure it out,¡± she said, scuffing at the floor with her black leather boot. ¡°But I guess you''re too stupid.¡± She shrugged.


    Flint watched as she reached into a pocket of her jacket and pulled something out, twirling it in her fingers in much the same way Nightwalker played with his dagger.


    A match.


    Swallowing against his dry, itchy throat, Flint glanced around hurriedly. He had about a minute to either wise up or think of a plan, or it wasn''t going to matter any longer...


    Dammit, he thought in dismay. The barn was packed full of dry hay. He tested his bonds, but they were expertly tied.


    Looking back at Darkstar, he saw her produce something else from her pocket: some of that foul weed that Eltorian was fond of. Rolling it up, she set it to her lips and lit it with the match struck on a piece of flint. Breathing the smoke out in a soft sigh, she turned away.


    ¡°Darkstar!¡±


    He was sure that she wasn''t going to bother turning again, but she did. Flicking her hair out of her eyes, she took another puff of the weed, giving him a bored look.


    Flint stared at her, searching her face. She was young for a Bladeshifter: just a girl. Silver piercings studded her nose and ears, and she wore too much eyeshadow for such a pretty face. Her hair was short and coal black, and her eyes¡­


    Her eyes.


    They were hazel, just like Flint''s. And there was something familiar about them...


    Sudden recognition seized his chest, constricting his lungs so that he could hardly breathe.


    ¡°S-Sandy?!¡± he gasped.


    Her expression didn''t change, didn''t so much as flicker as she held his gaze. ¡°Sandy''s dead,¡± she said flatly. ¡°I''m Darkstar.¡±


    Your precious sister¡­ Nightwalker''s voice mocked him from afar. She isn''t dead!


    Flint stared at her in horrified disbelief. ¡°I¡­ I joined the Bladeshifters to find out who murdered you!¡± he said. ¡°And¡­ and you were there the whole time??¡±


    She said nothing, just tossed the remnants of her weed into the straw.


    ¡°W¡­ why?¡±


    Tucking her hands into her jacket pockets, she lowered her head, examining her boots. Then she looked up at the ceiling beams contemplatively. ¡°When mama and pa died in the first house fire,¡± she told him quietly, ¡°I didn''t care.


    ¡°I didn''t feel anythin''. I didn''t cry. While you were bawlin'' your eyes out over their graves, I only felt relieved. Maybe even glad, that no one was gonna tell me what to do any more.


    ¡°Then we got sent to live with Auntie, and everythin'' was just the same as it always was. Nothin'' but chores; nothin'' but rules. Work hard and everythin''ll be okay, right?¡± She rolled her eyes.


    ¡°I kept on runnin'' away because I didn''t wanna be there any more. I was sick of that stupid little farm town! But you always found me. Kept comin'' after me and bringin'' me back home, like some kind of hero brother!¡±


    She gave him a bitter look. ¡°I was so mad at you. I hated you. But you never believed it. You wouldn''t listen.¡±


    Flint''s eyes had blurred again with tears. His chest would have hurt less if she had stabbed a knife into it. ¡°You''re¡­ you''re my little sister,¡± he whispered hoarsely. ¡°I''d do anything for you.¡± He blinked down at his Justifier, and the tears escaped. With no means of wiping them away, they rolled unchecked down his face.


    ¡°I had to do somethin'' to make you let go of me,¡± Darkstar went on. ¡°I tried to make you hate me, but you wouldn''t. So the only way to do it was to convince you that I was dead.¡±


    Flint swallowed, feeling sick. ¡°I pulled a corpse out of the wreckage...¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°Some girl from the village. I led her to the house, knocked her out, and dressed her in my clothes. Then I torched the place.¡± She shrugged again, as though burning someone to death were a trivial matter.


    She shook her head. ¡°I just wanted to be left alone! Just wanted to do my own thing!¡±


    Flint stared at her. ¡°Just wanted to join the Bladeshifters.¡±


    She stared back at him. ¡°They were like me. They didn''t care. They didn''t cry. They let me do whatever I wanted.¡±


    Flint looked away bitterly. ¡°And¡­ what do you want now?¡±


    Darkstar was silent for a moment. ¡°I¡­ didn''t wanna kill you,¡± she said uncomfortably, picking at her nails. She shook her head again. ¡°But you''re never gonna stop lookin'' for me, no matter how many times I run away. Even though there ain''t no home to go back to.¡±


    She turned away, her expression momentarily sad. ¡°And ain''t no me to bring back.¡±


    Another match appeared in her hand, and she fidgeted with it. ¡°Maybe...¡±she hesitated. ¡°Maybe I''ll cry, this time...¡±


    She struck the match.


    Before Flint could take another breath, it fell from her fingers into the hay.


    Darkstar walked to the door. A brief shaft of light silhouetted her small, black-clad figure... and then she was gone.


    She didn''t look back.


    Flames came to life with a sudden whoosh.


    Flint watched them spread, crackling, across the barn like a hungry monster.


    He didn''t bother to struggle against his bindings. There was no point. There was nothing within reach that he could possibly use to free himself.


    Ain''t no one gonna step in and rescue me at the last moment, he thought morosely. Not this time.


    No one knew that he was here, and no one would care when he was gone.


    Lord Requar and his miraculous sword were no more. Turned into a black wraith by now, along with his brother, in a lonely castle in the middle of the mountains. Flint wished that he could have done something to prevent such a ghastly fate, but whichever way he turned, he found only tragedy.


    Now it was time to face his own.


    The fire roared, climbing the walls. The heat grew intense, dampening his skin with sweat, along with the tears. Black smoke swirled through the barn.


    His hands clenched into fists below the rope that tightly bound them.


    All life is just emptiness and horror, he thought hopelessly, as the flames drew close around him. Perhaps Darkstar was right not to care¡­


    The hot smoke thickened, crushing his lungs so that he could no longer catch his breath. The heat turned to pain, and the pain into agony. A strange twilight descended, despite the furious glare of the fire.


    The last thing he saw was his hat burning.


    And then, mercifully¡­ nothing.

 Chapter Eighty Five

    A town destroyed, yet much the same


    Shall yet reveal the healer''s shame.


    A cool breeze had picked up overnight, and the sun had lost a little of its bite as the days crept slowly into autumn. The trees of the Valewood Forest, weary of summer, had begun to turn yellow and brown. A few leaves that had already dropped to the ground wandered through the ruins of Meadrun, as though searching for long lost companions.


    Arzath sat in a corner with his back against the wall, idly listening to the rustling of the forest outside, feeling the draught on his face, tired despite the bright morning. The hunter woman had found shelter for them: a small, half-constructed cottage. The bluestone walls had been repaired and the roof was partially thatched; the rest covered in canvas tarpaulins. Another strip of canvas hung across the doorway; the windows were open holes, glassless and shutterless. The interior had been swept mostly clear of debris, with blankets placed on the floor.


    The moment they had entered the previous evening, Requar had collapsed onto one of the blankets and fallen instantly asleep, not even bothering with the food or water that had been provided for them.


    Arzath stared at him where he lay, letting him rest. Thin shafts of sunlight found their way around the edges of the tarpaulin. One of them struck the hilt of the Sword of Healing, still slung on Requar''s back. He hadn''t taken the time to remove that, either.


    For a sword that cannot be used to kill or harm, he mused, it is the most powerful weapon in the world.


    It would never have occurred to Arzath to use the Sword of Healing on a Dragon. Requar had an entirely¡­ unique way of looking at things.


    Perhaps that was why Arzath had never been able to get the better of him. He simply thought of ways of dealing with situations that Arzath would never consider.


    And yet... for all the intensive poking around in his brother''s mind that he''d been forced to do, Requar had still, somehow, managed to hide bits and pieces of himself away. Being ripped to shreds by trigon had neither erased those secrets, nor revealed them.


    Of course, Arzath thought ironically, they had both become experts at that¡­


    He turned his tired gaze to the doorway, where the canvas flapped softly against the new-built stone, letting sunlight flicker into the room in brief, bright patches. But there was one thing that Requar had neglected to think of, in his exhausted state:


    The treachery of common folk.


    After the huntress had bade them good night, Arzath had gone out into the dark and spent some time setting up a warding spell around the entire building. No doubt Requar would have told him that it was unnecessary, but his efforts ¨C and lack of sleep ¨C had not been in vain.


    He had awoken a short time later as a tug on his magic indicated someone approaching their shelter.


    Their intent had not been friendly.


    The smell of charred flesh still hung in the air.


    The glint of light from Requar''s Sword shifted. Arzath glanced over to see his brother awaken, pushing himself up.


    Arzath got to his feet, walked over to a half-eaten loaf of flatbread, and tossed it at Requar.


    ¡°Eat,¡± he commanded.


    Then he pushed through the doorway flap, into the morning sun.


    There was indeed a body, lying on the ground a couple of yards from the door. Striding over to it, Arzath hoped it wasn''t the huntress, or he''d never hear the end of it¡­


    It wasn''t. It was a skinny, youngish man in farm clothes, scorched fatally from Arzath''s lightning ward. A pitchfork lay on the ground beside him.


    A pitchfork, Arzath thought, rolling his eyes. He glanced back at the cottage. Still, it might be wise to get rid of the body before Requar saw it¡­


    He looked around.


    The extent of devastation to the town was much more clear to see in the grim light of day. The remains of buildings, and their contents, lay strewn around him like grey, half-eaten corpses. A few of the houses were in various stages of repair, with carts full of building materials beside them.


    A few yards away on his right, some logs, newly hewn from the forest, were stacked up against a wall. Holding out a hand, Arzath used his magic to roll the body across the ground until it came up against the pile. Then, with a quick slashing gesture, he toppled the stack of logs on top of it with a loud clatter.


    When he turned again, a small group of people had wandered out onto the road.


    They did not look happy.


    There were five of them, all men, in dusty working clothes. They were armed with pitchforks, hammers, or simply planks of wood.


    Lila ¨C the hunter woman ¨C came running out of the ruins after them. ¡°No!¡± she cried. ¡°Wait!¡±


    ¡°We knew you was no good, Lila!¡± one of them called. ¡°Sympathisin'' with sorcerers! After what they did to this town!¡±


    ¡°This wasn''t their doing!¡± she insisted, slightly out of breath. ¡°They didn''t come here to harm us!¡±


    ¡°Tell that to Ebbans,¡± another said, pointing with his plank at the collapsed pile of logs.


    ¡°This is madness!¡± she cried, but they ignored her, advancing on Arzath, spreading out in a semi-circle.


    He watched them come, amused. Holding his hand out to the side, he lifted the pitchfork into the air, letting it float beside him. He sent a few sparks crackling along the tines, just for effect.


    The group stopped, uncertain.


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    ¡°What is going on?¡±


    Arzath glanced to the side to see Requar walk up beside him. His brother looked almost as furious as the group of villagers. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    Arzath returned his glare coolly. ¡°One of them attempted to attack us during the night.¡±


    Requar sighed, and put a hand to his face, as though life was nothing but an endless series of headaches.


    The crowd appeared to be regaining their courage, brandishing their weapons, their faces determined.


    ¡°Get ''em,¡± someone said.


    They charged.


    Requar held out an arm, and all five men toppled to the ground like sticks in a gale.


    Frightened but enraged, the men scrambled to their feet. One of them kept looking between the sorcerers and Lila.


    Then, hefting his hammer, he charged at the huntress.


    Lila already had her bow out, arrow drawn back, but before she could release it, a brilliant white fireball slammed into the back of the man, sending him sprawling.


    ¡°Dammit!¡± Requar said, starting forward, but Arzath clutched his arm, stopping him.


    ¡°Don''t bother.¡±


    Requar stared at him.


    One of the other men rushed forward with a cry of anger. Without taking his eyes from Arzath, Requar held out a hand and the man slammed to his back onto the ground, weapon flying into the dirt.


    Requar turned to look at Lila.


    She looked up from the badly burned man at her feet. ¡°Please,¡± she implored.


    Arzath could feel his brother tense beneath his grip. He knew that Requar wanted to unsheathe his Sword and take back the injury he had inflicted. ¡°It is not worth it,¡± he said quietly. ¡°If you save him, he will simply get back up and continue to attack you. These people clearly hate us to the point of suicide. If you stay and try to help them, how many will die in the attempt?¡±


    Requar hesitated, as did the three men who remained standing. For a long moment, no one made any further move.


    Requar closed his eyes, lowering his head. The wind played with the strands of his white hair.


    Then, finally, quietly, he said: ¡°Let''s go.¡±


    Arzath released him, and Requar walked away: not towards the dying man on the road, but west, towards the entrance to the town.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Lila cried after him, desperately. ¡°No, wait, come back! Please! People here are dying! You can save them! You can save everyone!!¡±


    Requar continued walking, not looking back.


    Arzath threw the pitchfork into the midst of the remaining men. It missed, striking the wall of a half-completed cottage with an explosion of sparks and violet light.


    The men scattered.


    Turning to the shocked and distressed Lila, he gave her a small bow, then followed his brother out of the ruined village, smiling.


    Arzath sauntered along the road beneath the shade of the sprawling oak trees that formed a whispering green and gold tunnel out of the village. He felt cheerful and energised, his earlier tiredness washed away with the buzz of magic. It felt good to use his power again, having been starved of it for weeks. It felt good to assert his superiority again; to be feared. He had hated feeling like a weakling.


    The thrill would wear off eventually, he knew. They both needed decent rest and a good meal in order to regain their full strength. Requar might have, improbably, convinced one Dragon to leave them alone, but there were likely to be others.


    He realised, a moment later, that he could hear only one set of footsteps crunching the gravel. He stopped, and turned.


    Requar was lagging quite a way back. In fact, he had stopped in the middle of the road. His head was bowed, and he looked troubled.


    Frowning, Arzath strode back to him. ¡°What''s wrong?¡± he asked impatiently, folding his arms.


    Requar did not reply at once, staring unhappily into the forest. ¡°I¡­ left a man to die,¡± he replied finally. He shook his head. ¡°And there were others. Lila asked for my help, and I walked away.¡±


    ¡°Bah!¡± Arzath made a slicing gesture with his hand. ¡°Forget about them! You''ve better things to waste magic on than saving their miserable lives!¡±


    Requar looked at him. ¡°Like saving our miserable lives?¡±


    ¡°Indeed!¡±


    Requar frowned.


    ¡°You cannot seriously expect to help every pathetic wounded wretch we come across in our travels,¡± Arzath said, ¡°simply because you possess a powerful Sword!¡±


    ¡°I have a duty as a healer...¡±


    ¡°You only became a healer out of guilt over Mother,¡± Arzath stated bluntly. ¡°There is no point pretending otherwise!¡±


    The accusation struck deeply, Arzath could tell. Requar''s eyes glimmered a little as he looked away.


    Arzath glanced back the way they had come, but saw no sign of anyone tailing them. He turned and started down the road again. ¡°Let''s get the hell out of here,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°It was not just Mother,¡± Requar said suddenly from behind him. ¡°I¡­ I lied to you.¡±


    Arzath stopped, and turned. ¡°We have been through this! What happened with the dagger was an accident! You did not know¨C¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Requar shook his head. ¡°Not that.¡±


    Arzath stared at him. ¡°Then what?¡±


    Requar looked miserable. He was silent for a long moment.


    ¡°Requar?¡±


    His brother started pacing. Something seemed to be bothering him greatly.


    Arzath''s cheerful mood faded, and the wind seemed to blow a little colder.


    Something was wrong.


    Requar appeared to be struggling with himself. At last, he took a deep breath, and said: ¡°The School.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡± Arzath replied slowly.


    ¡°I was not truthful with you.¡±


    ¡°About which part?¡±


    Requar had gone pale. He glanced at Arzath, and a look of fear flashed across his face.


    Arzath felt his own blood draining away. Please, no, he thought in horror. Do not say what I think you''re going to say¡­


    Requar turned away, facing the forest, folding his arms in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the fact that he was shaking. ¡°Everything,¡± he whispered. ¡°Everything was deliberate. I told you that the destruction orbs were merely experimental, that they were not designed to be used as weapons.¡±


    He took a shaky breath. ¡°That was a lie. I created them for a specific purpose: to destroy the School.¡±


    Arzath stared at him, eyes going wide.


    Requar stared into the leafy shadows of the trees. ¡°I wanted the School to be gone. I hated it. I despised the corruption and the power struggles and the deceitfulness and the self-centredness of its students, and the misuse of magic for personal gain.


    ¡°Others learned of the plan, somehow, but instead of turning me in as a traitor, they wanted in on it. I allowed them to be my accomplices, instructed them on where to place the orbs around the building.


    ¡°They were caught, but I used them as scapegoats, telling the Enchanter what I told you: that they were the ones who had engineered the whole plan.


    ¡°In any case, the Enchanter did not believe any of it, considering the whole idea preposterous. But the orbs remained hidden, and I was left to complete the mission alone.¡±


    Arzath felt ill. He couldn''t believe what he was hearing. He had actually been right all along! The explosion at the School was Requar''s doing!


    He felt some of the old hatred flare up inside him. It tasted bitter.


    ¡°Why,¡± he swallowed it back. ¡°Why did you lie to me?¡±


    Requar kept his face turned away in shame. ¡°You were holding a trigonic dagger to my face,¡± he replied quietly. ¡°I have never been so terrified of anything in my life.¡±


    It was the most horrifying fate that you could have dreamed of, Arzath thought. And you were so broken that you chose to plunge the dagger into your own heart anyway, believing that you deserved it.


    Arzath turned away, throat tight, tears prickling at the corners of his own eyes. He wanted to hate Requar. He wanted that old anger back, to sear away the pain as it had for so many years. But he could no longer sustain it. The memory of that bandaged, mindless thing, with black tentacles growing from its chest, still haunted him. His own anguish and agony as he struggled to bring Requar back¡­


    He can NOT be allowed to lose faith in himself again! Arzath thought fiercely. If he did so, he would lose the ability to fully use his Sword. He would not be able to fight trigon.


    And he would lose himself in darkness, again.


    ¡°I forgive you,¡± Arzath said suddenly, staring at the sunlight glimmering on the leaves.


    There was a long moment of silence. ¡°You forgive me?¡± Requar said from behind him.


    Arzath set his face in determination. ¡°Yes.¡± He meant it.


    Turning, he caught his brother''s gaze. There were tears on Requar''s cheeks, but something like a shadow seemed to lift off him, and relief flickered in his blue eyes.


    ¡°You were exposed to trigon for a long period of time, with your experiments,¡± Arzath told him. ¡°It affected your thinking.¡±


    Requar shook his head. ¡°Trigon can only work on thoughts that are already there. It merely removes inhibitions...¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless,¡± Arzath insisted. ¡°It is in the past, and that is where it shall stay. We will not speak of this again.¡±


    Requar nodded, looking grateful.


    ¡°Let us go and find Ferrian.¡±


    They resumed walking, side by side, but this time it was Arzath''s thoughts that were troubled.


    Ferrian knows the truth.


    I have to get to him first.

 Chapter Eighty Six

    Not all is grim; a friend in need


    The slope to madness is long indeed.


    ¡°Wakey, wakey!¡±


    He awoke with a start, and a shock of pain which screamed at him, disappointingly, that he was still alive. Gasping and blinking water out of his eyes, Flint tried to focus.


    The first thing that materialised, unfortunately, was the face of yet another Bladeshifter.


    But it was still not Eltorian Nightwalker.


    It wasn''t his sister, either.


    Gods! Flint thought, gritting his teeth. A terrible burning sensation bloomed throughout his entire body, as though the flames still licked at him. Am I in some kind of hell? Is every damned Bladeshifter gonna have a go at killin'' me? What''d I do to deserve this?!


    A huge, hairy hand reached out and grabbed him by the collar. Pulling him up into a sitting position, it shoved him roughly against something... soft.


    And then, improbably, handed him a cup of cold tea.


    Flint took it in bewilderment.


    ¡°Gah!¡± a deep, rough voice said. ¡°Got a bit burned up, eh?¡±


    Flint looked up into the grinning, red-bearded, slightly alarming face of Bloodmoon Grim.


    He tried to speak, but his voice came out instead in a hacking cough that made his head swirl with pain.


    ¡°Steady, there!¡± the big man said, righting Flint on the pillows. ¡°Drink yer damned tea, before yer spills it!¡±


    Flint obeyed with a trembling hand, swallowing reluctantly, but the tea was sweet, and surprisingly cool and soothing as it slid down his scorched throat. As he did so, he noticed that his hand was bandaged; only the tips of the fingers protruded, and those were an alarming shade of red.


    Looking down at himself, he saw that his other hand was similarly bound, and his clothes were not his own. He wore a loose beige tunic and brown cotton trousers, reminding him of the clothes he had worn when younger, working on the farm. Lifting a hand, he gingerly touched his face. Something sticky came off on his fingers, and there appeared to be a poultice of some sort growing from the side of his face, like a parasite.


    ¡°Fixed yer up,¡± Grim explained, gesturing to Flint. ¡°Me folks were healers. Good''uns, too! Learnt a few tricks!¡± He took a gulp of his own tea. ¡°But ya ain''t so pretty, now.¡±


    Swallowing another mouthful, Flint found his voice. ¡°Never,¡± he rasped, ¡°never was pretty.¡±


    ¡°Then yer won''t notice the difference!¡± Grim let out a boom of laughter. ¡°But yer might wanna stay outta the sun!¡± Reaching behind him, the Bladeshifter produced a familiar piece of floppy headwear, which he shoved onto Flint''s head.


    Flint took the hat off and stared at it. A large portion of the brim was burned away, and an even larger part was blackened.


    But it was still, unmistakably, his hat.


    He settled it back on his head, smiling a little.


    ¡°Saved this little buddy for ya, too!¡± Grim patted the Justifier, which sat on the table beside him.


    The giant crossbow was slightly scorched, and would need a new string, but otherwise looked remarkably intact.


    Flint felt a strange sense of unreality. He was sure he had died in the flames, had felt them reaching for him with bright, terrible fingers. How could he possibly be sitting here, drinking tea? Had Grim rescued him at the last moment? Why??


    He looked around himself, dazed. He was in a small, quaint-looking kitchen, of a farm cottage. The walls were made of the same white stone as the buildings of Forthwhite, so he supposed that he


    He looked around himself, dazed. He was in a small, quaint-looking kitchen, of a farm cottage. The walls were made of the same white stone as the buildings of Forthwhite, so he supposed that he was still close to the town. Shelves and cabinets held cooking implements, food, and other miscellaneous knick knacks, and a colourful woven rug covered the floor. He was propped up on a couch beside a window of diamond-paned glass. Two other windows on the other side of the room, behind Grim, let in slanting streams of sunlight. There was a lazy, deep hue to the light, like late afternoon.


    Flint shook his head. ¡°Why?¡± he whispered hoarsely. ¡°Why''d you¡­ save me?¡±


    Grim reached across and slapped Flint hard on the back. It was a good thing that Flint had drunk most of his tea. ¡°Cause you''re me drinkin'' buddy!¡± the huge man replied cheerfully. ¡°Do I need a better reason''n that?¡±


    If Flint was renowned for anything within the Bladeshifters, it wasn''t his crossbow skills. It was the fact he''d been the only one stupid enough to have a drink with Bloodmoon Grim.


    It had started off as a joke, of course. The others had forced him into a drinking contest, when he''d first joined, seeking to make a fool of the newcomer. They succeeded. Flint had wanted to show them up, so he had stubbornly continued to take up Grim''s offer, wherever they were, whenever he asked. Flint had ended up unconscious on the floor, every time, but eventually earned some respect from the Bladeshifters.


    And gained a friend in Grim, it seemed.


    Flint looked at him dubiously. ¡°How''d you even know... I was there? Darkstar said... you all left.¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± Grim slapped his knee. ¡°We did! Re-grouped out east, on the plains. When Nightwalker turned up, he threw a hissy fit when he saw how many of us were missin''. Only six of us left. Was even more foul when he saw that Darkstar weren''t amongst us. She''s one of ''is favourites.


    ¡°Started cursin'' and callin'' us all cowards, accusin'' us of leavin'' the others behind.¡± Grim rolled his black eyes. ¡°Like he didn''t run like the rest''o us when the Dragon showed up!¡±


    He snorted. ¡°So I told ''im not to get his girly knickers bunched up his arse: I''d go back an'' look for Darkstar. Even though she an'' the rest were prob''ly et by the Dragon!


    ¡°Anyway. Got back to the town to see the girl draggin'' your sorry backside across the grass, all by her little self. Stood there watchin'', I did, at the bottom of the hill. Amused. Wondered what the hell she was doin''.


    ¡°Saw her haul you inter the barn, so I strolled on over an'' waited outside. Took awhile. Sun was up by the time I heard talkin''.


    ¡°Ha!¡± Grim slapped his knee again. ¡°Never knew she was yer sister!¡± He guffawed loudly.


    Flint scowled. ¡°Makes two of us,¡± he mumbled, and broke out into another fit of hacking coughs.


    Grim regained control of himself before Flint did, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. ¡°Then she came outta the barn and scurried away, like a wee mouse. Started to follow her, then saw that the barn was on fire.¡±


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    Grim shrugged. ¡°So I shoved me way in there and cut the pole down with me axe and dragged yer half-burnt arse outta there!¡±


    He chuckled again, his strange black eyes glinting as though he''d never had so much fun in his life.


    Flint stared at him, feeling sure ¨C not for the first time ¨C that Bloodmoon Grim was more than slightly mad.


    But then, he considered, all of the Bladeshifters were. It was sort of a requirement.


    ¡°Darkstar,¡± Flint coughed. ¡°She said¡­ that the Bladeshifters¡­ don''t care about nothin''...¡±


    Grim snorted. ¡°Bollocks. Everyone cares ''bout sommin''. Even if they dunno what it is!¡±


    Yeah, Flint thought gloomily, staring down at his bandaged hands. Darkstar cares a lot about herself¡­


    ¡°That reminds me!¡± Grim went on. ¡°Haven''t even raided the taverns, yet!¡±


    Flint eyed him.


    ¡°Yer don''t think I came all the way back ''ere just for that little witch, eh?¡± The Bladeshifter grinned through his thick crimson beard. ¡°Think''o all that beer, goin'' ter waste!¡±


    Flint frowned. ¡°Grim,¡± he said, ¡°there''s a freakin'' Dragon out there!¡±


    Grim''s already large eyes went even wider. ¡°Ho!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°HO! It''s better than that!¡± He rose to his feet, filling most of the room. ¡°Come look! Come look!¡±


    Flint didn''t have much of a choice about it. Grim grabbed him by his collar again and set him on his feet. Flint stumbled, gasping in pain, grabbing the edge of the table for support, but the big Bladeshifter was already moving out of the room, ducking to fit through the doorway.


    Grimacing, Flint pulled his crossbow off the table and limped after.


    ¡°C''mon!¡± Grim urged as Flint made his slow, painful way down the short, shadowy corridor to the main door. He felt ominously sick. If Grim was excited about something, it couldn''t be good.


    Is he gonna show me Darkstar''s burnt and half-eaten corpse, he thought morbidly, or what?


    ¡°C''mon!¡± Grim beckoned him impatiently, stepping outside.


    Flint hobbled after him, across the threshold and onto the dry grass of the yard. The sun was low in the west, almost obscuring the faint, distant outline of the Barlakks, but its warmth and orange glow was an uncomfortable reminder of his experience in the barn, making his burned skin itch and sting with greater intensity. He stopped beside Grim, who was standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at the town.


    He lifted his head, looking up as well.


    And all the blood in his body seemed to leave in a rush.


    On top of the hill was the most horrifying thing that Flint had ever seen.


    A black shadow had claimed the summit of Forthwhite, spreading outwards as though staining the very air. It was hard to tell what it was, exactly, but it writhed. Huge, black tentacles curled languidly amidst roiling smoke. The trees were gone. The fire was gone. The Guard House was gone. The uppermost buildings were gone. The shadow seemed to seep inexorably downwards through the town, tendrils of oily smoke probing, searching¡­


    But within the inky blackness was something. A hint of decaying scales. A glimpse of a skeletal wing.


    The outline of an enormous, horned head, teeth like swords, eyes gaping pits of nothing¡­


    ¡°G-grim,¡± Flint stammered. ¡°We need to get the hell outta here.¡± He swallowed thickly against his ravaged throat. ¡°N-now.¡±


    ¡°An'' leave all the beer?¡± Grim scoffed. ¡°Nah!¡±


    Flint found himself backing away, as though his feet had a mind of their own. An image of Arzath ripping the black dagger out of Requar''s chest flashed horribly through his mind: black tendrils whipping out of it, piercing the sorcerer''s hands, and his subsequent, wretched decline into a wraith; Requar''s body lying on the bed, tentacles bursting out of his chest as though a monster were growing within him; Flint shooting him with the Justifier over and over again¡­


    Flint''s head spun. He felt as though he was about to vomit.


    ¡°Grim,¡± he said weakly, ¡°we gotta go. That thing is...¡± He couldn''t bring himself to say the words, and knew that the Bladeshifter wouldn''t understand them even if he did.


    But his mind screamed them.


    It''s a TRIGONIC DRAGON!


    ¡°Impressive, eh?¡± But his grin faded when he saw Flint''s expression. ¡°Aww,¡± he said, disappointed. ¡°You gonna run away, too?¡±


    Flint shook his head. ¡°C-can''t stay,¡± he replied. ¡°No beer is worth this...¡± He took a deep breath, and found himself coughing violently again.


    Grim scowled. ¡°You ain''t never refused a drink before...¡±


    ¡°Got to,¡± Flint wheezed. ¡°Got to, this time...¡±


    Grim looked angry. Flint almost thought the man was going to attack him. He glowered, his long red beard fiery in the light of the setting sun, his black hair like a charred mess of brambles framing his scarred face, the horror on the hill an abominable backdrop behind him.


    Then his face fell, like a Dragon dropping from the sky. ¡°Ah, bah!¡± he said, waving a hand. ¡°Take Whitey, then!¡±


    Flint looked around, and found there was a horse behind him. He wasn''t sure if it was Grim''s horse, or one he''d stolen, or one he''d simply given a name to, but Flint didn''t care.


    It was a horse, and it was going to get him the hell away from this town.


    As far away as he could get.


    He turned and hobbled as fast as he could towards it.


    Despite its name, the horse was black, with grey patches, and a splash of white across its nose. It was sturdy and strong-looking, with shaggy forelocks; a working animal, not built for speed, but it hardly mattered.


    Flint slung his Justifier on his back, buckling it securely, along with his quiver. Then he mounted, taking up the reins.


    He hesitated. ¡°Grim!¡± he called. ¡°You ain''t comin''?¡±


    The big Bladeshifter watched him, and waved a hand again. ¡°Nah! Off with ye!¡± Then a wide grin crossed his face. ¡°More booze fer me, then!¡± He laughed.


    Mad, Flint thought. Totally mad.


    ¡°Uh,¡± he said. ¡°Thanks, Grim. See yer round.¡±


    Bloodmoon Grim raised a large hand. ¡°See ya, Flint!¡± he replied.


    Spurring the horse into a gallop, Flint left the farm, not daring to look back.


    * * *


    Red dust swirled through the camp, like lost ghosts searching for a way off the Isle. A strong breeze gusted in from the sea, rattling the debris, banging wooden beams against each other, and setting tents flapping and fluttering like torn wings. Something newly red and wet trailed across a piece of canvas. Words were sprawled there, billowing in the wind as though straining to free themselves, large and stark:


    KILL YOU DREIKAN.


    Behind the words, in a corner inside the tent, with the glow of the dying sun lighting up the restless wall, silhouetting her message to the General, Carmine shivered.


    She sat with her knees pressed against her chest, arms wrapped around them and her chin resting on her sleeve. She bit her lip hard, trying to stop it from quivering. Her crimson hair fell about her face in tangled, filthy strands, across eyes sore and itchy from lack of sleep. Her head felt light and achey, her stomach tight and hollow.


    And her hands, clenched into fists, were stained red.


    It was the paint she had mixed up from red dirt and seawater, but sometimes, she truly believed it was blood, and found herself screaming. Then she was forced to run and hide in panic, in case Dreikan had heard her.


    But she heard him screaming too, occasionally.


    She was sure that he suffered the same nightmares, the same delusions, the same paranoia. The same lust to kill. Sometimes, she caught him talking to himself, having nonsensical conversations with people who did not exist, or with her, when he was more lucid. Sometimes, he would laugh suddenly, alarmingly close by, causing Carmine to choke on her own breath.


    At first, he had kept to the command tent, ignoring her efforts to rile him up ¨C or pretending to. But lately, he ventured out more often, stalking the camp, mostly at night, perhaps in order to catch her sleeping.


    But so far, she had eluded him.


    She had graffitied the entire camp ¨C including the command tent ¨C with slogans, on every surface she could find: taunting him, mocking him, insulting, threatening. Any words she could think of to jab at his consciousness. Now and then a rainshower passed over, and she was forced to painstakingly redo all her work.


    She played other tricks on him, too. Scavenging food and water from around the camp, she had piled it all into one tent in the middle of the camp, then left a note for Dreikan telling him that it was poisoned.


    It wasn''t: but he had no way of knowing that.


    She''d kept a careful eye on the tent to see what he would do, but she''d seen him go in there only once, and then back out again.


    He hadn''t been near it since.


    Carmine had also discovered the decapitated body of the fishermen washed up against the docks, along with the wreckage of his fishing boat.


    At some point, Dreikan would have returned to his command tent to find a nice bloated head as a present, sitting on the table.


    Any opportunity to remind Dreikan that she was still there.


    Still alive.


    And still wanted to kill him.


    Of course, the General tried to use her own tactics against her, shooting out verbal barbs of his own as he wandered idly about the camp, pretending he was not in search of her. But this only served to prove to Carmine that her plan was working; the more hateful his remarks, the more he revealed his own weakness.


    Dreikan sought to crush her with blunt force, emotional or physical, but Carmine was slowly undoing him, strand by strand, day by day.


    It was easier than she had anticipated, but she supposed that Dreikan''s sanity had already slipped off a precipice some time ago: perhaps even before the attack on the Dragon.


    But she wasn''t immune. Though she steadfastly hardened her insides with a cold layer until they were as impenetrable as the black armour she wore under her long coat, she knew that with every strike against Dreikan, a little of herself chipped off and fell away as well...


    And things occasionally wormed their way up through those cracks: Fear. Blind anger. Horror. Grief. All threatened to pull her down the slick, dark slope after Dreikan.


    She felt that she was already close to the edge.


    But she wasn''t done with him, yet.


    The glow on the side of the tent had faded. The air inside was musty and warm, but pierced through with a cold draught that smelled of the sea and the stench of decay. Shifting position, Carmine took up something pale that lay on the floor beside her, and stared at it.


    It was a crude thing that she had fashioned out of shredded pillowcases stitched together. It wouldn''t fool any sane person.


    Gripping it tightly, she crawled out of her hiding spot behind a broken table, and stood at the half-collapsed entrance to the tent.


    Then she carefully set the wig on her head.


    Tonight, in the darkness, I am a ghost.

 Chapter Eighty Seven

    Black ones stalk, their mission clear


    In empty rooms, no one can hear.


    Mon Carrol, the Governor of Arkana, sat at his desk and huffed a loud, irritated sigh.


    Tek''Hari was late with his reports, again.


    Carrol scowled down at his own pudgy fingers drumming on the dark, polished wood. No papers littered the desk; reports were always given to him verbally, in person. Occasionally, Tek would hand him one that was written on parchment (usually when the Ambassador was in a spiteful mood), but Carrol could not make head nor tail of it. In fact, he couldn''t read at all, but this was a fact that he was loath to admit.


    The other council members were reluctant to ban the practice of writing altogether, mainly because some of them actually enjoyed it ¨C particularly Tek. This made Carrol deeply suspicious, as though they were plotting things behind his back, but there was little he could do about it.


    His scowl grew deeper, twisting into a sour look. He hated that damned library beneath the city even more, filled as it was with foul magic and blasphemous secrets. Often, he had fantasised about arranging to have it ''accidentally'' burned. But most Angels ¨C including all of the council ¨C considered it holy. Like Caer Sync, Grath Ardan was built by the Ancients and thus was treated with a great deal of reverence and fear. It had been agreed that the best thing to do was simply lock it up and leave it alone.


    That didn''t stop others getting curious, however, hence the guards stationed down in the forest. Thankfully, there had been little need of them since the incident with the black-winged Angel. Carrol was glad that the city''s youth were no longer in danger from that creature''s corrupting influence.


    Carrol had taught him a good lesson, and he had flown away in fear, never to return.


    Ha!


    Carrol fidgeted with the golden bands sunk into the flesh around each of his fingers. Of course, his mind whispered uneasily, there is still the prophecy¡­


    Tek had confided in him everything that he had seen in the Aurellian.


    All of it.


    Carrol had been forced to seriously concede the possibility that Tek''Hari, was, in fact, insane¡­ until the Seraphim had awoken, thus proving that part of the vision true. The three giants now stood outside, one in the city, the other two above the forest to the east and west, protecting Arkana.


    But Tek had witnessed something else in that crystal, as well. Something that matched up disturbingly with that old prophecy¡­


    Swallowing, Carrol glanced nervously about the large hall that served as his office. A line of tall, narrow windows stood at his back, letting in great bands of bright afternoon sunlight that gleamed on the white and gold floor tiles. Heavy, dark red drapes framed the windows, and the statue niches on the opposite wall. The desk and high ceiling beams were made of dark timber.


    The room was not constructed in an Angelican style; it had been built and decorated by his predecessor, who''d had a fondness for Human culture, particularly Darorian. Red was not a fashionable colour in Angel society; the tradition of taste dictated light, pastel colours and soft, whispery fabrics.


    Carrol despised Humans, but he rather liked this room. It was bold and daring and grim and practical, just like him. And he enjoyed the distasteful looks on the councillors'' faces whenever they entered.


    He wished one of them would enter now.


    The room felt suddenly too empty.


    He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, making it creak, his brown and green feathers ruffling in indignation. Damned chair! He was sure it grew smaller every time he sat in it¡­


    He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, making it creak, his brown and green feathers ruffling in indignation. Damned chair! He was sure it grew smaller every time he sat in it¡­


    Goddess damn him, Carrol cursed silently. Where is Tek?!


    He felt himself beginning to sweat, as the silence continued around him.


    Just late, he told himself determinedly. Pointedly late. He KNOWS that I cannot show up to the meeting without being briefed¡­


    His thoughts trailed off, and he went suddenly still.


    Something had changed in the room.


    A black ¨C a very black ¨C shadow had appeared at the far end of the hall, to his left.


    Carrol felt a terrible coldness pass through him, but carefully avoided looking at it. Perhaps, if he ignored it, the shadow would go away. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, sparked off by Tek''s lunatic ramblings¡­


    Slowly, he turned his head to look.


    It was not his imagination.


    Footsteps echoed through the room as the black-winged Angel walked forward, slowly, deliberately. He passed though the first beam of light, then stopped in the second.


    The shadow of his shadow sprawled out across the polished floor.


    Carrol found that he had stopped breathing.


    ¡°M-M-Mekk''Ayan,¡± he stammered finally, as the black-winged Angel fixed him with his dark green gaze. His wicked wings curved behind him like a cloak of night at his back. He was dressed in black, his short green jacket shimmering banefully with an iridescent blue-green feather pattern.


    He looked even darker than Carrol remembered him.


    Especially his expression.


    ¡°W-what do you want?¡± Carrol forced disgust and anger into his voice to cover up the fear. ¡°Why did you return here?!¡±


    Mekka said nothing, simply lifted a gloved hand and tapped the patch over his left eye.


    Carrol felt suddenly trapped in his chair. He struggled to extricate himself from it, then hurried around his desk to the doors in front of him.


    He grabbed the gilded handles.


    They were locked.


    He pounded on the hard wood, instead. ¡°Guards!¡± he cried. ¡°GUARDS!¡±


    ¡°I wouldn''t bother,¡± Mekka said quietly from behind him. ¡°They are dead.¡±


    Heart beating fast, now, the Governor looked around himself in desperation. There were no other exits from the room¡­ save the windows. Maybe¡­ maybe he could smash one, and then hope that he fit through it¡­


    But the black-winged Angel was moving again, walking towards him. ¡°Look at you,¡± Mekka murmured, running his hand along the smooth, dark wood of the desk as he slowly circled it. ¡°You cannot run away. You are so fat, I doubt you can even fly.¡±


    Some of Carrol''s blood returned in a hot flush of embarrassment and anger. He slammed his fists into the door again. ¡°HELP!¡± he screamed, as loud as he could. ¡°HELP!¡±


    Mekka seemed unfazed by his yelling. The Angel stopped in front of the desk, directly opposite him.


    He held a black dagger in his right hand.


    Carrol pressed himself up against the door, the handles digging into his back. His robe had become damp with sweat. ¡°You¡­ you can have whatever you want!¡± he pleaded, licking his lips. ¡°I¡­ I will resign as Governor...¡±


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    ¡°I have no interest in your filthy country!¡± Mekka said with a sneer. ¡°This city can fall out of the sky and rot, for all I care!¡± Lifting the dagger, he pointed it at Carrol, his eye narrowing. ¡°I came back here for you.¡±


    Carrol''s mind felt paralysed with terror. He couldn''t think of a way to escape; all his thoughts seemed to have fled. The only thing left scurrying around in his head was Tek''s frightened warning, and the words of the prophecy¡­


    The black-winged Angel will destroy Arkana¡­


    No, Carrol thought in despair. No, no, no! It''s all coming true!


    ¡°Do you realise what you took from me?¡± Mekka''s voice was a whisper, but Carrol heard it clearly in the silence of the hall. All of his senses seemed to have sharpened to agonising clarity, as though aware that he wasn''t going to sense anything for much longer.


    Carrol''s flabby throat quivered as he tried to think of something to say.


    ¡°YOU TOOK EVERYTHING!¡± Mekka''s scream made him jump. He tried to press himself further into the door as the Angel advanced on him.


    ¡°You,¡± Mekka went on, the dagger still raised. ¡°You made me HATE MYSELF!¡± The echo of his words bounded around the hall. ¡°You made me believe that I was nothing more than slime, to be wiped off the heel of someone''s boot! You made me glad to feel pain, for it was exactly what I deserved!¡±


    His dark eye radiated fury. ¡°And all for what? Some stupid prophecy, scrawled down by a raving FOOL, hundreds of years ago?? How many others have you condemned to the Pit for this? You and all these pompous, ignorant city folk? Every child born with black feathers??¡±


    Mekka gritted his teeth, and his eye narrowed. ¡°You¡­ BASTARD!¡±


    As he screamed the word, his arm swung around, slashing the Governor across the face with the black knife.


    Carrol cried out, clutching his cheek as pain bloomed across it.


    ¡°Please,¡± he whimpered through his bloody, shaking hands. ¡°Please!¡±


    Mekka ignored him. He cried out again as the Angel grabbed him by the collar of his robe and threw him heavily to the floor.


    ¡°Well,¡± Mekka said from above him, ¡°if you believe in this prophecy so fervently, if my life has been destroyed in its cause, if many have died in its despicable honour, then I suppose I have no choice but to fulfil it.¡±


    He looked down at Carrol: a dark Angel of death looming in the light-filled hall.


    ¡°And you.¡± Stepping forward, he knelt beside the cowering Governor. ¡°Do you hate yourself yet? Are you writhing in a puddle of your own self-pity?¡± His gaze was cold. ¡°Do you wish that you were dead?¡±


    Carrol thought that he was writhing in a puddle of something, but he couldn''t find any words to speak. A strange, tingling coldness was spreading across his face, numbing the pain, even as warm blood trickled down it.


    Mekka leaned closer. ¡°And what shall your fate be?¡± he whispered. ¡°What do you deserve, Governor?¡±


    Carrol blinked at him, watching in horror as Mekka reached up slowly and removed the black patch.


    His left eye socket was crushed and deformed, the area directly around it healed into a mass of ugly scars. The eye itself was still there, but unlike its twin, was not deep green, but a dead, milky white.


    ¡°How about,¡± Mekka said, smiling slightly, ¡°an eye for an eye?¡±


    And without another word, he raised the black knife and plunged it towards the Governor''s terrified face.


    The scream was long, and filled the hall.


    * * *


    Ice gleamed, covering walls, floor and ceiling, entombing bookcases, dimming the light under thick, crystal layers to a dim, silvery luminescence. Books and their pages of unknowable knowledge, ripped and scattered, lay about the room like the bodies of papery birds, encrusted with frost. Four pillars surrounded a shattered table like silent witnesses; all of it still and glittering white, and filled with the cool hush of a ruined temple.


    The Sword of Frost protruded from a bookshelf at one end of the room, embedded deeply, as though the twin snakes sought to burrow themselves into the bastion of ice. The diamonds on its hilt reflected the diffused glow in tiny glints of clear light.


    Amidst it all, Ferrian sat, with his back to the wall and his head in his hands.


    Emotions washed over him in alternating waves: disbelief, despair, anger. Though Grath Ardan had damned him with the truth, he was aware that it was a result of his own stupid curiosity, and had no desire to take vengeance upon untold centuries'' worth of collected knowledge. Nor did he want to find out what would happen if he tried: likely, the great book was covered with deadly protective spells.


    Besides, the shock had lasted long enough for him to stumble a few floors up to his practice space; and there he had unleashed the full force of his Winter, somehow managing to confine it to just this one room and turning it into an ice cave in the process.


    Now, he glowered at the frozen floor in front of him: half furious, half grief-stricken.


    He had tried confronting the Dragon again, but she refused to speak to him or even show her face. In the white space of his mind, Ferrian had raged at her, then collapsed to his knees, weeping there for a long time as his real body was no longer capable of producing tears.


    He gritted his teeth so hard that he thought he might break them. Just as he''d feared, he had regretted writing his own name in the book. He had half-hoped that there would be nothing there at all, just empty pages; after all, not many people knew his name, let alone had reason to write it down.


    But someone had written it down.


    There had been only a single page: part of a diary.


    Meriya''s diary.


    Ferrian wished it were possible to unknow something; he felt as though his life was simply unravelling further and further into horror¡­


    But certain things now made an awful kind of sense. That the old woman, Meriya, had known about the Winter when she had abandoned Ferrian in the storm, that night. The reason Lord Requar had ridden back to the valley, on Serentyne, in such haste.


    He had known Ferrian''s name.


    And he had known about the Winter.


    He had known these things, all of Ferrian''s life.


    He had known, when he had told Meriya, as he approached her one day on the road, handing her a tiny bundle with strange, silver eyes...


    And he allowed me, Ferrian thought in despair, to be hated by the gypsies, to be abandoned by them in the snow to die¡­ and to spend my life wandering the countryside in misery and loneliness and fear.


    ALL THAT TIME, HE HAD KNOWN!


    Ferrian''s fingers curled into his hair. Requar had never intended to help him! The sorcerer had only come back to¡­ what? Apologise? Make excuses? How had he found out about the Winter in the first place? Had he murdered Ferrian''s parents, or taken advantage of Arzath''s ''accident'' with the crystal to steal him away?


    Arzath had been right all along. Ferrian disliked that sorcerer intensely, but he now realised that the man had, ironically, been the most truthful with him than anyone else he had met on this ill-fated journey...


    Requar was not to be trusted. He had never cared about Ferrian, only about his magic. Perhaps he had wanted Ferrian to wreak havoc on the Outlands!


    And yet¡­ and yet¡­ Ferrian had talked to Requar through the castle shield, directly into his mind¡­ and he had seemed so concerned about Ferrian''s welfare, so genuine. Had he been faking it, or... did Requar really care? Had he, in fact, had good reasons for everything he had done?


    The possibility that the latter was true was even more terrible, more difficult to deal with. Much easier to hate him, as Arzath had done¡­


    Ferrian stared down at the pale strands of hair in his hands. He had tugged at it so fervently that it had come away in clumps. Just another reminder that he was falling apart, in more ways than one. He had thought that he had finally gained control of himself, only to be shattered all over again.


    He ached with the need to cry. It was a pressure in his head that could not be released. Instead, he stared at the ice-cased bookshelf opposite him. He didn''t know what to feel. He had learned much of the truth, but not all of it. There were answers that only Requar himself could give.


    But Requar was nothing more than a mindless corpse, being devoured by trigon. The Dragon seemed to think there was still a chance he could be saved. And that Bladeshifter guy¡­ Flint¡­ he had stayed behind at the castle. He must have thought the same.


    But do I WANT to save him? Ferrian thought, his mind turning suddenly cold and hard. Does he deserve to be saved?


    Ferrian had already decided to travel back to the Sorcerer''s Valley, but only for the Sword of Healing. Maybe it was bound to Requar, but he had managed to make it work once: he could do it again. Maybe he could use it on himself¨C


    A distant scream invaded his thoughts.


    Ferrian blinked and jerked upright.


    He listened, wondering if he had imagined it. Had it come from within his own mind? But it hadn''t sounded like the Dragon¡­


    The scream came again: high pitched and frightened.


    Leaping to his feet, Ferrian ran to the entrance of the room, an archway that overlooked the central shaft. There was nothing to be seen there, save endless, silent rooms full of books, and far at the bottom, the single tome on its pedestal.


    He recognised that voice. But... it couldn''t be: could it?


    ¡°Li?¡± he said aloud.


    When there was no further sound, he looked upwards and yelled: ¡°LI!¡±


    There was more silence, save for his own voice disappearing as it bounded away up the shaft.


    Then a faint sound echoed down in reply, the words indistinguishable.


    Turning, Ferrian ran across the room, leaping over frozen chunks of debris, and grabbed his Sword.


    It was stuck fast into the wall.


    Bracing himself with one foot on the ice, Ferrian gripped the hilt with both hands and pulled as hard as he could.


    After a moment, it slid free with a sudden hiss, toppling him over, the blade clattering to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, Ferrian snatched it up and raced out of the room.


    A narrow stone walkway connected his room to another on the other side of the shaft. He ran across it without hesitating, despite a drop beneath that once would have seemed horrifying.


    What is she doing down here?? Ferrian thought in astonishment. Hadn''t she gone out with Mekka?


    The terrible, dark feeling returned to his stomach, gnawing at it. The sense that bad things were going to happen, or were happening already¡­


    Reaching the room, he turned immediately to his right, running directly towards the wall. Nearing it, he leaped into the air and landed neatly on the wall, which had now become the floor, and kept running, barely slowing. Nimbly he jumped from wall to floor; floor to wall, now so used to traversing Grath Ardan that the ever-twisting perspectives were no longer disorienting.


    He kept calling out as he sprinted and leapt and spun through the library, but worryingly, there were no further sounds.


    Grath Ardan had fallen back into silence, save for his hurried footsteps, though now it was far more ominous.


    It occurred to Ferrian as he ran that it might be a trick, an aspect of the library''s magic that he hadn''t yet encountered. Or perhaps he had simply spent too much time down here, and his grip on reality wasn''t as firm as he thought it was¡­


    He shook the doubts stubbornly away. He was certain that it had been Li.


    And worse: he thought he knew where the cries were coming from.


    He hoped fervently that he was wrong.

 Chapter Eighty Eight

    Darkest secret born of hate


    The library''s words shall seal this fate.


    Ferrian hopped deftly into the empty room, the library re-aligning itself to suit his new viewpoint. This room contained no furniture, no books; it was a small, square, brightly lit antechamber, made entirely of silvertine tiles.


    On the opposite wall gaped a simple, doorless arch; in stark contrast to the illuminated antechamber, it was filled with darkness.


    The Black Room.


    Ferrian advanced warily, his Sword held in both hands before him. The silver tiles at his feet mirrored his movement.


    In the room beyond, nothing moved.


    But there was a sound.


    A soft whimper, somewhere close by.


    ¡°Li?¡± Ferrian said, halting under the archway.


    ¡°Ferrian?¡±


    The little voice sounded achingly hopeful. He didn''t bother to ask what she was doing in here, because he was pretty sure he already knew.


    He looked around, carefully.


    Since he had... died, his vision had diminished into simple monochrome shades of black and white and grey. Shadows leached together into inky pools of black, and subtle tones were difficult to make out. But the room was not pitch dark. There was a little illumination, from the single silver ceiling tile, and two other doorways.


    It was enough to discern the hulking outlines positioned around the room, and a moment later, three pairs of triangular eyes opened, one after the other.


    His fear was confirmed.


    Three of them, he thought, teeth clenching. Always three of the damned things¡­


    ¡°Are you all right, Li?¡± he asked, watching the eyes that stared back at him. ¡°Are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°I''m scared.¡±


    Me, too, he thought.


    ¡°Don''t worry,¡± he did his best to reassure her. ¡°I''ll get you out of here. I won''t let them do anything to you.¡±


    A jerky, rasping, hissing sound filled the room: the Murons'' horrible equivalent of laughter.


    Ferrian''s hands tightened on his Sword. He fixed his gaze on the central pair of eyes. Li''s voice seemed to have come from the middle of the room.


    ¡°Okay,¡± he said, attempting to force confidence into his voice. ¡°So you managed to lure me here. I know you need me for something, so just tell me what it is and let Li go! You don''t need her!¡±


    The Murons laughed again, like dying snakes.


    The sound went on for so long that Ferrian was tempted to simply attack them. With his Sword, he could cut them all easily into pieces¡­ except for the fact that they were far more agile than he was, and one of them probably had its claws around Li''s throat¡­


    ¡°We require you,¡± the one in the centre whispered finally, ¡°to read our book.¡±


    There was a hint of something moving in the darkness. Ferrian shifted his Sword towards it, peering closely, and could just make out an oblong shape, held out in the Muron''s taloned grip.


    He frowned suspiciously at the Muron. ¡°You want me to read a book?¡±


    The creature''s eyes narrowed. ¡°It isss a book of ssspellsss,¡± it went on. ¡°Sssecret magic of our creator. Muronsss are not born of thisss world; we are creaturesss combined, and better than all!¡±


    The Muron regarded him, and its eyes suddenly widened. ¡°We mussst have our Queen ressstored!¡±


    A deep, unnerving silence fell. Ferrian felt a sick horror slowly welling up inside him. So THIS is why they were so determined to kidnap me! he thought, disgusted. They needed a sorcerer to create for them a new queen. Mekka had hinted that the Murons were dying out, had asked the previous three in the forest if they were the last of their kind¡­


    They were becoming extinct, and they wanted to survive. Perhaps they were not capable of breeding naturally.


    Ferrian had had no idea that Murons were created with magic, but he wasn''t particularly surprised. He had never known they were real at all; always assumed they were a legend, a scary tale around the campfire ¨C until they had shown up at the campfire for real, proving that they were flesh and blood monsters¡­


    Ferrian couldn''t think of anything more revolting than making a queen for them.


    He stared at the oblong of dark leather, loath to even touch the book. He thought hard, trying to devise a plan, a way to get Li away from the Murons without getting her killed. Quickly, he raced over the few pitiful spells he had learned, remembering something he had read about a way to ready magic, of summoning it and holding it inside without releasing it, but he hadn''t yet practised that one. If he tried to summon the Winter now, it would blast the whole room, perhaps killing or wounding the Murons, but catching Li up with it as well. He had gained some control over the Winter, but barely. It was still too powerful a weapon, even directed through his Sword¡­


    ¡°Take it!¡± the Muron snapped impatiently, interrupting his desperate thoughts. Its eyes narrowed again. ¡°You care for thisss little sssoft and feathery morsssel, no?¡± it hissed hungrily. ¡°If you refussse to help usss, we ssshall pick her bonesss clean while you watch...¡±


    There was a squeak of pain from somewhere near the floor, and Ferrian winced, gritting his teeth, remembering how easily a Muron had smashed his own hand¡­


    ¡°Alright!¡± he cried. ¡°Leave her alone! I''ll do what you want!¡±


    Three pairs of eyes stared at him, burning with satisfaction.


    ¡°Take the book!¡± the central Muron demanded again.


    Hesitantly, Ferrian stepped forward, deeper into the room, aware as he did so that he risked being outflanked and his escape route cut off. But he had no choice.


    Sword still raised, he reached out with his left hand and took the vile book.


    The Murons waited.


    ¡°I can''t read it in here,¡± Ferrian said. ¡°It''s too dark.¡±


    He refrained from mentioning that he couldn''t read it at all.


    A hiss of annoyance passed around the room, circling him like an angry zephyr. The Muron in front of him made an awful sound in its throat. ¡°Very well!¡± it rasped.


    The Murons fell into glaring silence. Ferrian began to back away, very slowly.


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    Pale eyes to the left and right of him bored through his skull as he passed them, but otherwise made no move. Ferrian reached the archway, and continued until light spilled over him once more.


    Then he stopped, and looked down at the book.


    It was bound in black leather, old, battered and creased, the edges fraying, pages uneven. It felt unpleasant to touch, as though it had been handled often by greasy fingers. Ferrian couldn''t open it with one hand, and he wasn''t willing to lower his Sword, so he knelt, keeping his eyes on the black room, and placed the book on the floor.


    In the darkness, the Murons stared back.


    Reluctantly turning his attention from them, Ferrian opened the book.


    Just like all the other books in Grath Ardan, it was written in a language he could not understand. Unlike the carefully scribed tomes lining the shelves, however, this text was messy, scrawled in great slanting scribbles across the pages in haste or madness. He wasn''t sure he''d have been able to decipher it even if it had been written in his own language.


    Carefully, he turned the yellowing pages, a dry, crackling rustle in the silence.


    There were crude drawings, too. Clearly, the author was no better artist than he was scribesman. Many of the pictures were labelled, the text running carelessly over the drawings in some cases, and showed odd and increasingly disturbing things. There were pages of animals, and depictions of all the races: Dragons, Humans, Angels, Centaurs, even Griks, all of them curiously splay-legged, like corpses waiting to be dissected. There were diagrams of weird mechanical devices, and symbols which could have been spells or runes or nonsense, for all he knew.


    Then, a few pages further on, his hand froze mid-turn.


    The page he had just turned contained a drawing of an Angel in the top, left hand corner. At the bottom, right hand corner, was a Muron.


    All of the space in between was filled with a series of sketches.


    Sketches showing how one transformed, hideously, into the other.


    Ferrian stared at it, stricken with horror. Then he looked at the facing page.


    This showed a detailed illustration ¨C the book''s author had put much more effort into this one ¨C of an unfortunate Angel strapped into some kind of torture device, with metal bands securing him in place, and tubes and all manner of other horrible apparatus all over¨C


    Ferrian looked away, closing his eyes.


    He had thought that Murons were half-Human and half-Dragon, but that was not correct. They were Angels, mutated by some disgusting magical experiment into vicious beasts!


    And worse¡­ the realisation hit Ferrian like a stone. The Murons hadn''t brought Li here merely as bait to capture him, though that had worked perfectly.


    They wanted to turn her into their Queen!


    If his stomach had still been functioning, he would have retched. As it was, he felt an overwhelming urge to destroy this book, the Murons with it, and obliterate all trace of them from the face of existence¡­


    A rush of bright coldness surged through him. In sudden panic, he fought it back.


    No, no! he thought frantically. I can''t unleash the Winter! Li will get hurt!


    Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he repeated a concentration spell in his mind until he had regained control of himself.


    As he did so, an idea suddenly flashed through his thoughts.


    Thankfully, the Murons had been patient, still within their dark room, watching him. Composing himself, Ferrian opened his eyes. Sword now lowered, he stood up.


    He stared into the shadowy room.


    The Murons stared back.


    ¡°I know,¡± he told them quietly, ¡°what to do.¡±


    The Murons growled amongst themselves in their guttural language, no doubt pleased with Ferrian''s acquiescence.


    Ferrian gestured into the middle of the light-filled room. ¡°You need to bring the Angel girl out here.¡±


    The Murons fell silent, their eyes narrowing into barely-discernible slits in the darkness.


    Ferrian glared back at them. ¡°I need to see what I''m doing!¡±


    After a moment more of silence, one of the Murons barked a command, and, amazingly, they did as Ferrian asked.


    Picking up the foul book, Ferrian backed away, allowing them to pass through the archway and into the room. Two of them stationed themselves in front of both exits: the entrance to the dark room and the doorway to the central shaft.


    The third Muron was slightly larger than the others, strongly muscled and sleek as a large cat. The horns at the back of his flat, wedge-like head were long and sharp as trigonic blades. A gruesome necklace of bones, teeth and other objects rattled on his scaled, ebony chest as he slunk into the middle of the room. There he dropped Li at his feet, placing one huge, taloned hand over her head, almost engulfing it.


    Li, despite her fear, squirmed under his grip, her little hands grabbing futilely at his claws.


    Their leader, Ferrian thought, as the huge Muron glared back at him.


    ¡°Don''t panic, Li,¡± he told her. ¡°Just¡­ just stay still. You will¡­ you''ll be alright...¡±


    He didn''t sound very confident, but nevertheless, the girl ceased struggling, trusting him.


    The Muron leader sneered at him, showing his impressive black teeth. ¡°You know the ssspell?¡±


    Ferrian tried to hold the thing''s gaze, but couldn''t. Knowing that this creature had once been an Angel suddenly made the Murons even more horrifying than they already were.


    ¡°I do,¡± Ferrian replied, feeling despondent and sickened. With great reluctance, he sheathed his Sword.


    If his plan didn''t work, both he and Li were finished, regardless.


    Clutching the book, he opened it again, turning to a random page, pretending to find the correct place. Then he turned his back on the Murons, and faced the wall.


    ¡°I''m¡­ I''m going to write a spell on the wall,¡± he told them all carefully. ¡°Don''t interrupt me. When it''s done, the change will happen quickly.¡±


    Rummaging in the pocket of his silver-embroidered jacket, Ferrian produced the stub of charcoal.


    Then he stepped up to the wall, set the charcoal against a gleaming silvertine panel, and slowly began to write.


    The Murons couldn''t read, and this was a huge advantage. They did not know what he was writing, simply trusting that it was a spell to transform Li into their Queen. Likely, they were not aware of exactly how the magic of Grath Ardan worked, either, otherwise they would never have allowed him to do this.


    Mekka''s words whispered in his mind, from a conversation that seemed eons ago:


    Words written within the library reflect back on themselves, gaining power until their meaning becomes literal¡­


    Ferrian kept writing, forcing his hand to remain steady. The gaze of the Murons felt like a burning, prickly sensation on his back, almost like the touch of trigon.


    One by one the letters appeared, overlaying themselves on his own reflection.


    It''s going to work, he told himself determinedly. It has to work¡­


    The Murons behind him silently observed, calmly watched him spell out their fate, and yet did not know¡­


    Reaching the final word, Ferrian''s resolve hardened. He quickened his pace, and into the last downward stroke of the last letter, he poured all of the vengeance he could muster, finishing with an angry cry.


    As the echoes of his voice died away, he stared at the wall, the charcoal reduced to powder in his fingers.


    There was silence.


    Ferrian stood there, excited yet in fear, but finally summoned the courage to turn around.


    The Murons were gone.


    The room was empty, save himself and little Li, kneeling in the centre of the floor, looking up at him with huge eyes.


    Ferrian stared around, hardly daring to believe. His gaze fell upon the black room.


    Moving over to it with slow, quiet steps, as though the spell could be broken with a sound, he peered anxiously inside.


    No dark shapes loomed there, either. Nothing moved.


    The Murons were truly gone!


    Heaving a sigh of relief, Ferrian slumped against the wall beside the archway, letting the book fall to the floor. ¡°Thank the Gods!¡± he gasped. ¡°It worked!¡±


    Noticing Li, he pushed himself away and ran over to her, falling to his knees in front of her.


    ¡°Li! Are you okay?¡±


    She nodded.


    Ferrian looked her over, but she seemed to be fine. No broken bones. No cuts or bruises.


    Relieved beyond words, he hugged her.


    The Angel girl hugged him back, tightly.


    ¡°What are you doing down here?¡± he asked, pulling away. ¡°I thought you went up to the city?¡±


    ¡°I did!¡± Li replied defensively. ¡°I was helping Hawk! He told me to go and wake up the Seraph, so I did, but when I went back to the platform, he was gone!¡± She looked unhappy. ¡°I thought he fell off. He can''t fly! So I went down to the forest to look for him¡­¡±


    ¡°And then the Murons caught you?¡± Ferrian guessed.


    Li nodded, biting her lip. She hugged her knees to her chest. ¡°I saw one of them coming, but I thought it was Mekka¡­¡±


    Despite himself, Ferrian couldn''t resist a laugh. ¡°You thought a Muron was Mekka, eh?¡± He ruffled her hair, smiling. ¡°Don''t tell him that!¡±


    Li looked up at him uncertainly. ¡°Are the black things really gone?¡±


    Ferrian nodded, and put his hands on her shoulders reassuringly. ¡°Yeah. They''re really gone.¡±


    But the thought made him hesitate.


    He glanced over at the Black Room. The book still lay on the floor, where he had dropped it.


    Getting to his feet, Ferrian walked purposefully towards the room. Snatching the book up on the way, he kept walking into the shadows. He pulled the book apart as he went, ripping the pages into the smallest pieces that he could manage.


    He stopped before the pile of torn books that formed the grave of the murdered Angel sorcerer. There he scattered the pieces of the Murons'' book, until they lay amongst thousands of other shredded and mutilated words, indistinguishable from the rest.


    Of course, Ferrian thought with a twinge of dark worry, Grath Ardan still holds this secret... But hopefully it was lost now, buried under a mountain of endless knowledge.


    As satisfied as he could be, Ferrian left the room.


    ¡°C''mon Li,¡± he said. ¡°I think both of us are sick and tired of this musty old place. Let''s get out of here. Let''s go find Hawk and Mekka.¡±


    The Angel girl needed no convincing. Jumping to her feet, she ran after him and grabbed his hand.


    ¡°What did you write on the wall?¡± she asked, looking up at him.


    Ferrian gave her a smile. ¡°A spell, like I said,¡± he replied. ¡°One that will make sure the Murons never come back.¡±


    After they had left, the silver room continued to glow with a bright, steady light.


    Only dust moved, resuming its conquest of the floor.


    On one wall, black letters remained, large and neat and filled with all the terrible power of Grath Ardan:


    MURONS DO NOT EXIST.

 Chapter Eighty Nine

    In the city of Angels, many take flight


    As prophecy foretells an epic fight.


    The gilded, polished wooden doors of the council chambers burst open, startling a flock of white doves into a frenzied cloud. On the steps below, several Angels enjoying the afternoon sunshine looked up, then scrambled to take flight, their cries ringing across the plaza.


    Out of the building stepped an Angel with wings as black as the Pit, clothing and hair dark as forest shadows. One eye was an abyss of heinous purpose; the other, beneath breeze-tossed hair, was blind and disfigured.


    Specks of blood followed his footsteps as he walked forward onto the pristine, alabaster stone. Gripped at his side was a sinister black knife.


    Mekka descended the broad steps unhurriedly, heedless of the commotion he had stirred across the plaza. The air was suddenly full of panicked people, screams disturbing the lazy afternoon peace.


    He stood out like a bloodstain slowly trailing down the white stone.


    Like a shadow that would not be bound.


    Dispassionately, his gaze travelled around the circular plaza, taking in the surrounding buildings, their elegant style, towering in the sun like a many-fingered hand reaching for glory.


    Fleetfleer.


    Though he had been born here, this city had rejected him, broken him, driven him away, and, finally, thrown him into Hell.


    He had come back to show it how much he hated it.


    The Pit had released him, had set him free, for this purpose.


    And the prophecy, after all, HAD to be fulfilled, otherwise everything he had suffered for in this life had been for nothing.


    At the bottom of the steps, five guards dropped into place around him, their golden armour ablaze with reflected light, weapons levelled.


    Mekka regarded them coolly.


    Then he attacked.


    A minute later, a spray of blood arced through the air, pattering on the stone. The final guard reached for his throat, then dropped his spear, and collapsed.


    Five winged bodies lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling across the white pavement.


    Turning, Mekka stepped over the ring of corpses, and continued walking.


    Ahead of him lay the marketplace, its stalls now abandoned. Trinkets glittered in the sun, food sat drying in crates. Papery wrappers crossed his path, set wandering by the wind. His shadow stretched out, leading him ahead through the stalls.


    In the middle of the market was an open space where a fountain tinkled, its clear waters poured by golden-winged children. It had once been the focal point of the plaza.


    Not any more.


    Mekka looked up.


    The Seraph loomed above him, pale and serene, untouched by hysteria. Its main eyes were closed, its hands pressed against the breast of its robe. Its six vast wings moved with a soft, rippling swish in the silence, stirring the breeze.


    As he stared up at it, a great shadow passed over him.


    Another winged creature, enormous and deadly, glided high above him in the golden sky, over the dome of the Aegis.


    A Dragon.


    Mekka''s eye narrowed.


    His hand tightened on the hilt of the trigonic dagger.


    Then he sprung into the air, swift and silent as a leaping cat.


    The Seraph''s hand swung out with such astonishing speed that Mekka was not prepared for it. The back of the hand slammed into him, swatting him aside like a mosquito.


    He was sent flying down into the market stalls, crashing into them in a heap.


    Dazed and winded from the unexpected attack, Mekka pushed himself up, broken pieces of debris falling off him. Wincing, he looked back at the Seraph.


    Slowly, it turned to face him, very much awake now. Its eyes ¨C all of them ¨C bore down on him. The fingers of its left hand opened and a tiny, pitch black feather fluttered to the ground, twisting in the breeze.


    Mekka caught his breath. He stood up, stumbled, then righted himself again. Someone warned it! he thought, eye widening in fury. Damn them!!


    Climbing out of the shattered stall, throwing debris away from him in a rage, he strode back towards the Seraph. He had not lost his dagger, at least¡­


    The giant Angel guardian waited for him, patiently, the golden rings over its head rotating slowly, one within the other. As he approached, it held a huge hand out to the side, and a blinding blaze of light appeared there, like a ray from the sun. The light elongated outwards in two directions from its hand, solidifying a moment later into an enormous, magnificent silvertine spear. A golden glow remained, radiating along the weapon''s impressive length.


    Mekka paused, staring up at it. Then his mouth twitched into a smirk.


    His eye flashed.


    So be it.


    Then he threw himself into the battle.


    * * *


    Ferrian stood on the branch, gazing at the forest around him. It was good to behold living trees again, rather than centuries-dead ones. Leaves muttered in the breeze and birds warbled strange, eerie cries that echoed around the monolithic trunks. The air here breathed reassuring life, not silent, forgotten whispers.


    He felt he had been turning slowly into a decrepit skeleton down there. He had no sense of how much time had passed; he could have been down in that library for years.


    A little of Grath Ardan had stayed with him, though: the truths he had learnt there still weighed heavily at the back of his mind, but they were a shadow in the blaze of elation at his defeat of the Murons. His victory over those hated creatures had filled him with a new sense of hope and resolve. He would find his friends and they would leave Arkana, and return to the castle. What happened after that... Ferrian didn''t know. It was a question he determinedly pushed aside, for now.


    Some of that fierce purpose wavered a little, however, as he watched Li skipping along the bough. The question of what, exactly, he was supposed to do right now was a more immediate one.


    Crouching on the branch, he looked down.


    The drop below was considerable; he was at least a couple of hundred feet up a giant tree, with no apparent way down. The branches were huge ¨C two other people could have stood beside Ferrian easily ¨C but they were widely spaced. The nearest was a few yards away and much too far to jump. The bark of the tree was smooth, grey and hard as stone. Here and there it was oddly warped, including the deformation that had split a cleft all the way down through the middle of it.


    The inside of the tree had been knobbly and full of crevices, allowing him to climb up. It was full of fungi, damp moss and vines that slithered down through the darkness. Ferrian considered ripping some of the vines out and attempting to make a rope out of them, but wasn''t sure if the forest floor was actually the safest place for him to be, infested as it was with those dreaded spider-things.


    He supposed he could summon the Winter to keep them at bay, or fires if need be. But the prospect of sitting around down there, in the gloom, waiting for his companions to return, frustrated him. He knew they were in trouble, he was sure they were, and he couldn''t stand the thought of doing nothing while something terrible was happening.


    Letting out a huff of frustration, he climbed to his feet, and stared helplessly upwards at the misty canopy.


    Somewhere up there, in Fleetfleer, were Hawk and Mekka.


    How could he possibly reach them? He looked at Li. She was humming to herself at the end of the branch, examining a green beetle that had landed on her hand, seemingly recovered from her horrifying ordeal. She was far too small to lift him, however.


    He felt a momentary rush of jealousy at her beautiful white wings¡­


    ¡°Dammit!¡± He kicked at the branch angrily. ¡°What am I going to do??¡±


    Looking up, Li skipped delicately along the branch towards him. ¡°Fly!¡± she said happily.


    Ferrian sighed. ¡°Just because I have a magical curse on me,¡± he told her, ¡°doesn''t mean I can fly.¡±


    ¡°Yes you can!¡±


    Ferrian shook his head, frowning. ¡°Li, no! My magic isn''t that powerful! And even if it was, I don''t know how to use it like that!¡± He let out another sigh, flopping his arms at his sides. ¡°I''m just a Human; I don''t have wings like you and Mekka do!¡±


    Li studied him curiously, her copper eyes bright. ¡°Yes you do!¡±


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    Ferrian frowned again. ¡°What?¡±


    Li pointed.


    Ferrian turned his head to the side, and almost tripped over himself in astonishment.


    Two huge, ghostly wings were folded gracefully at his back. They were semi-transparent, ethereal, shimmering softly like a memory of sunlight through rain, with a hint of rainbow colours. They were supple and leathery along half their length, ending in long, pearly-white feathers.


    Ferrian recognised the wings. They had accompanied him on his exhilarating, terrible journey on Serentyne, as the Winter raced along with him, unchecked.


    They were the Dragon''s wings.


    Ferrian gaped. Then he turned back to Li, eyes going wide. ¡°You can see them?!¡±


    Li nodded.


    Ferrian blinked at her dumbly, shocked. ¡°No way,¡± he said after a moment. ¡°No way!¡± He shook his head vehemently. ¡°These wings aren''t real! The Dragon is just a ghost!¡±


    Li just stared up at him with patient eagerness.


    Ferrian looked at the wings again, from one to the other, in disbelief. Had he willed them into existence? The Dragon had implied that the Winter reacted to his thoughts unconsciously. The Dragon was also part of his subconscious¡­


    He needed to fly. His magic had provided a way.


    Ferrian peered over the edge of the branch again, apprehensively. He was already dead, of course. A fatal fall should be nothing to fear. But what would happen if his body became ruined? Would he and the Dragon die for real, released into oblivion? Or would she seek out another vessel? Would she take Ferrian with her?


    Ferrian grimaced. He wished he wasn''t faced with the sudden possibility of finding out the answers to these disturbing questions, but surely, the wings would not have appeared if he couldn''t use them, right? Or were they merely an illusion based on wishful thinking?


    He was sure that if his heart had been working, it would have been racing to escape. But instead, once again, his chest was silent and empty, filled with nothing but eerie calm.


    He stepped back into the middle of the branch.


    Li jumped into the air and flew around in wide circles. ¡°Fly!¡± She giggled, and clapped her hands. ¡°Fly, fly fly!¡±


    Li believes in me, Ferrian thought. Perhaps I should trust myself, for once¡­


    The branch stretched out before him, straight and smooth, like a path into the vast cathedral of the forest.


    His hands curled into fists.


    He could feel the slender weight of his Sword at his back, but he couldn''t feel the wings. He glanced again. They were still there.


    Nothing but magic and hope.


    Magic and hope had gotten him this far.


    Then, before he could take another thought, before he could second-guess himself, Ferrian sprinted along the branch. When it grew too slim to hold his weight, he leapt out into vast, open space.


    * * *


    Hawk threw himself over a wall, landing in someone''s garden, crushing a small ornamental fountain and destroying a flowerbed.


    A gleaming spear struck the stone, missing his head by inches.


    Hawk rolled, kicking out as he did so, tripping the guard that had just landed behind him. Rolling to his feet, Hawk snatched up the spear in the same movement and slammed the butt of it into the guard''s golden helmet as he tried to get up.


    Then he hurled the spear over the wall.


    The long silvertine spears were too cumbersome to flee with in the narrow alleys and courtyards of Fleetfleer ¨C though they came in handy for tripping guards and stopping them in their tracks. At least, the guards that were stupid enough to pursue him on foot, and Hawk did his best to force them to follow him into confined spaces.


    The guards, being Angels, were of a lighter average build than Humans, and Hawk had no difficulty overcoming them with force, but they were damnably persistent. And there were a lot of them. Once they had found Hawk ¨C which didn''t take long; there were not a lot of hiding places on ground level ¨C they were on him like a swarm of glittering bees.


    He was sure every Angel guard in the city was after him by now.


    Hawk knew, with growing dismay, that it was only a matter of time before they caught him. Everywhere he ran, he was pulled up short by terrifying, precipitous drops. He''d almost plunged to his death multiple times, already. The city appeared to be constructed on a jumble of floating stone platforms, or towers that simply hovered in mid-air, with spires at both top and bottom. Some of the platforms were connected by elegant arched walkways; these, like the steps around the main plaza, appeared to be mainly for aesthetic purposes, but Hawk made use of them wherever possible.


    There were no staircases anywhere, and no railings, but there were many walled, quiet courtyards filled with tinkling water, plants and fragrant flowers, like the one Hawk exited in a hurry right now.


    Bursting through a door ¨C which felt very flimsy; he heard something shatter ¨C he came up short.


    Before him in the middle of the room was a small, round table laid out with many platters of food. On either side of the table stood a startled Angel couple, having obviously just come to their feet in the middle of a meal, alarmed by the scuffle in the courtyard. They looked as though something from the Pit had just walked into their house.


    Hawk was suddenly aware of how stark his black and blue Freeroamer uniform must look to them, even half-covered as it was by a golden breastplate. Not to mention his undeniable and embarrassing Human-ness¡­


    ¡°Ah...¡± Hawk said, feeling awkward. Glancing at his sleeve, he hurriedly brushed off dirt and broken flower petals. Then he straightened his clothing and helmet, and gave them his most charming smile. ¡°Nice weather, isn''t it?¡± he said cheerfully.


    Then he bolted through the living room, leaping the table in a single bound, and burst through a door on the opposite side of the room.


    And nearly plunged to his death.


    Again.


    Letting out a panicked curse, Hawk threw himself backwards just in time, crashing into the wall.


    He had emerged onto a small, semi-circular balcony. There was no railing, of course.


    His heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, almost choking him, Hawk quickly regained his composure¡­ only to feel his heart then drop into the bottom of his stomach, like a stone.


    Three Angel guards flew into place around the balcony, surrounding him. Two of them carried bows; the third, directly in front of him, a sword.


    Pushing himself off the wall, Hawk turned back to the door¡­ only to find a fourth guard appear there, leading with his spear.


    Without hesitating, Hawk grabbed the spear and yanked it as hard as he could. The guard came with it. Hawk gave him a fierce shove to help him along, and the guard toppled off the balcony.


    But he would only be gone a few seconds.


    Wasting no time, Hawk raced back into the room, leaping over the table again. Then suddenly he skidded to a halt, ran back to the table, and plucked a morsel from one of the platters.


    ¡°Cheers!¡± he said to the couple.


    Then he ran out into the garden.


    The walls of the courtyard were trellised, covered with sprawling ivy. Hawk made for one, but a guard dropped in front of him, barring his way. Two more guards landed with a crouch on the walls.


    ¡°Crud!¡± Hawk exclaimed through a mouthful of food, swallowed hastily, and ran back into the house. ¡°Don''t mind me!¡± he called to the occupants as he jumped the table a third time. They were pressed into the walls as though trying to become part of the architecture.


    Hawk raced for the open balcony door again, but this time, he kept running.


    Gods help me, Hawk thought. He had no time to think about what he was doing.


    He just leapt.


    The guard with the sword let out a startled cry as Hawk slammed into him in mid-air, and they both plummeted downwards.


    As Hawk had hoped, the guard''s survival instincts kicked in. He flapped his wings furiously, trying to slow their descent, while attempting to extricate Hawk from his body. Hawk wrestled the sword from his grasp, and clung to the Angel for all he was worth, enduring the blows from the guard''s fists.


    The guard managed to slow their fall enough that their impact with the ground was not fatal ¨C merely painful.


    Hawk''s head hit the ground so hard that he blacked out for a second, but a sharp cry of pain instantly roused him. Blinking, he turned his head to see the Angel guard writhing in pain: one of his wings was snapped, flopping limply on the ground.


    Even dazed, Hawk felt a flash of sympathy and guilt, but he needed to keep moving¡­


    Rolling to his hands and knees, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, then clutched at his head as the world spun alarmingly around him. Gritting his teeth, he waited for the wave of dizziness to pass, then looked around him.


    He was not on the forest floor, but on a lower platform, in the shadow of the city. On one side was a high wall, thick with ivy, on another sat a large, round tower. Behind him, the platform dropped off in a sweeping curve of polished stone. In front of him, a bridge connected to an adjacent platform.


    Hawk stumbled over to the guard''s sword, picked it up, and ran for the bridge.


    He had made it halfway across when a golden-clad Angel landed at the other end, levelling his spear at Hawk.


    Hawk slowed to a stop, and turned.


    Another guard sauntered over to block the bridge behind him, also armed with a spear.


    Hawk sighed, shoulders slumping. Fighting winged guards on a narrow bridge hundreds of feet in the air was suicide. It was something that Captain Sirannor might have attempted, but¡­ Hawk shook his head. He was reckless, but not that reckless. And he had Carmine to think about¡­


    Pulling off his winged helmet, he wiped his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of his uniform. His skull pounded like a mallet and his whole body ached: the chase had been long and fatigue was finally catching up to him.


    He wondered dryly if they''d dump him back on the platform, or lock him up this time¡­


    Tossing the helmet off the side of the bridge, he slowly placed his sword down on the ground beside him and straightened, raising his hands in defeat.


    When he lifted his gaze to the guard again, he noticed that the Angel''s blue eyes were wide, his mouth hanging agape. His spear dipped, very slowly, until the point clanked on the ground.


    Hawk looked over his shoulder.


    And his mouth fell open as well.


    Standing on the walkway behind him was a teenage boy, wearing black pants and a grey-silver jacket, with pale hair and a fine, glittering Sword in one hand. His back was turned to Hawk, and from it spread a pair of enormous, ghost-like wings, glowing with a kind of ethereal radiance.


    The boy half-turned, his face white as snow, and winked at Hawk with a silver eye.


    The guard in front of Ferrian gripped his spear tightly with both hands, though fear crawled across his features. Then in a burst of courage, he stepped forward and ran the boy through.


    Ferrian just stared at him, the gleaming point of the spear protruding from his back.


    The guard froze uncertainly.


    Slowly, Ferrian began to walk towards him, the shaft travelling through his body as he did so, with a faintly grotesque sound. He got almost all the way to the man''s trembling hand before the guard released his hold on the spear, bolted to the edge of the platform and sped off into the sky.


    Ferrian paused and turned, the spear still impaling him, and walked the other way, along the bridge towards Hawk.


    There was a clatter from the other guard as he dropped his weapon as well and ran off, dragging his injured companion away as he did so.


    Hawk continued to gape at Ferrian, before remembering to close his mouth. He swallowed, opened his mouth again, took a breath to say something, couldn''t think of an appropriate remark, closed his mouth, frowned, shook his head, took another breath, and finally settled for: ¡°What the hell did you learn down there?!¡±


    Ferrian gave him a smile and shrugged nonchalantly. ¡°A few things.¡± Taking hold of the spear with one hand, he began to tug it out.


    Hawk rubbed the back of his neck and waved his other hand in Ferrian''s direction. ¡°You¡­ er, you need a hand with that?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    Hawk helped him extricate the spear from his body, then tossed it over the edge of the bridge. Ferrian''s clothing ¨C and flesh ¨C was torn, but there was no blood. Hawk tried not to stare with morbid curiosity at the hole.


    Hell''s bells, he thought. The kid really IS dead!


    ¡°Hi, Hawk!¡± a small voice said from behind him.


    Hawk turned in surprise. ¡°Hey, there, pigeon! Where''ve you been?¡±


    Li''s cheerful expression fell and she stared at her toes twiddling in her sandals, as though in guilt.


    ¡°Uh,¡± Ferrian answered. ¡°She was captured by Murons.¡±


    ¡°She...¡± Hawk spun. ¡°She what?!¡±


    Ferrian looked at him. ¡°It was a little scary,¡± he admitted, then shrugged again. ¡°But I took care of them. They won''t be coming back.¡± He sheathed his Sword with a soft hiss.


    Hawk stared at him with raised eyebrows, putting his hands on his hips. ¡°You did, huh?¡± He nodded in admiration and respect. ¡°Cool!¡±


    Ferrian''s expression became serious, then. ¡°Hawk,¡± he said, ¡°have you seen Mekka?¡±


    Hawk shook his head. ¡°No,¡± he replied, frowning. ¡°I assumed he was going to the Tower to get rid of that evil dagger.¡± He gestured at the white line visible in the golden sky above even the highest spires.


    Ferrian looked anxious as he glanced up at it. ¡°He did. Just before he left the library, he told me he was going straight to Caer Sync to drop the dagger into the Pit.¡± He looked back at Hawk. ¡°And¡­ you haven''t seen him since?¡±


    Hawk shook his head.


    They shared a look of silent worry.


    Mekka has a habit of disappearing, Hawk thought to himself. But he had a feeling this time was different¡­


    A sudden tremor passed beneath their feet, as though the stones of the city shivered involuntarily.


    They looked around in alarm.


    But nothing seemed amiss. They waited; Hawk held his breath, but there were no further disturbances.


    Feeling suddenly unsafe on the slender bridge, Hawk picked up his sword and moved quickly to the open space near the tower where he had landed. Looking up, he gave a gasp. ¡°Look at that!¡± he exclaimed, pointing at the sky.


    Coming up beside him, Ferrian frowned and shook his head. ¡°Look at what? It''s just grey to me...¡±


    But the moment had passed. For an instant, Hawk thought he had seen a shimmer of bright light ripple across the Aegis.


    Then the sound of a commotion came to them, from somewhere above. Staring upwards, they saw Angels emerging from towers and buildings, heading hurriedly towards the centre of the city.


    Something was going on.


    Hawk looked at Ferrian, and Ferrian looked back.


    ¡°Mekka?¡± the boy said quietly.


    Hawk swallowed, hoping he was wrong, and nodded. ¡°Mekka,¡± he replied.

 Chapter Ninety

    Seraph and Angel; wing and blade


    Who shall be first to be unmade?


    The great spear whirled, leaving a golden trail in the air behind it. Huge as the Seraph was, it danced on the air as though weightless. Darting and twirling around it like a deadly fly was a small black shape, with a dagger the colour of oily night, leaving a coiling dark mist in his wake that hung in the air like a smoky scarf.


    Striking with quick movements, Mekka fought the Seraph. Every clash of their blades sent a quiver of sparkling power through the air and tore a few threads of reality, leaving frayed holes that could not be seen, except as odd blind spots in one''s vision.


    Every time Mekka encountered one of these holes he became disoriented, seeing his past actions repeated, or future actions, or events that had never happened ¨C all in a split second ¨C and it was difficult to discern what was actually going on. He tried to avoid the rifts as best he could, but the space around the Seraph was becoming cluttered with them. He was forced to try and anticipate his own movements and those of the Seraph, and hope he guessed correctly while he was momentarily ''blinded''.


    He misjudged the timing on a lunge ¨C his brain telling him he''d already done it ¨C and felt the shaft of the great spear crash into him, and the next thing he knew he was amongst the market stalls again, gasping for breath, bits of broken timber collapsing around him.


    He barely had time to gulp in a couple of lungfuls of air before the Seraph''s weapon was sweeping around at him in a low arc, obliterating the market stalls as it went.


    It wasn''t waiting for him to recover, this time.


    Mekka threw himself into the air just in time, rolling as he went, so that he saw the golden gleam of metal pass beneath him, saw a brief glimpse of his dark reflection as it scythed by.


    Landing on the ground with one foot, he immediately pushed off again, wings spread wide, and spun to the side as the spear swung back around again.


    Finding himself suddenly, miraculously, within the giant Angel''s defences, he threw himself at its body, and managed to grab a hold of its robe before a huge hand clutched at him. Leaping upwards, avoiding its grip, he slashed out and caught it across the knuckles with his knife, then spun away.


    He hit one of the rifts and suddenly found himself being squeezed to death by the hand, pain exploding through him¡­ then blinked and saw that no such thing was happening, but the spear was rushing towards him, fast.


    Leaping backwards on pure instinct, the spear passed his face by a feather''s breadth.


    Mekka whirled to the side, out of the shredded mess of reality and dropped to the ground, panting. He gritted his teeth. The Seraph didn''t appear to be affected by the rifts, which gave it a huge advantage.


    The trigonic dagger in his hand shifted form constantly; restless, eager as a living thing, leaking black, greasy mist that curled around his hand, around his body, and trailed after him. He breathed it in and it gave him energy: a dark, cold determination.


    He refused to believe that this was a fight he could not win.


    Though his body was bruised and beaten, both inside and out, he could barely feel the pain any longer. A strange numbness seemed to keep it at bay, while not hampering his movements, as though the dagger took the pain away, took the doubts away, took the fatigue away, and simply left him to fight.


    And fight he would, until either the Seraph was dead, or he was.


    Mekka dodged as the spear smashed into the ground, cracking the white stone, and threw himself back at the Seraph, slashing.


    All his attacks were parried effortlessly.


    Sparks flew. More rifts opened.


    Mekka ignored them, pressing his attacks on the Seraph with increasing recklessness. He jumped through one reality after another, in a whirl of confusion. He failed the battle a hundred times, in a hundred different ways: crushed, slashed, beheaded, torn apart¡­ and yet, amidst the chaos, he was aware that he was still alive.


    Still fighting.


    He mistimed attacks again and again, the spear smashing into him, leaving him sprawled on the ground amid the debris of the market stalls. The Seraph fended him off with maddening serenity, its gigantic face expressionless, as though it knew his every move.


    Stumbling painfully to his feet once more, Mekka leapt over the swing of the spear and sought the rifts out deliberately.


    Not all of them showed him failing...


    He stopped twisting his mind in knots, trying to figure out which was the right reality, which one was true¡­ because, he realised, they all were.


    He had died horribly, an uncountable number of times, but he had won gloriously as well. Every reality was real; they were all the same thing, woven from the same fabric of existence. He searched for scenes in which he succeeded: where he was faster and smarter and more graceful than the Seraph. And he found that he began to deftly avoid the giant Angel''s swings and lunges¡­ the golden spear could no longer touch him, the hands could not reach him¡­ he was swift, swifter than thought, than light¡­


    They became locked in something resembling a beautiful, choreographed dance, each knowing the other''s precise movements, not touching each other, neither attacking nor defending but just¡­ moving in harmony...


    Light from the sinking sun fell over them, as though it were the last battle in existence; the only battle that mattered.


    Seraph fought Angel, but they could both have been Gods.


    Mekka''s desperation, his anger, his anguish, smoothed out and coalesced into one, single emotion: certainty. Darkness filled him, like a flood of shadow, like the force of ice, like the profound velvet blackness between the stars. It streamed off his knife and off his wings, and hair, and eyes.


    And then, the black-winged Angel broke the dance.


    Full of purpose, Mekka flew directly at the Seraph''s mighty face.


    The face moved away, just out of reach, its three glorious blue-golden eyes pinning him like a moth to the sky.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Mekka went with it as the Seraph somersaulted backwards, as though in slow motion.


    Then, with a hard beat of his wings, Mekka cancelled his momentum and launched into a backflip himself.


    As the Seraph came around, as it straightened from its crouch, as its vast, white wings flared wide, Mekka was directly above its head.


    The rotating halo spun, its hundred vivid blue eyes staring up at him in accusation...


    Silently, Mekka folded his black wings and allowed himself to drop, dagger gripped in both hands, point downwards¡­


    The knife sheared through the halo without resistance, the pieces falling away, eyes filling with white light as they died¡­


    And the dagger continued downwards, plunging into the top of the Seraph''s head.


    The dagger seemed to lengthen as it sliced into the Seraph''s skull, becoming a sword, a spear, a vicious, terrible black spike that raced all the way down through the great Angel''s body.


    Mekka clung to the handle of the knife, crouched over it as a tremor, a spasm of death quivered through the Seraph. No blood issued from the wound, but beneath his boots, the golden hair began to turn grey, spreading outwards from the dagger.


    Slowly, as it died, the Seraph turned to stone, its movements becoming still, its gaze frozen, its feathers and robe and skin hardening. Then it cracked, a spidery network of lines snapping outwards from Mekka''s hands.


    Still he clutched the dagger, as though unable to let go, as though his victory were not assured, as the giant statue trembled beneath him¡­ and then, all of a sudden, it shattered.


    A few moments later, Mekka pushed himself up amid the rubble and a dizzying wave of nausea rushed over him. Suddenly, he felt weak, trembling and¡­ empty. The blackness that had fed him, urged him on, lent him such powerful strength of will had fallen away, crumbled like the statue.


    There was no sense of elation at the victory. No gratification. Not even relief.


    Nothing but an overwhelming, sickening horror.


    His stomach heaved and he retched. Droplets of black blood pattered onto the stone.


    Mekka shook, looking down in confusion at the dagger, still gripped tightly in his hand. He couldn''t seem to let go of it, as though it was a part of himself.


    It was a part of himself¡­ and he a part of it¡­


    ¡°N-no,¡± he stammered. ¡°N-no! What¡­ what have I done?!¡±


    He had murdered people¡­ guards, the Governor, Tek... and destroyed a Seraph! The whole of Arkana was in danger¡­


    An almighty crack split the air high above his head, and for a second he thought he was back on the statue as it shattered¡­ With a jerk, he looked up, but was forced to shield his face as a blinding flash of light pierced his good eye, flooding the plaza with stark light.


    He was filled with sudden terror. The Seraph is alive!


    But a moment later, the light faded, and when his vision cleared, Mekka lifted his head again tentatively to see something even more terrible... a hole in the sky, rapidly expanding, the edges molten gold...


    And then the sound of screaming came to him, and flurried movement at the edges of his vision. Looking around, he saw Angels fleeing in every direction. He had not been aware that the rooftops and balconies surrounding the plaza were crowded with them; silent, stunned witnesses to the fight.


    And then a bone-splitting roar echoed through the city ¨C no sound a Seraph would ever make¡­


    Mekka clutched his head with his free hand as panic rose within him, his thoughts running everywhere, trying to escape but trapped within his skull. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.


    Stumbling to his feet, he came up against a boulder, spun away a few feet and fell again, banging his knees on the broken stone littered around him. His breath came fast, his skin prickled with sweat. Alternate claws of despair and horror gripped his mind. He could feel madness claiming him¡­


    He tried to push himself up again, and his scrabbling hand pulled over a chunk of stone that rolled to face him.


    On it, an eye was depicted: cracked down the middle.


    He screamed.


    Hawk and Ferrian hurried through narrow, curving, ivory-walled alleys, having finally made their way to the uppermost tier of Fleetfleer. Ferrian had been forced to lift Hawk from one platform to another in several places. At first, Ferrian worried that his magic wasn''t capable of such a thing, but they didn''t have much of a choice ¨C there was only so much ivy that Hawk could climb ¨C and in the end it hadn''t been a problem.


    Li fluttered along quietly in their wake.


    The guards were nowhere to be seen. Hawk supposed that whatever was going on in the centre of the city was of somewhat more importance than chasing a lone Human.


    Disturbing sounds came to them as they ran; the echoing ring of clashing metal, accompanied by crashing and strange crackling sounds. At one point, an enormous thunderclap and blinding flash of light from the sky proved Hawk''s unspoken fear true: the Angels'' Aegis had failed.


    Now, as they raced along the edge of the central platform, a roar like the sound of an enraged mountain tearing something apart shook the buildings around them, alarmingly close.


    They threw themselves against a wall.


    Off to their left, a few buildings away, one of the tall towers moved. It toppled with a slow, proud grace, like an aristocratic tree being felled, until it crashed into another tower and both disintegrated into a cascade of pale, broken stone, spilling their contents and rubble into the lower tiers and ultimately, the forest below.


    A Dragon appeared in the space the tower had previously occupied, crouched on the edge of the platform, lit from behind by the setting sun, its eyes volcanic in its shadowed head. It was emaciated; its skin hung off its bones in loose sheets, but here and there patches of golden scales still glittered in the light, remnants of former magnificence.


    Opening its jaws, the Dragon sprayed fire in a wide arc, setting gardens, wooden shutters, crates and anything else flammable alight. Then it took flight, leaping off its perch and soaring away over the city, its long spiked tail swishing out behind it, weaving around the towers as it went.


    When it was far enough away that they were no longer in immediate danger, Hawk slowly let his breath out. It''s moving away from the centre, at least¡­


    Watching bursts of flame illuminate distant sections of the city, he shook his head helplessly. ¡°Why Arkana?¡± he muttered.


    Ferrian looked at him. ¡°Maybe the Dragons want to get revenge on the descendants of those who imprisoned them?¡± he said, shrugging. ¡°Mekka mentioned that the Angels used to practise magic, thousands of years ago. But I suppose the Dragons don''t know that there aren''t any sorcerers left¡­¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Hawk pointed out, ¡°except you.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Ferrian replied dryly. ¡°Except me.¡± A sudden nervous expression crossed his face as he glanced up at the white line of the Tower, rising above the city, impossibly high into the evening sky. ¡°Do you think¡­ that the Dragon will destroy Caer Sync?¡±


    A wave of prickling horror passed through Hawk at Ferrian''s words. ¡°Crud,¡± he said, rubbing his head. ¡°I don''t wanna be around here when THAT thing comes down!¡± He got to his feet. ¡°Let''s keep moving!¡±


    They made their way quickly through the upper city. They were in an area that Hawk recognised: he had spent the better part of a day running around and hiding in it, after all. Orange light spilled between the towers, distinguishable from the patches of flickering flame that licked the city only by its steady glow.


    Their shadows darted after them like assassins.


    A short time later, they came to a wide, open circular space surrounded by broad steps and government buildings.


    Hawk stopped dead. Li landed beside him, eyes wide.


    The sun was a burnished disc in a corner between the towers, like a coin dropped from the Goddess''s palace. The large, oblong-shaped council chambers directly opposite them spread its shadow across half the plaza; the rest was striped with brooding orange rays and bright, hungry patches of flame.


    Hawk stared at the scene of wreckage in disbelief. Earlier that day, the plaza had been filled with festivities, music and cheerful Angels.


    Now it was ominously quiet and deserted; the market lay in burning ruins.


    And the Seraph was gone.


    In the centre, beside a sadly tinkling fountain topped with a golden, headless child, was a massive pile of grey stone rubble.


    Hawk blinked and rubbed at his eyes. ¡°Ugh,¡± he complained. ¡°Something''s wrong with my vision...¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Ferrian said quietly, stepping up beside him. ¡°I see it too.¡± The boy waved a hand at the scene before them. ¡°There are weird blind spots everywhere,¡± he said. ¡°Like that hole I sliced in the Aegis.¡±


    Hawk frowned. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    Ferrian looked worried. He shook his head. ¡°I don''t know,¡± he replied. ¡°Like¡­ something ripped up reality here¡­¡±


    Hawk looked around, his gaze travelling over the ''blind spots'', feeling unsettled and slightly queasy as he remembered his last encounter with one. He didn''t know what could rip up reality ¨C other than Ferrian''s Sword ¨C and he didn''t want to know. But if Mekka had anything to do with it, he was nowhere to be seen.


    ¡°Where''d the Seraph go?¡± he wondered.


    ¡°Uh...¡± Ferrian answered. ¡°I think Li found it...¡±


    Hawk turned to see the Angel girl walking along a large piece of curiously curved stone. Stepping closer, he saw that it was part of an enormous statue ¨C the first two fingers of a giant hand.


    ¡°Mother Goddess,¡± he breathed, crouching and touching the stone in disbelief. ¡°You don''t think¨C¡±


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Ferrian gasped suddenly. ¡°Look out!¡±

 Chapter Ninety One

    To keep an evil quiet and safe


    What terrible power unlocked in its place?


    Hawk rolled reflexively, sweeping his sword up as he did so, and heard and felt it slide off something metallic. He was on his feet a second later, swinging again, and suddenly found himself locked in battle with a furious black thing.


    It took him a few seconds to realise that it was Mekka.


    ¡°What!¡± he gasped. ¡°Mekka!¡±


    The Angel was fast. So fast that Hawk was forced to defend himself desperately, and could barely parry the blows. Mekka struck at him high and swift, like a snake, aiming for his unprotected head and neck.


    He was clearly intent on killing Hawk.


    There was no time to work out what was going on, or what the hell had gotten into his friend. It took all of his concentration and skill to fend Mekka off, and he already knew with rapid certainty that it wasn''t going to go well.


    Either Mekka was going to kill him, or he would be forced to slay the Angel.


    He felt himself starting to panic, and gritted his teeth, trying to stay focused. He was an experienced soldier, not a trainee.


    But Mekka was a level above.


    And if he''d really slain a Seraph¡­


    Hawk leapt a sudden slash aimed at his legs, and this left a rare opening. Hawk could have aimed a blow at Mekka''s head, but he held back.


    I can''t kill Mekka!


    Mekka''s knife ¨C the trigonic dagger ¨C glanced off Hawk''s breastplate. Hawk stumbled. He was losing control¡­


    He parried another blow awkwardly, with a cry of despair, but immediately found the dagger slashing at his face again. Unable to bring his sword around in time, he lifted his left arm, trying to protect his face with his gauntlet.


    But it was his old gauntlet, made of simple steel, and was no match for the black dagger.


    Pain ripped through his arm.


    And suddenly, he found himself on his back. He didn''t know how; perhaps Mekka had tripped him. And the Angel was on top of him faster than Hawk could think, he had only a second to glimpse Mekka''s terrible, wild expression before the black dagger plunged down¨C


    A flash of white light filled the world.


    Hawk was sure he was dead.


    He certainly wasn''t breathing.


    A few seconds later, the light faded and was replaced by a shrieking roar, and Hawk felt a sudden, scathing wind tear across his face, like claws of ice.


    Gasping for breath, he struggled to peer through eyelids suddenly clogged with frost, but saw only darkness and whirling white snow. There was a silvery, shimmering trail in the air in front of him. With an effort, he turned his head to follow it, and saw Ferrian standing at the end, eyes ablaze with light, his Sword of Frost held out in front of him, the Winter raging around him.


    A long moment later, the wind finally died away to nothing. A few remaining snowflakes drifted down to settle on Hawk''s face, softly. Above him, the darkness fell away to reveal a dusky sky, dotted with stars blinking sleepily awake.


    Ferrian was suddenly at his side, his eyes returned to normal. Or at least, Hawk thought numbly, to their usual silver hue.


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Ferrian cried, his face, dead though it was, full of concern. ¡°Are you okay?¡±


    Hawk blinked. His eyelashes were crusted with frost. He felt sure that the rest of him was, too.


    Ferrian helped him to sit up.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Hawk managed. ¡°F-fine.¡± He wasn''t entirely sure that he was, but it seemed the best thing to say. ¡°M-Mekka...¡±


    Ferrian looked away, then sprang to his feet and ran off into the debris, several yards away.


    Hawk pushed himself to his feet, ice crackling off him, and staggered after. His feet slipped, and he almost went down again; the ground was slick. Looking around in a daze, he saw that much of the plaza was now covered in snow: a pale and ghostly blanket in the fading light.


    He dropped to his knees beside Ferrian.


    The boy was bashing and hacking furiously at a large, shapeless chunk of ice in front of him, with his Sword. Hawk watched in confusion for a moment before horror seized him.


    Mekka was encased within.


    Hurriedly, Hawk lifted his own sword ¨C which was still, somehow, in his hand ¨C and helped Ferrian crack the ice. As quickly and carefully as they could, they scooped it away from the Angel''s face and chest.


    Ferrian slumped back on his knees, his Sword dropping limply by his side. ¡°Oh Gods,¡± he whispered, staring at Mekka''s lifeless form. ¡°I¡­ I''ve killed him¡­¡±


    Hawk sat heavily beside him, still clutching a handful of ice. He let it trickle out of his fingers to the ground, along with his own sword. Mekka''s skin was bone-pale, his lips blue. His good eye was closed, the other hidden, facing the ground. His clothing and hair and feathers were stiff with ice.


    Hawk put his head in his hands, feeling his heart plummet.


    ¡°It¡­ it''s my fault,¡± Ferrian said from beside him. ¡°I¡­ I shouldn''t have given him the dagger¡­¡±


    Hawk was grief-stricken. He didn''t know what to say, so he just shook his head.


    ¡°I knew,¡± Ferrian''s voice broke. ¡°I knew that something bad was going to hap¨C¡±


    Mekka jerked suddenly, startling the life out of them ¨C well, out of Hawk ¨C and they both lunged for their swords¡­


    Half-coughing, half-retching, the Angel began to shiver violently.


    ¡°Mekka!¡± Hawk gasped.


    Stunned, they abandoned their weapons and scrambled to help him up, and break the rest of the ice off him.


    ¡°Gods!¡± Hawk exclaimed, and gave a laugh that came out as half-sob. ¡°You''re alive!¡±


    Mekka shook so badly that his teeth rattled. ¡°H-Hawk?¡± he whispered, through frosted lips.


    Hawk shook him ¨C in anger, but mostly relief. ¡°You¡­ you tried to kill me, man!¡±


    Mekka''s lips trembled. His eye blinked rapidly. Then he lifted his hands and put them to his face. ¡°I¡­ k-killed¡­ I k-killed...¡±


    Hawk''s expression softened, and he shook his head. ¡°You didn''t know what you were doing,¡± he said. ¡°It was that damned dagger! It got to you!¡±


    Mekka shook his head jerkily.


    Hawk sat down beside him, squeezing his shoulder. Ferrian hurried back to them with a couple of gold-threaded blankets that he had salvaged intact from one of the ruined market stalls, and draped them around Mekka as best he could. Then he moved away again, crouching now and then as though searching for something on the snowy ground.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Looking for the dagger!¡± Ferrian called back.


    Li came up to them, and knelt in front of Mekka. Amazingly, she wasn''t covered in frost at all; she must have found a place to hide. She seemed unfazed by what had happened.


    ¡°Look, Mekka!¡± she said, holding up a black feather. ¡°I lost your feather, but I found it again!¡±


    Hawk leaned forward, admiring the feather. ¡°Wow, Li! Mekka gave you a feather? You must be a special lady!¡±


    Li smiled.


    ¡°Can I see it?¡±


    Li hesitated, but gave it to Hawk.


    Hawk whistled, turning it around in his fingers, then leaned forward again and stuck it in her pigtail. ¡°Awesome!¡± he said. ¡°Now you''re a princess!¡±


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    Li beamed at him, then turned to Mekka and blinked. ¡°Why are you crying?¡±


    Looking at Mekka, Hawk saw tears trickling down his face, a barely discernible glimmer in the half-light.


    Hawk put his hand on Li''s shoulder, and leaned in as though imparting a great secret. ¡°I think he just realised that not everything in Arkana is bad.¡±


    Mekka let out a broken sob. Then he reached out and pulled the Angel girl into a tight embrace.


    Hawk tensed, but the black-winged Angel merely sobbed into her shoulder.


    Hawk allowed himself to slump with relief and exhaustion. We''re all here, and in one piece, he thought, lifting his head to stare at the deepening blue of the sky. We''re all okay.


    For now.


    Ferrian stood staring down at the two blades in his hands.


    In his left, he held the Sword of Frost; long and silver, bright and reassuring. He was still amazed that he had managed to direct the Winter so effectively¡­ and without killing or seriously injuring anyone. He could hardly believe that Mekka had survived.


    Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the other blade.


    Just touching it was loathsome. Where it came into contact with his fingers and palm, even through the bandages, he felt a burning, prickling sensation that was almost painful.


    He gazed at the trigonic dagger bitterly, wishing he was strong enough to crush it to pieces in his fist. But he wasn''t. It couldn''t be destroyed, and disposing of it hadn''t worked. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own; a sense of self-preservation. It was insidious.


    The only remaining option was to put it somewhere safe.


    He looked again at the Sword of Frost.


    ¡°Hey, Ferrian!¡±


    He glanced up. Hawk was frowning anxiously at him, apparently having guessed his intention. ¡°You sure that''s a good idea?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Ferrian called back. ¡°It''s a terrible idea! But I''m going to do it anyway!¡±


    Ferrian wanted nothing less than to turn his beautiful Sword of Frost into a monstrous, reality-slaying weapon, but he was left with little choice. His Sword had been fashioned specifically to hold the dagger, after all. He had no idea what the hell Arzath was thinking when he had made such a terrible thing; how much had the sorcerer hated his brother, to want to destroy him in such a horrifying way?


    But if the dagger was locked into his Sword, its power would be subdued by the silvertine, balanced out. It would no longer be able to worm its way into anyone else''s mind or body.


    And only Ferrian could use the Sword.


    He wasn''t sure he wanted to, after this.


    But it was the way it had to be.


    Without another word, he turned and began walking away from the others, his boots crunching on the snow.


    He didn''t want to be anywhere near them when he did this.


    He passed the fountain, and the ruined stone Seraph, stopping near the steps at the edge of the plaza, where he had entered with Hawk. Pausing, he looked around.


    There was no one else to be seen. The Angels had all fled, perhaps into the forest. Somewhere not too far away, crashing and rumbling sounds could be heard as the Dragon continued to devastate the city. Most of the spot fires in the vicinity had been extinguished by the Winter, leaving the plaza a cool, dark space surrounded by flame-glowing towers.


    At least I''m already dead, he thought. Killing himself wasn''t something he needed to worry about. Except that he had come to realise that there were worse things than death.


    And he was possibly about to experience one of them.


    Forcing back his growing fear, Ferrian positioned the trigonic dagger over its matching recess in the hilt of his Sword.


    Then he pushed it in.


    As last time, he felt a resistance that became stronger the harder he pushed. An eerie, keening whistle emanated from the opposing blades, and they shivered in his grasp.


    But this time, Ferrian didn''t hold back. Determined, he shoved at the dagger with all his strength.


    It snapped into place with dramatic suddenness.


    He could have been satisfied with that. The dagger was in place, snug and safe inside the hilt. But he wasn''t.


    Instead, he kept his hand pressed on the dagger, curling the fingers of both hands tightly around the handle of the Sword.


    He needed to know exactly what the magic did, what it was capable of. He couldn''t go swinging this Sword around, tearing holes in existence, without knowing what he was doing, or how to control it.


    Turning the Sword point-downward, he rammed it into the white stone at his feet.


    Now was a good enough time to find out.


    He summoned the Winter.


    It came in a powerful rush, flooding through his limbs in freezing streams. His hair and clothing whipped as a gale rose up around him. He controlled it, pulling it tightly around him like a cocoon, until it turned into a fierce whirlwind of ice.


    Then he sent it into the blade.


    Once again, he jerked as though something had slammed into his gut, and an accompanying wave of nausea passed through him, thickening into a terrible sense of dread. The Sword quivered in his grip with increasing violence.


    Gritting his teeth, Ferrian clung to it, forcing himself to concentrate, to hold control, to endure what was to come.


    A darkness seemed to fill his head, something massive that slowly expanded until he felt his skull might break trying to contain it. There was a metallic shriek, becoming louder and louder, so unbearably loud that it pierced his teeth¡­ The Sword''s trembling vibrated through his whole body; he could feel his bones rattling¡­


    It was all he could do not to release the Sword¡­ he felt the weight of the entire universe crushing him¡­ smashing him into pieces of dust floating in infinity¡­


    The horror almost overwhelmed him.


    And then¡­ darkness.


    It was a different kind of darkness; empty, quiet, painless, soundless.


    Peaceful.


    Ferrian looked around carefully, wondering if he was inside his own mind. But normally, his mind was white.


    This was something else.


    No matter where he turned his gaze, there was nothing to be seen, heard, or felt. Nothing but impenetrable blackness.


    Am I inside the Sword?


    He had no idea, but it seemed as good an explanation as any.


    And suddenly, as though reacting to the thought, something changed. He blinked, and found himself in a room full of mirrors.


    Surrounding him were thousands and thousands of facets, as though he stood in the middle of an extraordinarily large gemstone. Each one of them reflected Ferrian.


    Gazing in wonder, he turned around in a circle, and thousands of Ferrians turned with him. But after a moment, he noticed something odd.


    Not all of the reflections were identical.


    Eyes widening, he looked closer.


    Most of them looked as he would expect them to: like a silver-eyed corpse. But some of them¡­ some of them were not dead!


    He had almost forgotten what he looked like when alive, but there he was; his living selves staring back at him with equal astonishment. Some of them wore different clothing, or had wounds or scars or other superficial differences, but they were all undeniably him.


    Behind all of the reflections was a familiar scene; he recognised the curved steps and white buildings of the plaza, ghostly pale in the evening dusk. But things were different there, too; in some scenes, the market was in ruins: in others, it was intact. In some, the Seraph loomed behind him, very much alive. In others, the courtyard was entirely empty.


    And his companions?


    Ferrian peered closely.


    Yes! There they were! Hawk and Mekka and Li, right where he had left them. Except¡­ some reflections were missing one or the other or all of them. And¡­


    Gasping, Ferrian stumbled backwards.


    In some of them, Hawk was dead.


    In some of them, Mekka lay in a gleaming pool of blood. Or frozen stiff among the debris, having never recovered from the Winter.


    In some of them, Li¨C


    Ferrian looked away abruptly, squeezing his eyes closed, not wanting to see.


    Realities, he thought in shock. Alternate fates. So many of them. It was as though anything were possible, as though everything existed at once. He was dead, but he was alive at the same time, and so were all his friends, everyone he knew¡­


    The thought trailed off. Opening his eyes, he began hurriedly searching the reflections, running this way and that. The room spun around him as he went.


    Finally, Ferrian found what he was looking for, in a facet below his feet. He dropped to his knees on top of it, staring intently past his own image, into the background.


    Mekka sat there, hunched over with Li. And beside them¡­


    Beside them was not Hawk. There sat a young winged man only a few years older than Ferrian, his wings white as the snow around him, patterned with copper markings, so much like his little sister.


    Aari.


    In this reality, Aari was alive! He hadn''t been murdered.


    Ferrian reached out and gently touched the image. Aari and Mekka and Li, sitting together.


    I can make this happen, he thought suddenly. I can bring him back. I can bring ANYONE back! Even myself!


    And then he realised the true power of the Sword he had created: to change reality, to shape the fabric of existence to his own will.


    He could choose any of these realities, and make it be. They were all as real as each other. He need only determine which one he wanted to live in¡­


    For a moment, incredible hope surged within him, but then it faded as a dark shadow of doubt swallowed it up. Where had Hawk gone, in this scene?


    Was he somewhere else? Had Ferrian never met him? Was he dead? Had he¡­ never existed??


    Pushing himself to his feet, Ferrian staggered away. He could change anything he wanted, but what would the consequences be? If he brought Aari back, would someone else die in his place? Was Cimmeran still alive in that reality? Would he murder someone else, instead?


    Ferrian shook his head in despair. He could not make a decision like that! No one could!


    He spun, looking desperately for a way out, then realised with growing horror that he didn''t know where he had come from.


    There were hundreds ¨C perhaps thousands ¨C of reflections that looked similar to his own world. How was he to know which one it was? What if he went back into the wrong one??


    The facets reflected his panic back at him, amplifying it. Backing away, he turned and started running in a random direction. The facets spun around him. He couldn''t tell if he was running anywhere, but he had to get out of there¡­


    ¡°Help!¡± he screamed. ¡°DRAGON! Help me!!¡±


    There was no answer.


    ¡°Dragon!¡±


    The White Dragon did not respond.


    Ferrian ran in desperation, trying to think what to do. Should he try using his magic? What if he accidentally fell into one of these realities¡­ a terrible one? What if he HAD to choose, if that was the only way to get back out? What if he could never find his original world again??


    Devastating thoughts ran through his head, and then his footsteps began to slow.


    Something was changing around him.


    One by one, the facets were going dark. The further he went, the more of them showed no reflections, but were simply black.


    He stopped dead as an awful thought occurred to him. The facets were still there, they were just voids, showing nothing at all.


    Perhaps these were worlds in which Ferrian himself did not exist!


    Struck with profound horror, Ferrian backed away from the inky patches. Turning, he careened off the walls, terrified of plummeting any moment into a life that was not his own, or worse, extinguishing his own existence¡­


    ¡°Help!¡± he sobbed. ¡°I don''t know how to get out of here! Dragon! Please!¡±


    He fell to his knees, putting his face in his hands. Around him, a thousand versions of him did the same. Why did he put the damned dagger in the Sword? He knew it was a stupid idea, but THIS?? Now he was trapped inside his own Sword!


    Arzath was right! I shouldn''t mess with things of which I know nothing! It was never my Sword to begin with! I''m not a sorcerer ¨C I''m just a dumb kid! I only wanted to stop the Winter from happening¡­


    He sobbed, though he had no tears.


    And then a small white light sparked deep in his mind. It grew, and grew, until it encompassed everything, and burned all of his thoughts, and his grief, and existence away...


    Ferrian!


    He wasn''t sure if he had really heard his name being called, or merely imagined it, until he felt someone trying to shake him awake.


    ¡°Ferrian! Get up!¡±


    It was Hawk''s voice, and it sounded urgent.


    Ferrian blinked his eyes open, and found that he was lying face down in the snow. The mirrored room with its terrifying infinite realities was gone. It felt strangely distant, like a dream¡­


    ¡°Kid, you gotta get up NOW!¡± Hawk insisted.


    Ferrian started to push himself up, but the Freeroamer grabbed his arm and yanked him none too gently to his feet.


    Hawk needed no words to explain, however. He simply pointed.


    Ferrian looked¡­ and froze.


    The Dragon had landed in the central plaza and was slinking along the edge of it, huge fiery eyes pinned directly on him.

 Chapter Ninety Two

    The Dragon finds unliving prey


    But Winter''s soul keeps fire at bay.


    Ferrian pulled his Sword out of the stone and ran after Hawk. The Dragon circled languorously towards them, surprisingly quiet for a creature so huge. The plaza was large, but seemed suddenly much smaller in the presence of the Dragon.


    Ferrian dropped into a crouch before Mekka.


    ¡°Mekka!¡± he said. ¡°You need to take Li to safety!¡±


    The Angel sat with his back to the approaching Dragon, shivering under his blankets. His patch was back in place, hiding his disfigured eye, but his good eye was distant and unfocused, staring at the icy ground in front of him. He seemed oblivious to everything that was going on.


    ¡°Forget it, Ferrian!¡± Hawk said, shaking his head. ¡°I already tried!¡±


    Li huddled close to Mekka, under his black wing, looking frightened.


    The Dragon loomed close.


    Hurrying to his feet, Ferrian took up a position beside Hawk, protectively in front of the two Angels.


    The Dragon crouched in front of them. Its tail continued to slither, like a snake, over the steps surrounding the plaza, brushing the side of the council building with a soft hiss of scales on the stone. Its eyes glowed as brightly as the fires it had ignited around the city, like enormous lanterns in the gathering night.


    It smelled overwhelmingly of charred flesh and sulphur, and radiated heat like a slow-burning stove.


    Hawk leaned a little towards Ferrian without taking his eyes off the Dragon. ¡°You learn anything else useful, while you were messing about with that Sword?¡± he muttered.


    Ferrian shook his head bleakly. ¡°Nothing good,¡± he replied.


    Despair rapidly etched a huge, hollow space inside him. Only now was he beginning to understand the full, horrifying consequences of setting the trigonic dagger into his Sword. Doing so had effectively destroyed his Sword of Frost; he could no longer direct the Winter through it. If he tried to pour magic into the blade now, he would either slice open reality or end up trapped inside the Sword again.


    He had created a weapon that was so powerful that he dared not use it.


    Lifting his head, he made himself stare up at the Dragon. He had never seen one of the creatures before, except in paintings ¨C and his own Dragon, of course. But the White Dragon was different; she was beautiful, almost delicate, like something created by an artist.


    This Dragon was lean and angry and hungry and old. Its horns were chipped, its scales dull and flaky, in patches of red and brown and gold. Its great wings were tattered at the edges. Its bones showed through its skin. Here and there, Ferrian noticed raw, gleaming slashes and puncture marks. Blood slicked its loose hide in long streaks.


    Some of the guards had had a go at it, then, and managed to damage it with their silvertine weapons. But the fact that none of the guards were here now was worrying.


    I have to try and get it away from the others¡­


    He could still summon the Winter, of course, but without a Sword to channel it through, his control was much weaker. It would simply rage through the plaza, sweeping up everything, mercilessly, in its path. He didn''t think Mekka would survive being frozen solid again, and poor Li and Hawk¡­


    Hawk looked like he was about to charge the thing. Ferrian saw him flick a quick glance in his direction.


    Fighting back his terror, Ferrian stepped forward, away from Hawk. ¡°I know you came for me!¡± he told the Dragon boldly. ¡°Because of my magic!¡±


    ¡°Ferrian!¡± Hawk hissed.


    Ferrian ignored him, edging slowly and carefully away from his friends, trying to hold the Dragon''s attention.


    It wasn''t hard.


    ¡°You want revenge!¡± he continued. ¡°You''re¡­ you''re angry! But you don''t have to destroy the whole of Fleetfleer to get to me!¡±


    He heard Hawk curse.


    The Dragon flexed its mighty wings with a thump of leather. They spanned the width of the plaza. Its jaws gaped wide.


    Ferrian and Hawk braced themselves¡­


    But the Dragon only yawned. It was a strange sound, deep and lazy, trailing off into a contented rumble. It looked back at Ferrian, its eyes narrowing. ¡°You will make,¡± it said, ¡°an interesting meal.¡±


    Hawk almost quivered with anticipation, his muscles tense, heart racing. He knew what Ferrian was up to, and this annoyed him, because it was what he had been planning to do!


    Dammit! Hawk thought, gritting his teeth. It will swallow him in one bite!


    The Dragon''s muscles shifted beneath its skin, bunching as it prepared to lunge. Its great neck coiled backwards, its head lowered.


    Hawk tightened both hands on his sword. His left hand was covered in blood; he had removed the ruined gauntlet and bound his forearm, but it felt a little strange where Mekka had slashed it ¨C not particularly painful, but it seemed to have gone numb. Vaguely, he hoped it wouldn''t hamper his ability to fight. If he was quick enough, perhaps he could strike at the Dragon''s neck¡­ it might be enough of a distraction¡­


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Ferrian cried suddenly. ¡°Run! Get the others away from here!¡±


    Hawk hesitated, feeling torn, blood pounding in his ears. In a second, there would be no decision to make¡­


    But he knew, in that instant, that Ferrian was right. The boy was already dead, but the rest of them weren''t. Li was just a little kid, and Mekka was mentally broken, seemingly unable to provide any assistance¡­


    ¡°Dammit,¡± he swore again, under his breath. His gut lurched with dismay, but he started to turn¡­


    And then something strange happened.


    Ferrian went limp. His hands lowered, the point of his Sword clinking on the white flagstones. His head slumped forward onto his chest, as though he had suddenly fallen asleep, though he remained standing.


    A silvery-white mist began to leak from him, streaming off his pale skin and through his clothing, gathering into a patch of fog behind him that shimmered like wintry moonlight.


    Both Hawk and the Dragon froze in uncertainty, then in awe, as the patch of mist coalesced and traced a huge outline in the air. At first, Hawk thought it was a replica of the Dragon, but as the details filled out, saw that it was something much more. It was a spectral creature of ice and pearls, more beautiful than anything Hawk had ever seen before.


    It was like something that only existed in fairy tales.


    He was so mesmerised that he almost forgot where he was, but risked a quick glance at the real Dragon beside him.


    Hawk had never seen a Dragon look astonished before: had never thought they were capable of such an expression. But its eyes had gone huge, the pupils narrowed to thin slits, its irises flickering with fiery light as though a fire raged within.


    The Dragon had gone completely still, like a living statue, poised to lunge at Ferrian.


    The White Dragon faced it, taking up the other half of the plaza, glowing with a ghostly light, its scales scintillating with rainbow colours, its feather-tipped wings drifting serenely on an unfelt breeze, accompanied by delicate butterfly-like appendages.


    Its great eyes, Hawk was amazed to see, were the same colour as Ferrian''s.


    No.


    The voice was commanding and yet sad at the same time. It reminded Hawk, with an unpleasant shiver, of the Presence in the Old Quarter in Sunsee. But instead of multiple voices, this one was comprised of only two: one feminine and musical, the other, Ferrian''s. It appeared to be speaking through him.


    This Human child is my vessel, it said. If you destroy him, you will destroy me.


    The Dragon did not move, its gaze locked on the apparition before it.


    You seek vengeance, but there is none to be found. Those who sought to manipulate the world with magic no longer exist. Their power and ambition has ruined them. Your retribution has come too late. You will not be satisfied.


    The Dragon''s eyes slowly narrowed. It bared its impressive teeth. Smoke wafted from its nostrils into the cool night air.


    ¡°You would deny us blood?¡± it answered, its voice deep and rumbling and tinged with anger. ¡°After so long?¡±


    No, the White Dragon replied. You must eat. Go and reclaim your dwelling places; there are none left to oppose you. Find sustenance, but do not destroy. Do not ravage the world in your rage, lest you slaughter every living thing in it and do not find peace.


    The Dragon said nothing, but the rumbling sound continued.


    ¡°How did you come to be in such a vessel, sister?¡± it asked a few tense moments later.


    The White Dragon''s head lowered in despondency or guilt. I hid myself away, it responded. I wished a piece of myself to remain in the world. My body has long since perished. This is all that now exists. But there is a measure of hope that I may yet be restored. It is a delicate hope, one that may easily be crushed beneath your rampage and your brothers'' bloodlust. I beg you take care.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The Dragon continued to regard the White Dragon in silence. Slowly, it relaxed its stance, and moved its head forward to peer at Ferrian.


    Smoke huffed from its nostrils.


    Hawk felt as though he was rooted in place. His throat had gone dry. The Dragon''s head was much too close to Ferrian. If it decided to take a bite, there was nothing that Hawk could do about it.


    An interminably long moment later, the Dragon drew back. It considered the ghostly White Dragon again. Then it swung away, its great head passing over Hawk with a rush of hot, stinking air.


    ¡°I will heed your words,¡± it said, its voice resonant and deep, like a burning bell in the night.


    Then it spread its wings and took off, into the moonlit, empty space beyond the edge of the city, over the floating platforms where Hawk had been kept prisoner, and diminished into the cloudy distance.


    Whiteness dimmed back into cool, dark reality as Ferrian''s awareness returned. He lifted his head, blinking.


    The Dragon was gone.


    He looked around himself, stunned, as Hawk came running up to him.


    Did I use the Winter? he thought in confusion. I don''t remember!


    ¡°The Dragon,¡± he said aloud. ¡°What happened?¡±


    Hawk''s expression was pale and surprised. ¡°You weren''t aware of any of that?¡±


    ¡°Any of what?¡±


    Hawk took a deep breath and let it out again. He scratched his head. ¡°Uh. A white Dragon appeared right behind you,¡± he explained. ¡°Like¡­ a ghost. And it told this beastie here,¡± he nodded in the direction the Dragon had gone, ¡°to shove off.¡±


    Ferrian stared at him incredulously. ¡°And it did?¡±


    Hawk raised his eyebrows, rubbed his neck and shrugged. ¡°Yeah!¡±


    Ferrian blinked again. Just seconds ago, he was certain that he was either going to be eaten or forced to do something dramatic, and now the plaza was silent and empty, still covered in a thin blanket of frost¨C


    ¡°Wait. Where''s Mekka?¡±


    Hawk looked around.


    Li sat where they had left her, kneeling on the cold stones, hugging herself, eyes wide and glittering in the moonlight.


    There was no sign of the black-winged Angel.


    They hurried over to Li. The gold-embroidered blankets lay discarded on the ground beside her.


    ¡°Li,¡± Hawk said. ¡°Did you see where Mekka went?¡±


    The little Angel shook her head.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± Ferrian pressed. ¡°He was right here!¡±


    Li shook her head again, hugging herself more tightly.


    Ferrian stood up, anxiously scanning the plaza. Shadows abounded. Mekka could be anywhere.


    ¡°He just left without saying anything?!¡± Ferrian said in frustration.


    Hawk sighed. ¡°This is Mekka we''re talking about...¡±


    Ferrian whirled on him. ¡°Hawk, he''s ill! That dagger messed up his mind pretty badly!¡±


    Hawk stared grimly down at his injured arm. ¡°You don''t need to tell me,¡± he replied quietly.


    Ferrian tried not to think of the consequences of that wound. It won''t come to that, he told himself firmly. I''ll find a way to help him.


    But right now, Mekka needed help.


    He shook his head. ¡°He shouldn''t be alone right now!¡±


    ¡°Gods know he shouldn''t,¡± Hawk agreed, sighing again and rising slowly to his feet. ¡°But if Mekka doesn''t want to be found, you won''t find him.¡±


    ¡°I can try!¡±


    Hawk was silent, staring down at his sword.


    Ferrian stared at him. ¡°Do you know something?¡±


    Hawk did not reply or look up.


    ¡°Hawk?¡±


    Finally, the Freeroamer raised his head and gave Ferrian a despondent look. ¡°Something Li said,¡± he answered quietly, shaking his head.


    Ferrian glanced down at Li, then back at Hawk. ¡°What did she say?¡±


    Hawk''s gaze shifted from Ferrian as he stared off across the plaza. His eyes shimmered a little. ¡°She said that Angels only go to Caer Sync if they have reason to,¡± he replied. ¡°Or if¡­ they have done something wrong.¡±


    Ferrian turned to see the straight white line of the Tower rising into the stars, above the burning buildings of Fleetfleer. His hand tightened on his Sword so hard he thought he might rip the dead flesh open.


    ¡°No,¡± he whispered. ¡°I have to stop him!¡±


    ¡°Ferrian...¡±


    He turned angrily to Hawk. ¡°You want to let him kill himself? Let him throw himself into the Pit?!¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± Hawk replied, just as angry. ¡°But if Mekka can''t live with the consequences of what he''s done, who are we to force him to?¡±


    ¡°He can''t make that decision!¡±


    ¡°He''s the only one who can!¡±


    They glared at each other.


    ¡°The Tower is part of the Angel''s culture,¡± Hawk went on. ¡°If he¡¯s gone there to die¡­ if that means something to him...¡± he swallowed, looking away.


    Ferrian continued glaring at Hawk, then turned away as well, devastated. He felt empty and helpless and guilt-stricken and angry. Not angry at Mekka, or at Hawk, but with himself. He had made a fatally wrong decision, giving the dagger to Mekka. He hadn''t realised how terribly it would affect the Angel. He had never wanted to doom him. And now¡­


    He stared bitterly at the Tower, merciless and cold as a sword in the distance.


    Now, it was too late. Mekka had a head start.


    He felt Hawk''s hand on his shoulder. ¡°We don''t know for sure that''s where he''s gone,¡± he said softly. ¡°Perhaps he just needs some time to figure himself out.¡±


    Ferrian said nothing.


    Hawk gave his shoulder a squeeze. ¡°He''ll come back,¡± he said determinedly. ¡°He always comes back.¡±


    They fell silent, staring at Caer Sync, at the white buildings, at the shadows, at the sky, hoping for a glimpse of black wings against the deep blue firmament.


    But they weren''t there.


    Ferrian wanted to believe Hawk.


    He closed his eyes. But this time, he didn''t.


    There was an inn bordering the plaza, on the opposite side to the council house. It was fancy and expensive-looking, with gold-gilded fittings and plush furniture. The tables, chairs and bar in the common room were made of dark, polished forest wood, and ornamental plants crowded every corner.


    To their surprise, they discovered the innkeeper cowering in the kitchen. He was very young for an innkeeper ¨C younger than Hawk ¨C but he fled out the back door at the sight of them.


    ¡°Huh,¡± Hawk commented, putting his hands on his hips. ¡°Typical. A Dragon ravages the city and a Seraph is slain in front of his door, and he runs at the sight of a couple of Humans.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Ferrian pointed out, ¡°one of us is dead.¡±


    Hawk glanced at him. ¡°You have a point...¡±


    Rummaging around, Hawk collected a needle, thread, alcohol and water, and sat down at the kitchen table, taking care of his arm. He showed no sign of pain as he worked, but the skin around the wound had turned an ugly dark colour, like a bruise.


    Neither of them commented on it.


    Afterwards, Hawk and Li helped themselves to food, then made beds for themselves on the soft, upholstered benches in the front room. There were bedrooms on the upper stories, but no stairs, just a circular opening in the ceiling. Li didn''t want to venture up there on her own, so she curled up on a bench near Hawk.


    They were asleep within minutes.


    Ferrian sat alone, near the window, watching the fires burn themselves out.


    The Dragon did not return, and neither did the black-winged Angel.


    Dawn melted out of the darkness into softer shades of grey, in Ferrian''s view, as the residents of Fleetfleer returned. They circled in the sky, looking lost, or picked aimlessly in the wreckage of the market stalls. Some called out for family members or friends or loved ones.


    It was some time before Ferrian realised that someone was calling Li''s name.


    Getting to his feet, he cracked open the door and looked out.


    A young couple wandered around in the middle of the plaza, searching desperately for their daughter.


    Ferrian went and gently shook Li and Hawk awake.


    ¡°Li,¡± he said, crouching in front of the sleepy Angel. ¡°Your parents are out there, looking for you.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± the girl mumbled.


    Ferrian lifted her off the bench and led her to the door. She hesitated on the threshold, staring anxiously up at him.


    ¡°You won''t get into trouble,¡± Hawk assured her. ¡°In the circumstances. Your parents will just be glad that you''re safe.¡±


    Li still looked uncertain. Hawk crouched beside her.


    ¡°Hey, pigeon,¡± he told her. ¡°When you go back to your family, you probably won''t see us for awhile. But we''ll always be your friends, okay? Even if your folks try to tell you that we''re not.¡±


    Li stared up at him. ¡°Promise?¡±


    ¡°Promise.¡±


    He took her hand, then stood up. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Ferrian, nodded, then led Li out into the plaza. The first rays of sunshine spilled over the towers at their backs. Ferrian watched them walk through the long shadow of the inn, approaching the distraught Angel couple.


    They were so relieved at finding Li alive and well that they did not immediately realise that Hawk was Human. Li''s father was the first to notice. Glancing up as though to thank Hawk, he leapt suddenly to his feet and backwards in shock.


    Hawk appeared to be explaining something to them. He shook his head as he did so, his shoulders slumped, and the Angels stared at him in horror.


    The father''s face went from pale to dark with fury as he started yelling at Hawk.


    Ferrian could hear him from where he stood inside the inn. He was calling Hawk a filthy, lying Human. His voice rang out across the plaza.


    Then, all of a sudden, he put his face in his hands and started sobbing.


    Hawk backed away as the three of them huddled together on the ground, hugging each other and weeping.


    He closed the door quietly behind him as he rejoined Ferrian in the inn. His face was pale and sad. ¡°I told them about Aari,¡± he explained, glancing at them through the window. ¡°They deserved to know.¡±


    Ferrian just nodded wordlessly.


    They left through the back door.


    They reached the forest floor without any mishaps. Ferrian had learned to manifest his wings at will, and lifted Hawk down through the clouds and canopy, into the cool, dark embrace of the huge trees. They fashioned some torches; Hawk had brought matches, food and other supplies he had scavenged from the inn in a small sack. He shoved his sword into a makeshift belt; he still wore the beautiful golden breastplate that he had stolen from the guard.


    They quickly found the path they had slashed on their way to the library, and set out following it back through the forest, keeping an eye on the rambling undergrowth as they did so. Massive chunks of white masonry littered the forest around them, along with household belongings, broken branches and all manner of debris, though the fire seemed to have been contained to Fleetfleer.


    Their eyes passed over it all grimly, and they travelled onwards in silence.


    Two days later, Ferrian and Hawk arrived at the border of Arkana. The massive, gilded gates stood open as they had left them; the white watchtowers remained deserted. The Aegis was gone; nothing blocked their passage now, but the rift in reality that Ferrian had opened was still there. He carefully avoided looking in that direction: it made him feel strange and evoked unpleasant memories of his almost-imprisonment within his Sword.


    Instead, he crunched across the field of white snow and sat down with his back against one of the gates as Hawk went in search of the horses. The Winter followed along with him again, keeping him cold, safe; his protector. He realised that he had missed it, while he was inside the library. It was a part of himself, and he wasn''t sure what he would do without it. His body would disintegrate, probably.


    The thought of getting rid of the Winter now seemed foolish, and pointless. All he needed was to control it, and that was enough.


    He stared gloomily down at his sheathed Sword, resting in his lap, at the awful black shape nestled in the hilt, wondering what he was going to do with that. Perhaps he could find a way to prise it out again¡­


    A black shadow leapt out of the trees, off to his right. Ferrian was on his feet at once, Sword shinging out of its sheath¡­


    Then he sagged in relief. It was only Ardance.


    The horse was skittish and irritable, but otherwise seemed in good condition. A moment later, another shape, white as the snow, trotted out of the forest behind her.


    Serentyne.


    Ferrian put his Sword away. He was glad that the horses hadn''t roamed off too far.


    Hawk came after them. They took a few minutes to brush the horses down and check them for injuries. Then they secured their meagre belongings to the saddles, mounted, and rode through the gates, starting up the mountain path.


    The sky was grey around them, their path covered in snow. Nothing else moved amid the stony cliffs, not even a crow.


    An hour passed, and they arrived at the lookout on the ridge, from where they had first beheld the land of the Angels. The peninsula spread out below them, dark and mysterious. Only clouds now hung above it, with the Aegis gone, and the sea and far distance were lost to mournful haze. Fleetfleer was a dim, pale gleam in the north, like a ghost, and Caer Sync was thankfully invisible.


    Snowflakes drifted quietly around them as they dismounted and rested for awhile. Hawk ate a little. Ferrian stared intently at the view. The horses nibbled at the frosty grass.


    They waited a long time, making no conversation. Hawk set a fire going, for a time.


    I can bring him back, Ferrian found himself thinking. Several times, he glanced at his Sword, lying beside him on the cold rock. It was capable of anything. It could change reality to anything he wanted it to be. He could create a world in which he had never given Mekka the dagger. Had never taken it from the castle in the first place.


    But he couldn''t. Despite his crushing sadness, he couldn''t do it. Not for Aari, and not for Mekka, either. They were both gone, and they weren''t coming back. He held all the power of the Gods in his hands, and he couldn''t bring himself to use it, not even to save his friends.


    He wondered dismally if Lord Requar really had been responsible for destroying the SOMS. And if he had¡­ was it purely malicious, or had he thought he was making something right?


    Ferrian had an uneasy feeling that using magic for good was the most dangerous temptation of all¡­


    Hawk allowed the fire to go out. Uncharacteristically quiet, the Freeroamer got to his feet, walked over to Ardance, and mounted.


    Ferrian stood, gathered up his Sword, and followed in silence.


    Hawk rode on ahead, not looking back, Ardance''s hooves muffled on the snow. Ferrian sat for a moment atop Serentyne, staring one last time at Arkana, at the forest, at the pale, empty sky.


    Then, finally, he turned forwards and followed Hawk.

 Chapter Ninety Three

    A river span, and barred the way


    A heavy toll: but who will pay?


    The air was cool and still in the canyon, the sun having just dipped its head behind the high peaks of the Barlakks. The stone of the bridge still radiated the day''s heat, however, and the waterfall to the north was full and musical. Merinriver Break had been swept clear of all bodies and debris, though no travellers yet attempted to cross.


    Save one exasperated, bearded man on a red horse.


    ¡°This is an emergency!¡± Grisket growled angrily.


    The Watch had, to his immense indignation, resumed their toll blockade. There were five of them, wearing pristine cobalt cloaks and steel armour so highly polished that Grisket could see his fuming expression in it. Two of them stood to either side of him with crossed halberds, barring the way. A third stood in the centre, just behind the weapons, managing to look both bored and smug at the same time.


    ¡°The toll is one gruble,¡± he drawled. ¡°Same for everyone. No exceptions.¡±


    ¡°This is ridiculous!¡± Grisket almost shouted. ¡°No Outland folk can pay such an absurd fee!¡±


    ¡°Indeed?¡± The Watchman smirked.


    Grisket felt like leaping off his horse and lopping all of their heads off. So that was what they were really about! They were trying to segregate the regions, to stop the movement of people they deemed undesirable into the Coastlands. It was only a matter of time, then, before they set up a toll at Skywater as well, at the southern end of the Barlakks, effectively sealing off the Coastlands to all but the elite.


    ¡°The Sirinese merchants have no problem with our toll,¡± the Watchman went on, loftily.


    ¡°You mean they grudgingly cough up because they have no choice and they can afford it?¡± Grisket snapped back.


    The Watchman simply smiled at him.


    ¡°This isn''t your jurisdiction!¡± Grisket insisted. ¡°You''ve no right to be here!¡±


    ¡°It is now,¡± the Watchman replied imperiously. ¡°By royal decree.¡±


    ¡°Bollocks!¡±


    ¡°You are welcome to take it up with Her Highness the Princess. Assuming you can manage to find an alternative route to Crystaltina, of course.¡±


    ¡°As Commander of the Freeroamers,¡± Grisket said, ignoring his snide remark, ¡°I have authority over the Outlands. Including this bridge!¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± the Watchman said, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. ¡°Commander of the Freeroamers, indeed? Let me see your badge.¡±


    Grisket glared at him. Dammit! He had given his badge away to Middry, as acting Commander.


    ¡°I was forced to pass it on to someone else,¡± he admitted. ¡°The township of Forthwhite had to flee, on account of a great black monster sitting on top of it! As I said: this is an emergency situation! And you are blocking a vital escape route!¡±


    ¡°That is not our problem...¡±


    ¡°There are bloody Dragons on the loose, man! And worse! Or are your heads so far stuck up your own arses that you didn''t notice?!¡±


    The Watchman glared at him, his expression turning dark. ¡°We are aware of what happened at Sunsee, and are taking measures to protect our citizens...¡±


    Grisket snorted loudly. ¡°Of course you are! And are the Watch also taking ''measures'' to stop a band of murderous, rogue soldiers in black armour? The Darorian Army has gone to hell! And your Watch Commander was running around like a scared chicken the last time I saw him! What do you suppose you''re gonna do against Dragons? Or a black Gods-know-what that''ll likely rip your souls out? Or a kid with a Winter curse who is destroying everything in his path?¡± Grisket''s eyes narrowed. ¡°You''re here because you''re damned cowards!¡±


    The Watchman''s face was flushed with fury. ¡°We are here to maintain order and control!¡± he replied through gritted teeth. ¡°We cannot allow the roads to become overwhelmed with chaos! We have enough problems already with that damned vagabond camp at the crossroads! Full of criminals and opportunists! Half of them are Outlanders posing as desperate folk, seeking assistance!¡±


    ¡°We have lost towns as well!¡± Grisket retorted. ¡°Those are genuine refugees! Where the Gods do you expect them to go?¡±


    ¡°Anywhere,¡± the Watchman replied viciously, ¡°but the King''s land!¡±


    They glared at each other.


    ¡°The toll,¡± the Watchman sneered after a moment, ¡°is one gold gruble. Either pay it, or be escorted to the other end of the bridge.¡±


    ¡°Or over it,¡± one of the other guards commented.


    Grisket gripped his reins so hard that they cut painfully into his skin. Damned elitist bastards. He half hoped a Dragon would come swooping over the peaks at that very moment and roast them all.


    The Watchmen holding the halberds regarded him with hostility. He wasn''t going to be able to reason with them, and he couldn''t take them on by force. There were five of them, well armoured, and he was crippled, not to mention was escorting a badly injured companion.


    Bitterly, Grisket turned Foxxin away, directing him over to the parapet a short distance away. There he dismounted, awkwardly, and limped painfully over to the edge of the bridge and sat down.


    He had ridden hard, and both he and his horse were exhausted. To his dismay, he realised that he had no choice but to backtrack and circle the Barlakks, adding a couple of weeks at least to his already lengthy journey. He could rejoin his folks in Skywater, and hope there was a skilled enough healer there. It was a large town, but the best healers generally went to work at the infirmary in Sunsee, or one of the bigger cities. Failing that, he could try for Crystaltina; but the Royal City, if it wasn''t decimated, was likely locked down in all the madness. He''d heard no word of the King, either, and Grisket suspected that he was dead¡­


    He shook his head, removing his hat and setting it in his lap. There was too much going on. At every turn, he encountered another disaster. He couldn''t even protect those closest to him¡­


    He cast a despairing glance at the cart. Cairan''s condition wasn''t good. He had been unconscious for a long time. There was simply no way to get adequate help for him in the circumstances.


    Grisket blinked back tears. It was Aari all over again. He had lost so many people already.


    As if to add further insult, a painfully appetising smell wafted over to him. Grisket looked up. There was a newly-built wooden guard house at the western end of the bridge. The Watch had set a cookfire up in front of it and were lounging around it, talking and laughing amongst themselves, save the two halberd-wielding guards, who retained their positions on the bridge.


    Gritting his teeth, Grisket pushed himself up with an effort and rummaged in one of his saddlebags, but found only some dry biscuits. He sat back down, heavily, and chewed on them gloomily, trying to ignore the ache in his stomach.


    He was still nibbling, staring down morosely at the crumbs on the cobblestones, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps tapping on the stone.


    He glanced up, and the hand holding his biscuit lowered.


    There were two of them, and they looked like nobles who were down on their luck. They wore fine but overly decorative, old-fashioned clothing, which was rather filthy. Grisket wondered if they''d been robbed and left to fend for themselves on the road. By their weary look, it seemed they''d been travelling for some while, yet were watchful, as though prepared to defend themselves if they were accosted again.


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    They were quite good-looking, though it was difficult to determine their ages. There was a family resemblance in the facial features, but otherwise, the two of them looked nothing alike. The one with shoulder-length black hair and a sullen expression was dressed in a black, gold-embroidered waistcoat, gold silken shirt, and a black cloak. Even his high black boots were decorated with a golden design.


    The other was slightly taller, attired in blue and white, with a sleeveless robe, open at the front, over a waistcoat and white shirt. An exceptionally beautiful sword was slung over his dirt-stained, sky-blue cloak. His hair was very long and brilliant white; loose strands at the front, falling in a braid at his back.


    Something about the men stirred a memory, but Grisket couldn''t place them.


    Grisket grunted. ¡°This''ll be interestin''¡± he muttered under his breath. If they''d been robbed, they wouldn''t have two javens to spare between them.


    On the other hand, if they were nobles, the Watch would probably fawn at their feet¡­


    The white-haired one turned his gaze on Grisket as he passed, and the Freeroamer was momentarily breathless, as though punched in the gut, with the intensity of those blue eyes. But then the man''s attention was drawn by the Watch at the head of the bridge.


    ¡°Good afternoon, gentlemen!¡± the Watch leader greeted, with significantly more politeness than he had spared for Grisket.


    The halberd-wielding guards lowered their weapons somewhat sheepishly in front of the two nobles.


    ¡°There is a toll for use of this pass,¡± the Watchman explained. ¡°The fee is one gruble each.¡±


    The white-haired man patted all of his pockets and then sighed and sagged. ¡°Curses. We haven''t any¨C¡±


    Beside him, the black-haired man snapped his fingers. Purple sparks danced over them with a crackling sound.


    All three of the Watchman took startled steps backwards, clanking in their armour.


    ¡°You will allow us through,¡± the black-haired man ordered smoothly. ¡°Now.¡±


    The lead Watchman went instantly pale. His mouth opened and closed in bewildered horror. ¡°I¡­ we¡­ you...¡± he stammered.


    The black-haired man thrust his arm out. There was a bright, purple-white flash, and the Watchman flew twenty feet backwards, landing with a puff of dirt and a loud clatter on the road.


    The other two guards blocking the way dropped their halberds on the cobblestones and fled.


    The two Watchmen by the hut stared at the scene in open-mouthed disbelief, before dropping their cups of tea, scrambling off their stools and following their comrades into the pass.


    On the road, the shaken, but alive, Watch leader pushed himself up and almost tripped over himself in his haste to get away.


    The black-haired man shook his magic away as though extinguishing a match, and smirked. ¡°That is how it is done,¡± he declared.


    Sighing, his white-haired companion rubbed his forehead. ¡°Must you be so...¡± he waved an elegant hand, ¡°tactless? There are other ways of dealing with people, you know.¡± He frowned, folding his arms. ¡°This is hardly doing our reputation any¨C¡±


    ¡°You!¡±


    Grisket was on his feet, sword drawn, glaring furiously at the black-haired sorcerer.


    The two nobles turned.


    ¡°You murdered my family!¡±


    Grisket wasn''t sure what he intended to do. He was shaking with rage. He recognised that man, now. The black clothing: the lightning. He would never forget the crackling explosion that had torn apart his family''s wagon; the flying splinters of wood, the bodies of his wife and sons being thrown onto the road, amongst all of their possessions. The scorched scent in the air; the horror. The army of Griks that came after¡­


    The sorcerer regarded him coolly. ¡°I have killed many people,¡± he replied. ¡°Am I supposed to remember¨C¡±


    ¡°Sixteen years ago!¡± Grisket spat. ¡°On the road to Ness! You trampled them into the dirt!¡± He could feel blood pounding in his head. ¡°Not to mention left the entire town obliterated behind you!¡±


    Remarkably, the sorcerer''s expression flickered. He cast a nervous glance at his companion. ¡°Oh,¡± he said carefully. ¡°That.¡±


    ¡°That?! You destroyed my life, you bastard! I loved my wife and sons, and you took their lives away without a thought! Simply because they were in your way!¡±


    The sorcerer kept eyeing his companion. Grisket looked aside at the white-haired man to see that he was staring intently at the other. Apparently, this was news to him.


    ¡°Yes, well...¡± the black-haired man replied uncomfortably. ¡°That was¡­ a mistake...¡±


    ¡°A mistake!¡± Grisket''s teeth were clenched, his knuckles white on the handle of his sword. He limped forward a couple more steps¡­


    ¡°I wouldn''t do that, if I were you,¡± a quiet voice said from beside him.


    Grisket paused.


    ¡°If you attack my brother,¡± the man went on softly, ¡°you will find yourself quickly over the parapet. And then I shall be obliged to climb down there to check if any life remains in your charred and smouldering body. And if it does, I shall be forced to heal you.¡±


    Grisket turned slowly to look at him.


    The white-haired man held him shackled in place with that impossibly blue gaze. ¡°And that is an awful lot of hassle for all of us, wouldn''t you agree?¡± He gestured at Grisket''s weapon. ¡°So I would suggest you put your sword away.¡±


    Grisket continued to stare at him.


    The white-haired man''s expression changed, turning sad. ¡°I am deeply sorry for the loss of your family,¡± he said. ¡°As sorcerers, my brother and I have both made terrible mistakes. Worse mistakes than any person has a right to. All hatred towards us, and magic in general, is justified.¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°Please believe me when I tell you that we regret them. We may be long-lived, but we are misguided and mortal like any other Human.¡±


    Grisket tried to hold on to his fury, but felt it rapidly ebbing away. He didn''t want it to, because it revealed cold, dark despair in its place.


    Opening his eyes, the white-haired man offered Grisket his hand. ¡°I am Requar,¡± he said. ¡°This is my brother¨C¡±


    ¡°Lord Arzath,¡± the other interjected sullenly.


    Grisket said nothing, and did not take the hand. Nor did he lower his sword.


    Requar sighed, and turned away. Then he seemed to notice the dray cart. Cairan''s tail was hanging out of the slats at the back of it.


    The sorcerer strode over to it.


    Grisket started after him at once and winced, forgetting his leg. ¡°Stay away from there!¡± he said in alarm. ¡°Don''t touch him!¡±


    Requar ignored him, staring down into the cart. To Grisket''s horror, he reached over his shoulder and unsheathed his magnificent sword.


    ¡°NO!¡± he cried, trying to hobble faster. ¡°Gods, no!!¡±


    A powerful force shoved him, and Grisket''s chin slammed into the cobblestones. His sword clattered away to the side of the bridge. Warm blood bloomed into his mouth. Terrified, he looked up to see the black-clad sorcerer glaring down at him.


    ¡°He is a healer, you fool!¡±


    Shaking, Grisket pushed himself to his knees. Lord Requar stood over the cart, holding his Sword against Cairan''s body. Blue light flared down the blade, leaving Grisket''s vision dazzled.


    He could do nothing but watch.


    Some time later, perhaps half an hour, the light dwindled and Requar moved back. Presently, there came a scrabbling sound from the cart, and quite suddenly, Cairan leapt out of it like a startled wild horse, dancing backwards, hooves ringing on the cobblestones. Foxxin skittered nervously at the sudden movement, eyeing the Centaur.


    Cairan looked at them all in astonishment.


    ¡°Commander!¡± he said. ¡°What is going on?¡±


    Grisket shook his head, feeling hopelessly bewildered. ¡°Damned if I know!¡± he replied.


    A pair of fine, blue and silver boots entered his vision, and the tip of a shining blade, and Requar crouched on one knee in front of him. ¡°You are injured as well,¡± the sorcerer observed. ¡°Will you allow me to help you?¡±


    Grisket regarded him, then finally sagged with resignation. ¡°Bah,¡± he muttered. ¡°Fine.¡±


    He allowed himself to be helped over to the parapet, and sat there while Requar attended to his leg. The blade was at first cold against his skin, but turned pleasantly warm as the magic flooded through it.


    Arzath stalked away in a huff, tossing the guards'' weapons irritably over the side of the bridge with his magic and muttering darkly to himself.


    Cairan kept his distance, watching, but came forward a few minutes later as Requar finished working.


    Tentatively, Grisket tested his weight on his leg, and found it to be completely healed.


    He was at a loss for words.


    Cairan reached a hand down to Requar in greeting. ¡°Alon, Lord Requar! We meet again!¡±


    Requar took his hand, smiling. ¡°So we do!¡±


    Grisket eyed them both in surprise. ¡°You two''ve met already?¡±


    ¡°We have, Commander,¡± Cairan confirmed. ¡°At the Guard House. This man apprehended Nightwalker for us.¡±


    Grisket rubbed his beard. ¡°Dogwyn mentioned something about that.¡± He looked at Requar. ¡°You''re lookin'' for Ferrian?¡±


    The sorcerer pushed himself wearily to his feet with his Sword. ¡°I am,¡± he said.


    ¡°Huh.¡± Grisket put his hands on his hips. ¡°Join the damned club.¡±


    Cairan turned to Requar, clasped the sorcerer''s forearms in his strong hands, and bowed deeply. ¡°You have saved my life, Lord Requar. This is a great debt. I owe you much.¡±


    Grisket watched him. Centaurs were passionate creatures, but Grisket shared his opinion. Feeling ashamed of his earlier behaviour, he offered the sorcerer a hand. ¡°Aye,¡± he said. ¡°You have my sincere thanks as well. And my apologies.¡±


    Cairan released Requar, who took Grisket''s hand, nodding. There was a glimmer in his eyes, as though he was touched at their reactions. ¡°Of course,¡± he said, then shook his head. ¡°But I do wish that people would stop insisting they owe me things...¡±


    ¡°We owe you our lives,¡± Grisket said seriously, and shook his own head. ¡°I had you all wrong...¡±


    Requar smiled a little. ¡°Most people do.¡± He nodded at Grisket. ¡°You are Commander of the Freeroamers, I take it?¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± Grisket replied, then frowned. ¡°Till recently, anyway...¡±


    With a deep breath, he decided to explain everything from the beginning, from the day he had rescued Ferrian from the Bladeshifter prison. Requar listened quietly, his expression gradually turning into a frown of concern. When Grisket reached the part about the black, wraith-like monster that had attacked the Dragon at Forthwhite, Requar took a step backwards so abruptly that Grisket paused mid-sentence.


    He felt his blood run cold at the look on the sorcerer''s face.


    It was one of absolute horror.


    ¡°Gods!¡± Requar gasped. ¡°A Dragon-wraith! How could such a thing even...¡± He shook his head, shocked. Then he spun away, running his hand through his hair, and gazed out over the canyon, clearly highly disturbed.


    Grisket and Cairan exchanged worried glances.


    Requar took a deep breath. ¡°There is clearly far more going on than I realised,¡± he said. When he turned back to them, his expression was haunted. ¡°Ferrian is the least of our problems!¡± Then he walked off to talk to his brother, who had discovered a pot of stew over the fire and was helping himself to it.


    The Freeroamers watched him go, feeling unnerved.


    If a sorcerer is afraid, Grisket thought grimly, we''re in trouble.

 Chapter Ninety Four

    To meet the dark or seek the cold


    Either way must truths be told.


    Cairan''s tail swished in the silence. No sound filled the valley save the endless rush of water and the gentle crackling of the cooking fire. Overnight, a thin mist had crept down out of the grey mountain rock, and lurked eerily over the river below. The sky had brightened to pale blue, but the sun had not yet climbed the high peaks.


    Grisket sat beside his Centaur friend, sipping tea and warming his hands on his mug. The air was chilly; the nights were becoming colder as summer moved on. It made Grisket feel pensive. The mist reminded him unpleasantly of the demon-wraiths; he kept expecting it to darken and shift form into horrifying, deadly figures. And he wished he knew what had become of Ferrian. If the boy''s Winter was out of control, was there anything that could be done to help him?


    Arzath seemed adamant about finding the boy. The sorcerers had spent most of the previous afternoon arguing about what to do next. Lord Requar wanted to give up on the search and travel back to Forthwhite to deal with the black monster, considering it a much more dangerous threat, but his brother would have none of it.


    The Freeroamers kept carefully out of their way, but thankfully nothing got set alight and no one ended up in the river.


    As far as he was aware, they hadn''t come to any conclusion.


    They all decided to rest the night at the guard house. The sorcerers were tired and famished. No other travellers passed through the Break, and the Watch did not return, though they''d left behind a wealth of supplies in their wooden hut. There were spare weapons, clothes, hunting equipment, food, tea and a considerable sum of gold in a coffer. They divvied up the supplies between them, though both sorcerers seemed interested only in a good meal and water.


    A short time later, Cairan had taken up a bow and offered to go hunting, but had barely taken two steps out of the hut when to everyone''s surprise, Arzath appeared from the pass carrying a couple of slightly scorched rabbits. Dumping them by the fire, he declared haughtily that they needed to be cleaned, then disappeared inside.


    No one complained. Grisket disliked the man intensely, and would likely never forgive him for what he had done. But he could no longer be angry. The founding principle of the Freeroamers was to ask no questions and allow everyone a second chance to redeem themselves, no matter what terrible things they had done in the past. As Requar had said, sorcerers were Human too, even if they often gave people reason to believe otherwise. Grisket wasn''t convinced that Arzath was averse to committing further atrocities, but at least he was capable of admitting his mistakes.


    The door of the guard house opened and the black-haired sorcerer emerged, as though drawn by Grisket''s thoughts. Giving the Freeroamers a sour look, as though disappointed they were still there, he stalked off along the bridge and stood looking moodily out at the river.


    Grisket eyed him, but said nothing. Beside him, dark and silent, Cairan watched the sorcerer as well.


    The Freeroamers hadn''t needed to discuss their own plans. As soon as Grisket had told Cairan that he had sent Raemint and Dogwyn after Ferrian, the matter was decided.


    The first rays of sunlight had just speared through a crack in the peaks, igniting a rainbow in the waterfall spray, when the door opened again.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± Requar greeted, taking a seat near the fire opposite Grisket, gathering his cloak around himself to ward off the chill.


    ¡°Mornin'',¡± Grisket said, pouring a cup of tea and handing it over. ¡°Rest well?¡±


    ¡°Very,¡± Requar replied, warming his hands on the mug. ¡°A straw mattress is considerably more comfortable than the ground.¡±


    Grisket merely nodded. As nobles, they were obviously unused to sleeping rough. ¡°You travelled far?¡± he asked, nodding at Requar''s appearance. ¡°You look a little beat up, if you don''t mind me sayin''.¡±


    The sorcerer smiled slightly, then shook his head ruefully. ¡°Only a few days,¡± he replied. ¡°But we had an unfortunate encounter with a Dragon. It made a rude appearance at my castle.¡±


    The Freeroamers stared at him, stunned. ¡°You were attacked by a Dragon?¡± Cairan said.


    Requar nodded. ¡°Yes. However, I persuaded it to leave us alone.¡±


    ¡°By the Gods!¡± Grisket exclaimed. ¡°How did you manage that?!¡±


    Requar did not reply at once, watching the steam rising off his cup, his smile vanished. At last, quietly and enigmatically, he answered: ¡°I told it what it wanted to hear.¡±


    They fell silent. Requar frowned into his tea as though it troubled him.


    Grisket leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, sensing that the mood had changed. ¡°You really thinkin'' of fighting that black Dragon thing over Forthwhite?¡± he asked seriously.


    The sorcerer looked up at him. His eyes had resumed the profound intensity that had disarmed Grisket the previous day, when they had first caught each other''s gazes. The whole world seemed to lay behind those eyes, and it was a heavy, heavy burden.


    ¡°I have no choice,¡± Requar replied. ¡°I am the only one who can.¡±


    Grisket nodded in Arzath''s direction. ¡°What about your brother?¡±


    Requar shook his head. ¡°Magic alone is not enough. The Dragon-wraith is a monster corrupted by negative energy. Only silvertine can harm it.¡±


    ¡°Silvertine?¡±


    Requar reached up and touched the glittering hilt that protruded over his shoulder. ¡°My Sword is made of it. Silvertine comes from Caer Sync, the Holy Tower of the Angels. I believe they have weapons made of it as well. But those are not sufficient either.¡± He paused for a moment. ¡°When silvertine and trigon are put together,¡± he went on, ¡°strange effects are produced. But they can be used to repel each other. I have done so successfully, after many years of failure.¡±


    He hesitated again, turning to look at Arzath, standing alone on the bridge. The rising sun caught on his gold sleeves, making them shine brilliantly. The rest of him was dark, including his expression, as he turned his head and saw them watching him.


    ¡°Arzath was infected,¡± Requar went on softly. ¡°He had already begun to transform into a wraith, but I brought him back.¡± He turned back to look at Grisket. ¡°It can be done. However¡­¡± He frowned. ¡°A Dragon''s soul is huge. Its life force is far more immense than that of a Human. I entered the mind of an ordinary Dragon and it nearly crushed me with the strength of its will alone. I do not know if I am powerful enough to defeat a trigonic Dragon¡­¡± He sighed. ¡°But I must try. My brother does not have a Sword. There are no other sorcerers. I am the only person in possession of one¡­¡±


    There was a sound nearby, as of someone drawing a breath through their teeth.


    Grisket and Requar looked up.


    Arzath had ventured over to the fire. ¡°That is¡­ not... entirely true...¡± he said.


    Requar frowned at him. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    Arzath''s green eyes flicked over the group and then he turned away, looking anywhere but at Requar. ¡°There is something I failed to tell you,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Oh, indeed?¡± Requar replied dryly.


    Arzath scowled at him. ¡°You¡­ may want to put your tea aside¡­¡±


    Requar did so, slowly and carefully.


    Taking a deep breath, Arzath paced away a few steps, spun, and paced back. ¡°Ferrian has a Sword.¡±


    They all stared at him incredulously, not least Requar. ¡°What?!¡±


    Arzath spun and began pacing again, his cloak swishing, his eyes scanning the grey cliffs around them as though desperate for a means of escape. ¡°I¡­ I have been working on it for many, many years,¡± he went on quickly. ¡°I went to great effort to discover how the Swords of the Gods were made, not to mention obtaining silvertine and having the blasted thing forged. Angels were tortured and killed in the process.¡± He hesitated. ¡°At first, I simply wished to create a Sword of Lightning to replace the one I had lost. But I became too ambitious. I wanted something more than just a channel for my own magic. Something better. Something¡­ greater.¡±


    He shook his head, continuing to pace. ¡°I experimented with many different types of magic, hunting down any artefacts I could find; some from the School, some hidden in far-flung corners of the world, centuries old.


    ¡°One of these was a Winter crystal placed in the mountains above Verlista. At some time, it had protected a great Dragon, but the creature was long dead¡­ or so I thought.¡± He frowned. ¡°I underestimated the power that the gemstone contained. It was very old, and I assumed its magic had faded. I overloaded it while testing its potential, and it exploded.¡±


    He swallowed, as though the taste of his own words was bitter. ¡°It was wise that I had taken precautions, otherwise I would have killed myself. As it was¡­¡± he flicked a glance at Grisket, ¡°it destroyed the town of Ness.¡±


    He took a deep breath. ¡°The Winter magic escaped, and with it, the soul of an ancient White Dragon. Apparently, it searched for the nearest suitable alternative vessel¡­¡±


    Requar''s eyes widened. ¡°Ferrian!¡± he whispered.


    Arzath nodded unhappily, and swiped a hand as though to brush the matter away. ¡°But this is not important. Eventually, I created a Sword and hid it in a tower in my castle. It was guarded by Murons, but somehow, the wretched Griks got their hands on it and tried to slaughter me with it.¡±


    Requar stared at him, aghast.


    ¡°They would have succeeded,¡± Arzath went on dismally, ¡°if Ferrian had not been present. The boy summoned his Winter, enabling us both to escape.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But not before Ferrian picked up the Sword.¡±


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    Requar looked down at his hands. ¡°I see,¡± he said quietly.


    ¡°It bonded with him instantly, of course,¡± Arzath said bitterly, ¡°creating a Sword of Frost.¡± He sighed. ¡°We fled towards your castle, Requar. I forced Ferrian to use the Sword to freeze the river so that we could cross, but he was stupid enough to lose his grip and drop it.¡± He glowered off into the pass, as though the Barlakk Mountains were personally responsible for everything that had happened. ¡°Then he perished pathetically in the snow,¡± he continued, ¡°so I left him there¡­¡±


    Requar blinked, looking up. ¡°That was when I spoke to him. He got up and stumbled into my shield...¡±


    Grisket frowned in confusion. ¡°Wait. Ferrian perished in the snow? What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Ah, you don''t know!¡± Arzath remarked, turning back to them and smiling unkindly. ¡°Ferrian is dead!¡±


    Grisket got to his feet, and Cairan gasped.


    Requar looked up at their shocked faces. ¡°He is conscious, however,¡± he explained quietly. ¡°If a Dragon is using him as a vessel, it is likely keeping him alive.¡±


    ¡°Are you tellin'' me,¡± Grisket said incredulously, ¡°that Ferrian is a walking corpse?!¡±


    ¡°Quite,¡± Arzath replied with a smirk. ¡°Best get used to the idea before you meet him.¡±


    ¡°And Ferrian retrieved his Sword from the river?¡± Requar asked.


    Arzath hesitated. ¡°Of that, I am not entirely certain,¡± he admitted. ¡°But I have reason to believe that he did.¡± He turned away for a moment. ¡°There is more,¡± he said darkly. ¡°And¡­ worse.¡±


    They all looked at him in dread.


    He took a long, deep breath. ¡°When I created my Sword,¡± he went on, slowly, ¡°I deviated from the established design. I fashioned a recess in the hilt, intended to hold something very specific.¡± He swallowed. ¡°A¡­ a dagger¡­¡±


    Requar, staring up at him, went pale. ¡°Arzath¡­¡± he whispered.


    When Arzath turned again, he looked ill. Fear darted in his green eyes. ¡°I¡­ believe that was why Ferrian took the trigonic dagger with him. There is no knowing whether he has figured out how to use it¡­ but the boy is damnably smart¡­¡±


    Grisket sat down, slowly. This entire conversation was beyond him. He was still trying to get his head around the fact that Ferrian was dead, and yet alive at the same time. Terrible things were happening, and they were past his ability to comprehend, let alone do something about.


    Beside him, Cairan looked equally troubled and confused.


    Opposite him, Requar looked as mortified as he had when Grisket had told him of the Black Dragon.


    ¡°Why¡­¡± Requar shook his head after a long, heavy moment. ¡°Why did you not tell me all of this earlier, Arzath?¡±


    The black-haired sorcerer glanced away. ¡°I had hoped to convince you without¨C¡±


    ¡°Without resorting to the truth?!¡± There was an edge to Requar''s voice. Hurt and anger flashed over his face.


    Arzath rounded on him, anger sparking in his own eyes. ¡°Well!¡± he retorted. ¡°If we are discussing the truth, perhaps you would like to reveal why you were so interested in Ferrian in the first place! You seemed awfully keen on finding him when we left the castle, and now you have miraculously changed your mind!¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°And don''t bother feeding me some garbage about wishing to help him, because I know it is something else!¡±


    Cairan shifted restlessly, his tail twitching. Grisket felt tense as well, ready to be on his feet if sparks started flying.


    Now it was Requar''s turn to look uncomfortable. He tightened his blue cloak around him, as though trying to use it as a shield. ¡°What I have to say is for Ferrian to hear,¡± he replied quietly. ¡°It does not concern you¡­¡±


    ¡°I am your brother!¡± Arzath snapped. ¡°The last of your kin! And considering all you have done in the past, including destroying the art of sorcery as the world knows it, I think it is fair and reasonable to assume that everything you do concerns me!¡±


    Requar put his face in his hand. Sunlight spilled over his back, making his white hair glow and the gems on his Sword sparkle like blue stars. But his face, hidden in his hand, was a shadow of gloom.


    For a long moment, no one moved or said anything. The two sorcerers, backlit as they were against the cliffs and waterfall and stone arch of the bridge, looked like a painting; Arzath glaring down at his troubled brother, both of them still as statues.


    Grisket pulled the pointed brim of his hat down to block out the glare of the sun, and cleared his throat carefully. ¡°Seems to me,¡± he ventured quietly, ¡°that whatever this important thing you have to say to Ferrian is, it ain''t gonna be of much use to either you or him if you''re not alive to say it.¡±


    He glanced up at Arzath; to his surprise, the sorcerer was smiling at him in admiration.


    ¡°It would be wise not to keep your secrets too close to your chest,¡± Cairan agreed. ¡°Lest you lose them forever.¡±


    Arzath folded his arms and inclined his head. ¡°Are you really intent on slaying the Dragon-wraith, Requar?¡± he said. ¡°Or are you avoiding Ferrian?¡±


    At last, Requar stirred, removing his long fingers from his face. He did not look up, but Grisket caught a glimmer of tears in his eyes. ¡°Very well,¡± he said, so softly that his words went almost unheard. ¡°I will tell you.¡±


    He was silent a long moment more, as though searching for the right words to say. Finally, he took a breath and started to speak. ¡°I...¡± his voice faltered, and his shook his head. ¡°Ferrian¡­ means a great deal to me,¡± he said with an effort.


    Grisket peered at him from under his hat. ¡°You''re not gonna tell us you''re his father, are you?¡± he asked frankly.


    Requar raised his head slowly and looked at him, for so long that Grisket was sure the answer was ''yes''. But then the sorcerer shook his head. ¡°No,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°Such a thing is impossible,¡± Arzath stated. ¡°Sorcerers cannot produce children. Our magic makes us infertile.¡±


    Requar nodded unhappily. ¡°That was why our father was avidly against us studying at the SOMS. He did not wish the family bloodline to be destroyed.¡± He sighed sadly.


    Closing his eyes, he was silent for a long moment before continuing. ¡°Decades ago, before moving into the valley, I worked at the infirmary at Sunsee. I used a different name, disguised myself and hid my magic, learned traditional healing practices, primitive though they were. I wished to live an ordinary and peaceful life.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But it proved difficult. I could not resist using a little magic when the usual methods proved ineffective. It was too frustrating to watch people suffer needlessly.


    ¡°I was extremely careful, of course. I did not allow anyone to know that I was using magic on the patients. It was not easy to keep my Sword out of sight, but I managed it by rendering them unconscious before healing them a little at a time. Everyone thought I was an exceptionally skilled healer, though I was simply very skilled at deception. After a time, I became rather renowned ¨C people came from far away to seek out my services. I might have ended up in the King''s retinue if things had continued along that path, but that would have been dangerous for everyone¡­¡±


    He opened his eyes and stared into the fire, gaze distant with memory. ¡°Sometimes, I was called into the orphanage to see to the children. Most of them came from the Outlands, where families lived harsher lives, without the privileges of city folk. Disabled or very sick children were often simply abandoned.


    ¡°One day, the Matron called on me to look at an infant who had just been brought in and was¡­ unusual. She was fearful and flustered and it took me some time to get a coherent story out of her. Evidently, the child had passed through many hands before arriving there, and it was uncertain where he had originally come from. But at some point he had been seen with two other homeless children, who were believed to be survivors from a disaster at Ness.¡±


    He paused. ¡°The nature of this disaster is now clear to me, but at the time, I was puzzled¡­¡±


    Grisket shook his head. ¡°I saw those kids!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°After my family¡­ while I was sittin'' there mourning, those young ''uns were wanderin'' along the road, carrying a baby wrapped up. They stayed with me for awhile, till a local farmer came by and took ''em off to Skywater. The bloke returned later to help with the bodies of my wife and sons, to bury them¡­¡±


    Cairan put a hand on Grisket''s shoulder.


    ¡°I see,¡± Requar said. After a moment''s silence, he continued.


    ¡°I recognised that the baby possessed magic at once,¡± he said. ¡°But of course, I did not mention this to the Matron. She was spooked and anxious as it was ¨C the child''s eyes were¡­ unsettling. Instead, I made up a medical condition on the spot, and she trusted me enough to not question my word and withhold her doubts.¡±


    Requar closed his eyes. ¡°I fear that she would have quickly done away with him if she knew the truth, and that his life would be short if he stayed at the orphanage. So I told the Matron that he was a special case and I would take him into my personal care.


    ¡°However, things became complicated very quickly. Once he was living with me, I tried to examine him, to understand his magic and how he had managed to survive. Children born with magic usually die shortly after birth. But whenever I tried to use a Mind Sweep, an intense flash of white light blinded me. I could not see his mind or aura or effectively study his magic; it was as though something were protecting him. Otherwise, as far as I could tell, he was a healthy baby boy ¨C though very quiet. But sometimes he became restless, and when he was restless he cried, and when he cried, it snowed outside.¡±


    He stared worriedly at his own memories. ¡°I knew nothing about raising a child, so I hired a blind nurse to help me. Others would have noticed his eyes and wanted nothing to do with him, or worse, become alarmed as the Matron had done. Yet for all my careful preparations, rumours began to spread. Word of the boy got around and a strange, increasingly cold Winter descended on the city. People were beginning to grow fearful and suspicious. I received fewer patients, and the ones that did come seemed almost distrustful. It became extremely difficult to use magic on them discreetly.


    ¡°My reputation was on the verge of unravelling; the boy and I dangerously close to being exposed.


    ¡°So one day I took Ferrian ¨C he had already been named by the children who had found him ¨C and travelled with him, up and down the highway, nowhere in particular. I noticed that whenever we were moving, he remained calm and quiet, with no sign of his magic. But if we stopped too long, he became irritable, and Winter fell.


    ¡°I found myself sitting beside the sea with him, feeling lost and desperate, wondering what was to become of us. Ferrian was alone in the world, feared and misunderstood, and so was I. At first, I thought that I could take him somewhere safe, give him a good life, teach him how to control his magic when he was older. Raise him as my son. But¡­¡±


    Requar looked grief-stricken. ¡°But my brother hated me and sought my death. I feared that if Arzath found someone I cared about, he would hurt Ferrian or seek to use him to punish me in some way. But worse than that¡­¡± he shook his head miserably. ¡°I doubted my own ability to look after a child. After¡­ after the atrocious things that I had done, I did not want Ferrian to grow up in my image. To abuse his power like every other sorcerer before him had done.¡± He blinked away tears.


    ¡°So¡­¡± he swallowed. ¡°So I wandered into the Outlands until I came across a gypsy caravan.


    ¡°Their leader was an old woman with dyed black hair and garish cosmetics. She was hard and stubborn and as suspicious as they came. But I made the rare decision of being honest and straightforward with her; I saw no point otherwise. She was the type of person who could see through lies like glass. I told her of Ferrian''s magic and what it was capable of, assuring her that if she simply kept travelling, there would be few problems.


    ¡°She told me in no uncertain terms where to go. So I¡­¡± Requar swallowed again. ¡°I offered her a large sum of money. Redstone royals.


    ¡°She couldn''t refuse them. She could hardly pick her jaw up off the ground. So she took the boy and the money and left without another word, leaving me standing beside the road watching the caravan trundle away across the plains, heartbroken.¡±


    He fell silent for a few moments before continuing. ¡°I did not return to Sunsee. I didn''t have the heart to, and I was tired of the subterfuge. Instead, I hid myself away in a valley, building a castle there in secret.


    ¡°I know you thought I was attempting to rebuild the School, Arzath, and in a sense¡­ you were right.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But I only wished to teach healing there. I had seen what magic could do if it was put to unselfish use. So much could be achieved, if it was done with care and respect.


    ¡°But my castle was never completely finished. Arzath discovered my location and built a fortress of his own there, and laid siege. Attacks were constant.¡±


    He shook his head in frustration. ¡°You must understand, I always intended to return for Ferrian, when he was older and I could explain everything to him. But I never had the chance. Even leaving my castle for supplies required careful planning. I could not risk searching for Ferrian whilst being tracked by Arzath''s minions. Nor could I bring him to live with me in a war zone.¡±


    ¡°So,¡± Arzath murmured, as silence finally fell. ¡°You abandoned him to wander the Outlands instead, at the mercy of superstitious, murderous villagers? I imagine that was infinitely safer¡­¡±


    ¡°I did what I thought best at the time,¡± Requar replied. ¡°I realise that this has been my downfall¡­¡±


    Grisket rubbed his chin. He knew how it was to care deeply for someone who was not your own. Aari had meant a lot to him after he had lost his own sons. And he knew only too well that words left unspoken could haunt a person forever.


    ¡°Ferrian''ll likely not take the news well,¡± Grisket told Requar. ¡°But he''s a good kid. He grew up to be his own person, and learnt how to figure things out on his own.¡±


    Requar regarded him sorrowfully. ¡°I regret that he ran away from my castle without talking to me,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°I still do not know why. Perhaps he already knows. Perhaps he has pieced together the puzzle of his life on his own.¡±


    He fell silent. They stared at the glowing coals of the campfire, which had grown low in the chilly sunlight. Arzath stood staring at his own shadow stretched out on the dirt road before him. ¡°Touching,¡± he muttered. ¡°But we should resume our journey. We have wasted too much time here already.¡±


    Spinning on his heel, Arzath strode towards the hut. The door flung open before he reached it, with more force than was necessary. ¡°I am going after the boy,¡± he declared. ¡°Do as you wish.¡± He swept inside.


    ¡°His conscience weighs heavily as well,¡± Cairan murmured after a moment. ¡°A little jealousy too, perhaps¡­¡±


    Staring at the guard hut, Requar finally sighed in resignation, and stood up. ¡°Very well,¡± he said softly, and followed his brother inside.

 Chapter Ninety Five

    Rocks of red and ravaged land


    In the darkness, a final stand.


    Carmine ran, her boots sloshing in mud slick and black as a corpse''s blood in the darkness. There was movement all around; canvas writhed on flimsy, broken poles like maddened ghosts desperate to escape. The flapping sound masked her own footsteps and those that surely followed.


    The weather was fitful; heavy rainstorms pounded the Isle every few minutes, interspersed with patches of clear, starry sky. A wash of moonlight passed over Carmine as she darted to and fro, illuminating the pale, ragged and sodden wig that thrashed about her face, and the long coat that flared out behind her. She paused for a moment to catch her breath in the shadow of some tangled wreckage, glancing behind her.


    If Dreikan was truly mad enough to believe that she was the ghost of Sirannor, or if he saw straight through her ploy, she wasn''t sure. But it didn''t matter.


    He had finally snapped, and set fire to the entire camp.


    Even his command tent was ablaze.


    Carmine''s red-rimmed eyes burned with vicious victory. Finally, he not only noticed her but wanted to kill her. Finally, he hated her. Anger had clawed its way up from the depths of his blackened soul, burned away the last of his reason, and she was sure he would stop at nothing, now, to put an end to her. He was determined to flush her out, leave her no place left to hide.


    Dreikan meant to end this game tonight.


    Smoke rushed over her in a sudden, acrid cloud and she crouched low, putting her arm to her face and trying suppress the irritation in her throat. Ghosts did not cough.


    A cough escaped anyway, but it worked to her advantage. A dark figure appeared, his armour gleaming in the light of the fire that spread up around him as he went. He was burning everything in his path. Beyond him, flames licked the black sky, twisting in the wind, revelling in their destruction.


    Getting to her feet, Carmine made sure the General caught a glimpse of her, then hurried ahead.


    All she needed to do now was ensure that he followed her.


    That wasn''t proving to be a problem.


    One or two minutes later, she reached the northern edge of the encampment. Here the tents ended, giving way to a large, open space ringed by more permanent and sturdy buildings made of red clay bricks and wood. These buildings were the remains of a much older settlement, constructed by whomever had originally occupied the Middle Isle centuries ago. They had now been converted into forges and an armoury.


    Ahead of her, beyond the smithies, the sea crashed with an invisible roar in the darkness. Off to her right was another open space ¨C a training ground and weapons testing area.


    In an instant, the darkness vanished, replaced with a hot, red, dusty summer''s day. The sun glowed overhead like the eye of a Dragon. Her hair blew into her face and there was grit in her eyes, but she didn''t blink it away, because she stared up into the cold, angry eyes of her father.


    Yet, she wasn''t afraid. Her small, six-year-old hands gripped her wooden sword as she smiled up at him, feeling proud with herself for having found him, for having made it all this way on her own.


    She would be just like him one day. She would wear an officer''s coat and carry a real sword and everyone would do anything she asked.


    She would slay a Dragon and be a hero, just like him¡­


    The darkness returned, the vision snuffing out abruptly, like a candle whipped by the wind. For a long moment she simply stared at the empty, moon-drenched training ground in confusion, unsure of who she was.


    Was she Sirannor or was she Carmine?


    Or had both of those people died already?


    An approaching brightness from behind caused her to turn.


    General Dreikan came after her, a black and orange demon aglow in the light of his torch.


    Carmine turned to the west and kept running, passing abandoned mining equipment and tools, carts and overturned barrows, and half-constructed siege weapons. She dodged a scattering of corpses with pickaxes still in their hands. Icy droplets prickled her face and the moonlight faded just as she reached a yawing black hole in the cliffs ahead.


    The entrance to the mines.


    There she paused again, and looked back.


    Dreikan crossed the yard unhurriedly. The dark sky opened up and poured down on him, slicking his armour and fluttering his torch.


    Carmine reached up and removed her wig. For a moment, she stared at it, before letting it drop to the middle of the floor. Then she retrieved the black sword she had earlier stuck in the ground against one of the support poles.


    Then she backed away, into the darkness.


    It was pitch black in the mines; she had not lit any lanterns to guide her way, relying instead on memory and a strange instinct to guide her. Feeling her way along the wall, somehow she knew which corners to take without thinking about it. Her blood seemed to run hotter when she was going the right way, her nerves buzzing with exhilaration. Her breath sounded too loud in the musty silence. Her feet seemed to move of their own accord.


    A bright glow followed her, revealing the rocky walls as it came.


    Yes! Carmine thought. Just a little further¡­


    She reached her destination quicker than she expected, feeling a surge of excitement as the light from Dreikan''s torch glinted on something huge, silver and metallic.


    An enormous disc, about twenty feet in diameter, was set into the wall of the tunnel. Stalactites obscured the upper part of it, but the base had been cleared of debris. It was a curiously pristine object to be found buried in a dusty mine; it was so highly polished that it almost looked white. The surface wasn''t completely smooth, however, but etched with some kind of flowing script or elegant runes. Apparently, whatever it was made of was difficult to destroy, as the miners had simply smashed through the wall beside it.


    It looked like they had been in the process of hacking the silver disc out, judging by the array of scaffolding surrounding it.


    Carmine had no idea what the thing was, though she vaguely remembered Hawk mentioning something about it in one of his letters, a lifetime ago.


    In any case, this was not why she had led Dreikan a merry chase down into the blackness of the mines.


    It was the gaping hole beside the disc that interested her.


    A short set of iron steps led upwards into the hole. Carmine ascended them quietly, out of habit, though stealth was no longer necessary.


    She felt a strange, excited sort of reverence as she approached what lay beyond, as though she were entering a holy sanctum.


    The stairs ended in a circular walkway that ringed a cavern. More stalactites dropped from the ceiling high above, like spears poised to fall from the shadows. Below them was a deep, almost perfectly round, sheer-sided pit.


    At the bottom of the pit was what appeared to be a reflective surface, but instead of silver like the seal, it was black, with a faint iridescent rainbow sheen.


    Just like her armour.


    And Dreikan''s.


    A pulley system with a metal bucket attached to a rope jutted out over the pit, on a swivelling arm.


    This was the moltmetal mine, the source of all the black armour and weaponry that Dreikan had created.


    The cause of innumerable deaths.


    Carmine had heard enough about moltmetal from Hawk to know that it was liquid in its natural form. The surface down below was deceptive ¨C it was, in fact, a lake.


    The General paused at the base of the stairs, considering.


    Carmine moved further along the walkway, into the shadows. There was dim light here, an eerie purple luminescence from fungi growing all along the walls of the cavern. It wasn''t completely silent, either; now and then she thought she could make out an odd whispering sound, like voices too soft to hear.


    The sound unnerved her, caused her to keep checking over her shoulder, as though someone was standing right behind her. That was impossible of course; she and the General were the only people left alive on this island, of that she had no doubt.


    She wondered if it was the mushrooms talking to her, then scolded herself for being nonsensical.


    What does it matter, anyway? she thought bitterly, adjusting her grip nervously on her sword. Nothing made sense any more. Perhaps the voices were entirely within her own head. It would change nothing, if they were. Ever since her father had died, the world had turned around and lurched about, leaving her sick and disoriented. Nothing was the same; nothing was where it used to be. Her life was changed irrevocably, into something dark and shredded, like a corpse flung off a capsized boat.


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    Perhaps I AM Sirannor, she thought. Perhaps it was his voice whispering in her ear, wanting vengeance, ordering her to finish Dreikan¡­


    He will be so disappointed if I don''t.


    So disappointed. So angry¡­


    Dreikan still stood at the base of the stairs. Reaching out, he took the note she had attached to the railing, and unfolded it.


    Despite herself, Carmine''s lips twitched into a smirk as she mentally recited the words she had written there.


    YOU ARE WALKING INTO A TRAP, DREIKAN.


    He stared at the note for a long moment. So long that Carmine''s confidence wavered.


    This is ridiculous, she found her own thoughts telling her. It''s a stupid plan! He is never going to fall for this¡­


    The General let the note fall to the ground, and clanked up the steps.


    He came slowly, now. The message had worked. Half of his brain was telling him that this was another game, that Carmine was lying. But he couldn''t be sure.


    His gaze was burning ice as he swept it around the cavern, finally finding her in the purple-gloom shadows. He attempted to keep himself composed, but she could tell that rage seethed just below the surface of skin and armour. She could see it in his pale eyes and gaunt features, in the way he held his massive Dragon blade and torch as though he desired to smash the world apart with them.


    She had angered him.


    She had angered him like no one had ever been angered before.


    Forcing herself to maintain control over her own composure, she held her black sword in both hands, remaining firmly in position as the General made his way around the walkway towards her.


    His boots clanked on the metal grating. There was nothing beneath their feet but the glossy lake of moltmetal.


    The voiceless whispers became louder. Carmine tightened her jaw and ignored them.


    Dreikan stopped four feet away and simply stood there, staring at her.


    The orange pattern on his black armour glowed in the firelight like cracks in hardened magma.


    Carmine felt sweat trickling down her temples, beneath her stringy hair. Just one more step, she prayed. One more step¡­


    Dreikan did not advance any further. He said nothing.


    Just stared at her.


    The whispers were distracting, and the tension was unbearable. Finally, Carmine spoke.


    ¡°You finally decided I was worthy of your blade?¡± she said.


    Dreikan kept his horrible gaze fixed on her, a slight smile creeping onto his lips. ¡°If you think,¡± he replied quietly, ¡°that I came here to kill you, then you are mistaken.¡±


    Carmine stared back at him.


    ¡°If you expect from me,¡± he went on, ¡°the same swift end that I granted to your dearly departed father, then you truly are deluded.¡±


    The unsettling smile remained on his face. ¡°No. I did not come here to kill you, girl.¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°I came here to destroy you.¡±


    A faint black mist rose off his armour, mingling with the smoke from his torch. Carmine could feel the hate radiating off him. Her heart thundered in her chest.


    ¡°You think you have experienced pain, horror and torment?¡± he continued. ¡°Not yet. Not. Yet.¡±


    ¡°You don''t scare me,¡± Carmine said, inclining her head. ¡°But I scare you.¡±


    He laughed. It was not a normal laugh. It rose in pitch, like a squeaky door becoming unhinged.


    And there was a flash in his eyes: of anger, amusement or madness, she did not know.


    ¡°You are a child! A child that should never have been born! You think you are a hero?¡± he continued laughing. ¡°Like Sirannor! Your father''s life is smeared with a long trail of blood, including that of your mother!¡±


    A chill passed through Carmine at the mention of her mother, but she knew what Dreikan was doing and refused to take the bait. No matter how badly she wished to know what had happened to her mother, she did not care to hear it from him.


    ¡°And you think yourself a hero then?¡± Carmine sneered back. ¡°By using my father as Dragon bait! By slaying anyone who sets foot on this island! How much blood have you left behind, Dreikan? You''re a monster!¡±


    Dreikan just kept laughing.


    ¡°Destroy me then!¡± Carmine challenged him. ¡°Go ahead and try!¡±


    Dreikan held out his torch, pointing it at her as though it was a blade. Then he opened his fingers and let it drop onto the walkway between them.


    The section of metal grating that Carmine had carefully loosened earlier gave way, plummeting, along with the torch, into the black pool below. Both objects splashed and sank into the oily, metallic liquid. The torch went out, plunging the cavern into violet-tinged darkness.


    Barely before Carmine could react, the General was leaping at her across the gap.


    She felt the spiked tips of the Dragon blade swish past her face as she threw herself backwards. Dreikan''s sword smashed into the wall beside her.


    Carmine turned and ran.


    Her heart sunk with dismay. The entire walkway shuddered as Dreikan gave chase. The first trap had failed.


    But it wasn''t over yet¡­


    He was fast. She was almost in position when she was forced to spin and block his sword, which was aimed at her back. The force of his blow staggered her, but he caught her blade in the curved edge of his sword, and the backward swing threw her against the railing.


    Her own sword went tumbling into the pit. She flung herself to the ground as the Dragon blade swung down, cleaving the railing and sending metal flying everywhere.


    Her heart was in her throat. She would not survive much longer in a straight up fight; indeed, she had hoped to avoid a battle.


    Dreikan was too fast and too strong.


    But if she could get him in the right position¡­


    She rolled desperately as his sword plunged viciously down at her. She felt it glance off her back as it slammed into the walkway with a shuddering squeal of metal, but her armour saved her. Coming to her feet, she snatched up a piece of broken railing and flung it at him.


    Dreikan batted it away effortlessly, but it gave her a second to throw herself against the rocky wall to her right.


    His sword came at her face in a deadly arc, but this was what she wanted. Ducking, she rolled to the ground again, covering her head with her gauntleted hands.


    The Dragon blade smashed into the wall where Carmine had been, severing a length of rope concealed there and releasing a slide of rocks and debris that rained down on them both.


    When the crashing roar had died away, Carmine uncurled herself and climbed to her feet, wincing. Her armour had protected her from injury, but the impact of the stones bouncing off her had still hurt. The largest boulders had fallen on top of Dreikan, but unfortunately, he was not dead. His screams of rage echoed through the cavern as he struggled to extricate himself from the pile of rubble, hacking awkwardly with his sword at the huge rocks that trapped him on the walkway.


    Desperately, Carmine looked around, cursing the fact that she had lost her weapon. Dreikan was in a vulnerable position; all she needed to do was finish him off, but in a minute or so he was going to break free¡­


    Something glinted oddly in the purple light, off to one side. Carmine stared at it for a long moment, uncomprehending, as the General cursed and smashed rocks behind her.


    Then, with a shock, she realised what it was.


    A black sword lay on the walkway a few feet away, to her left.


    There was no way that her sword could be lying there. She had seen it spin away into the pit just moments earlier.


    Was it a different sword, perhaps, abandoned by some soldier? Had she not noticed it in the darkness, when she was setting up her traps?


    Carmine didn''t know, and didn''t have time to care. It was a stroke of luck, and she took it.


    Leaping forward, she snatched up the black blade and ran back to Dreikan. He had almost freed himself, and was attempting to stand up, but his orange cloak was still pinned by another boulder.


    Carmine swung her sword.


    But not at Dreikan.


    He was too well armoured. Instead, she plunged it into the walkway just beside the pile of rubble. Her sword went through the iron grating effortlessly.


    Pulling her sword out with a shower of sparks and a weird screech of metal, she hacked at the grating again.


    The walkway beneath Dreikan buckled and then broke free; everything on it tumbled downwards into the dark, oily pit.


    Dreikan screamed again as he fell downwards with the rocks.


    Carmine held her breath as boulders splashed into the pool of moltmetal below, flinging black, shining droplets across the pit¡­


    But Dreikan did not go with them.


    The section of broken walkway sagged downwards at an angle, still clinging to its supports. But the General had caught the grating with the spiked end of his Dragon blade and clung to it, hanging over the pit.


    Still alive.


    Carmine let out a cry of frustration to equal Dreikan''s. ¡°No!¡±


    The General hooked his armoured fingers into the grating and began to pull himself up using his sword as a hook. The walkway let out a tortured creak, but held. ¡°You¡­ BITCH!¡± he screamed.


    Gritting her teeth, Carmine''s thoughts raced as fast as her heart. She had to end this now; she wasn''t going to get a better chance¡­


    Her eyes fell on the metal arm extended out over the pit. The pulley system with its bucket that was used to draw liquid metal out of the lake.


    Spinning with a flare of her long coat, she raced around the walkway toward it.


    Clanging sounds and a metallic squeal accompanied her own ringing footsteps as her enemy continued to climb to safety. She could not allow him to regain his footing¡­


    Reaching the pulley, she searched for a moment, unhooked the rope that was used to pull the arm in towards the railing, and yanked on it.


    Fortunately, it was well greased and swung smoothly towards her. The metal bucket hit the railing with a loud clatter.


    Dreikan shouted threats at her from across the cavern, but Carmine ignored him. Swinging her legs over the railing, she took a firm hold of the rope, just above the empty bucket.


    The pool of moltmetal was a wickedly gleaming mirror below her.


    An image of her father''s death flashed through her mind, like a sudden slash to her brain, and for an instant she thought she heard laughter ¨C odd whispery laughter that mingled with the General''s sardonic bark from across the cavern ¨C and she shook her head to clear it.


    Then, with a deep breath, she pushed herself out into open space.


    Dreikan reached the stable part of the walkway and rose to his feet; a dark, gleaming and seemingly indestructible monster in his black armour. His cloak was a pale purple colour in the violet luminescence from the walls, his eyes bright chips of hatred beneath his magnificent, Dragon-winged helmet as he turned to see where Carmine had gone¡­


    He did not expect her to come at him like a wraith from the air.


    Pulling her legs up as the arm swung her across the cavern, Carmine lashed out with her feet as she passed, catching General Dreikan in the chest.


    The impact wasn''t strong enough to knock him over, but it did make him stumble backwards.


    However, there was no solid footing behind him.


    Looking back as she swung away, Carmine caught sight of him flail, fall off the walkway and plummet downwards into the lake.


    Swinging over to the railing, Carmine leapt back onto the walkway and hurried around to the place where he had fallen, her breath in her throat.


    This time, he hadn''t managed to catch himself, and thrashed around in the pool below, screaming curses.


    Leaning over the railing, she stared down at the General, watching as he first attempted to find his sword; failing that, he swam sluggishly to the wall and scrabbled at it, trying to find a handhold. But the pit was sheer and slick, with nothing to catch on to. Her gut twisted sickeningly as his screams of anger turned into something much more awful.


    The cries of a man who knew he was about to die.


    He took far too long to drown.


    To her horror, he stopped clawing at the walls and started clawing at himself, as he floundered in the liquid metal. He was completely covered in it, a writhing, squirming black form that lost all human shape and simply became a dying, suffocating, gargling thing, swallowed up by the moltmetal¡­


    Carmine felt herself trembling as the panicked sounds stopped abruptly, and deep silence filled the cavern.


    She could not seem to tear herself away from the railing. Her hands gripped it so tightly she felt she was a part of it, just another part of the chilly cavern, of the darkness itself. The blackness of the pit grew deeper, the shiny gleam of its surface disappearing, becoming a fathomless, bottomless void, blacker than black, darker than the shadows.


    It was horrifying, yet entrancing. It seemed to promise, in the whispers that danced around her, in the languid black mist that slithered like smoky serpents up the walls of the pit, an infinity beyond despair, a cold kind of peace, a pain that was beyond pain¡­


    Mist billowed off her black armour, mingling with the inky fog that swallowed the cavern. Her armour itself seemed to turn almost liquid, shifting and sliding coldly over her skin with an oily, prickly sensation¡­


    In front of her, the mist formed itself into shapes. Clawed hands, like nothing Human, made of smoke and lost dreams, reached for her out of the depths.


    Some small part of Carmine recognised the danger, and as the strange hands moved close she gasped involuntarily, unclenched her hands from the railing and threw herself back against the rocky wall of the cavern.


    The place had gone completely dark ¨C dark as the bowels of the mountains, the purple glow extinguished. She did not know how she could see anything in the pitch blackness, but the eerie, grotesque hands appeared to be something beyond vision.


    Perhaps they were inside her head¡­


    Feeling suffocated, nauseated and confused by the deathly attraction of the pit, Carmine turned and blindly fled.

 Chapter Ninety Six

    Winter¡¯s path leads cold and true


    In windswept lands where folks are few.


    Wind tossed the Centaur¡¯s braided hair around her face as she knelt on the ancient, lichen-carpeted cobblestones. Though her eyes were closed, she sensed the light shift from bright to dark, warm to cold as sunshine chased the clouds across the sky.


    The wind came directly from the north, sweeping an icy chill across her skin, like the first frosty touch of winter. The stones beneath her slender brown fingers were warm and dry, the lichen brittle, but as she concentrated, she could detect a faint coldness beneath them. A coldness that could not be entirely dispersed by the sun¡¯s rays, that made the tips of her fingers prickle and grow slightly numb.


    To Centaurs, magic was not unnatural. It was simply another element, as much a part of the world as the seasons or the weather or the turning of the days. The feel of it was just as distinctive, and this particular magic was unmistakable.


    Winter had passed this way; the memory of it could still be found in the stones of the old road to Arkana.


    Opening her eyes, she pushed herself upright with her spear and turned to Constable Dogwyn, who sat atop his mount beside her.


    The young Constable had been irritable and restless the last few days. Though he didn¡¯t directly complain about the mission, Raemint knew that he grew impatient with the chase, and didn¡¯t like where it was headed. His face had worn a permanent scowl ever since they had turned down the road to Arkana.


    ¡°We must continue,¡± Raemint said simply.


    Dogwyn let out a loud, reluctant sigh, but refrained from commenting, choosing to look sour instead. He would not disobey a direct order from Commander Trice, though Raemint could practically hear his thoughts: This is a waste of time.


    She turned to look ahead, to the north, where the Tentaryl Ranges loomed, their characteristic, oddly shaped peaks high and grey in the distance.


    She had to admit to feeling a little trepidation herself. If Ferrian had indeed gone into Arkana, as seemed evident, then their mission was going to turn a great deal more complicated. The border would likely be in chaos, and negotiating their way through would require a far greater authority than two Freeroamer Constables. The Angels were as likely to attack them on sight.


    The scenes of destruction that she and Dogwyn had witnessed on their way here twisted Raemint¡¯s gut. She could not tell if it was done accidentally or with malicious intent, but she hoped it was the former. Ferrian had seemed like an intelligent and level-headed young boy when she had met him, but he was still just a boy, trying to deal with a strange power that he didn¡¯t understand. If he had met a sorcerer who had influenced him the wrong way¡­


    Raemint shook her head. The thought of Ferrian creating such tragedy deliberately made her impossibly sad.


    She desperately hoped that the Angels had not suffered a similar fate.


    ¡°How do you suppose we¡¯re going to get through there?¡± Dogwyn asked grumpily, gesturing at the mountains, obviously sharing her thoughts, as they continued walking.


    ¡°Likely, we will not,¡± the Centaur replied, staring ahead. ¡°We will observe what has happened at the border, and whether it is safe for us to proceed. If it is not, we shall return to the Guard House. If we should happen to catch up to Ferrian, we shall return to the Guard House.¡±


    Dogwyn huffed another sigh. ¡°Is there any reason we can¡¯t return to the Guard House now?¡±


    Raemint kept her gaze fixed ahead. ¡°We must be sure.¡±


    Dogwyn muttered something under his breath, then fell into a sullen silence. For awhile, there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the grass and hoofbeats on stone, and the faint creak of Dogwyn¡¯s harness. Raemint remained watchful. She could no longer feel the magic unless she stopped and focused on it, but there was only one road and Ferrian appeared to be following it.


    It was an empty and rather bleak corner of the country that they found themselves travelling through. There were no settlements or even so much as a lonely house. Sel Varence lay three or four days to the east, right up against the Tentaryl. If they were to backtrack and take the coastal road that hugged the cliffs down to the sea, they would end up in Ashen Cove: a vast ocean cave that was also a bustling trading hub, where ships offloaded cargo onto barges for transport along the Sel River. She imagined those barges moving stealthily beneath her feet at that moment, as they made their slow way upstream to the city through the underground river system.


    It was a good place to hide from the Dragons, and she was mentally prepared to flee there if the need arose, though so far they had seen no sign of the great beasts that Commander Trice had warned them about.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like this place,¡± Dogwyn declared suddenly, as though he had definitively made up his mind about it. ¡°Something about those trees...¡±


    Raemint looked around. There was nothing much to see apart from windswept grass studded with grey boulders, and stunted, dark-leaved ti-trees bent over as though the wind had broken their backs. They rattled like skeletons in every gust.


    Her dark brow lowered a little. ¡°Hmmm.¡±


    She would have dismissed his comment as part of his usual obstinate, whiny self ¨C she had patiently endured many along the way ¨C except that she felt something, too.


    It wasn¡¯t Ferrian¡¯s magic.


    There was nothing inherently evil about magic, merely that the way it was used could be questionable. But something about the feel of this landscape was¡­ wrong.


    Unnerving.


    Like something watching, stalking¡­ hiding amongst the boulders or the trees¡­


    She stopped on the road and looked behind her.


    Nothing could be seen there except racing cloud shadows.


    She stared for a long moment, before taking a firm grip on her spear and moving forward once more.


    Dogwyn followed, too quiet.


    They had gone only a few hundred yards further when the feeling returned, in such a rush of warning that Raemint¡¯s blood ran hot and her heart thumped in her chest¡­


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    She spun.


    Two black figures followed them on the road, at some distance. Their armour gleamed in patches of sun like a beetle¡¯s carapace. It was so well-fitting that they moved with a smooth grace and did not clink ¨C indeed, they were practically silent. Their swords were drawn; also black. They advanced at neither a slow pace nor a fast one, but with an assurance that was unmistakable.


    Raemint took her spear in both hands.


    Beside her, Dogwyn unsheathed his sword. ¡°Who the hell are they?¡± he said nervously.


    Raemint did not reply. She did not know. Soldiers? Mercenaries? They did not look like the Watch. Nor had they any reason to be out here in the wilderness unless they were also tracking Ferrian.


    Or them.


    Raemint felt irritated that she hadn¡¯t sensed them earlier; she had been so focused on finding the boy¡­


    Dogwyn¡¯s horse became jittery as the armoured men approached and at the same time, a wave of revulsion washed over Raemint. It was like a bad smell but she could feel it in her bones and oozing under her skin, oily and foul. Every hair on her body prickled in distaste.


    What is this?


    It wasn¡¯t magic, or it was like no magic she had ever experienced. It was pure corruption.


    ¡°Be prepared,¡± she told Dogwyn quietly. Her voice sounded tight, her body tense.


    The horse beside her was struggling with its own panic, Dogwyn trying to calm it. A heavy cloud slunk overhead, spitting a few droplets onto her cheeks.


    There was something wrong with the men¡¯s faces, too, she noticed as they neared. Their skin was too pale, she could see veins through it, and their eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, as though they had not slept in some time.


    Both of them were also smiling faintly.


    Every instinct urged Raemint to flee, but she gritted her teeth and held firm.


    Centaurs did not run from a fight.


    No matter what.


    Instead, as the armoured men drew close, pulling apart from each other ¨C one heading for Dogwyn, the other for her ¨C Raemint lowered her spear and charged.


    Normally, such an intimidating sight would have made any Human soldier hesitate, but this one did not. He simply kept walking towards her, strange eyes unblinking, with that unnerving grin.


    She struck hard and fast at his chest. The force of the blow should have impaled him, even through his breastplate, but instead half her spear simply disappeared.


    Shocked and momentarily puzzled, she used her momentum to swerve to the side, bringing the remainder of her shaft up to parry the backswing. But again, the soldier¡¯s black sword cleaved straight through it like butter ¨C she barely felt any resistance ¨C and caught her upper leg.


    Dancing away awkwardly, she stifled a cry as pain lanced up her leg and straight into her chest, but it lasted only a second, replaced almost immediately by an odd needling sensation and an intense cold, as though a block of ice had been pressed against the wound.


    The second armoured man was now to her right, attacking Dogwyn¡¯s horse. She watched as his sword, too, sheared straight through her companion¡¯s defence, slicing open the chest of his mount.


    The animal screamed in pain and reared, throwing Dogwyn to the ground.


    Then the black-armoured man swung his sword in a great, two-handed blow that decapitated the horse.


    Blood sprayed across half the roadway, splattering against Raemint and showering Dogwyn¡¯s attacker.


    Dogwyn had pushed himself to his feet and now stood paralysed, his face bloodless, as though he was about to be sick, half a sword still clutched in his left hand.


    Raemint dodged a sweeping strike from her own attacker, tossing away the useless stub of her spear.


    She realised with thunderous dismay that they were not going to survive this battle. Whoever these men were, their weapons and armour were vastly superior to theirs. A thin black mist leaked off the metal, as though it were smouldering, and with it wafted a feeling of dread and hopelessness so heavy it was almost a physical weight upon her shoulders.


    Raemint fought it, but despair clenched her heart.


    She had fled from a desperate battle once before: her and Cairan. Cowardice was a grave crime among Centaur clans; abandonment of one¡¯s fellow warriors was intolerable. With that one terrible decision they had dishonoured their family, their tribe, and the whole Centaur race, and their sentence had been banishment.


    No other clans would have them, or even speak to them, so they had left the verdant, sunlit forests of Remast and gone to live with Humans.


    With the Freeroamers.


    Tears rose in the corners of Raemint¡¯s eyes, born on a sudden wave of emotion. She and her partner had joined the Freeroamers to redeem themselves. She would not shame herself, or Cairan, or the Centaur race by giving up again. Though it may mean her death, that she may never see anyone she loved or cared about again: she would not flee.


    She could not.


    Her fists and jaw clenched tightly, the tears forced back. Death was preferable to the eternal mark of a coward.


    She circled her attacker, limping, trying to reach Dogwyn. If they could not flee, then at least they could make a final stand together.


    ¡°Dogwyn!¡± she cried. ¡°To me!¡±


    The young constable ignored her. He seemed rooted in place, buffeted by the wind like the weeds waving on the road, staring wide-eyed at the still-twitching body of his favourite horse, at the blood gushing like a flooded river across the stones.


    ¡°Dogwyn!¡±


    His attacker walked over the corpse, stepping on its flank to reach him.


    Dogwyn fled.


    Straight through the pool of blood, leaving a trail of frantic red footprints down the road.


    Heedless of Raemint¡¯s cries, he ran.


    The black-armoured soldier gave chase.


    Raemint tried to go after them, but her own attacker blocked her path, forcing her to dance away from his blade on her injured leg.


    She could do nothing but watch in horror as her companion ran¡­ as the black soldier gained on him¡­


    Dogwyn glanced over his shoulder and tried to veer up a small embankment into the grass, but his pursuer caught him and threw him down onto the roadway.


    The black blade flashed in the sun.


    Dogwyn¡¯s cry was terrible and brief.


    Watching from a distance, Raemint felt light-headed, disbelieving as the black sword came down again and again. The light seemed suddenly too bright, the wind too cold, her leg a dead weight that threatened to topple her¡­


    And then something red and hot boiled up within her, consuming her soul.


    She screamed.


    Recklessly, she twisted her body and lashed out with her hind legs. It was a wild, desperate and dangerous kick...


    But it hit its mark.


    She heard and felt an iron-shod hoof connect with the man¡¯s unprotected face. Bone crunched audibly, followed by a heavy, clattering thump.


    Raemint staggered as she righted herself ¨C the kick had been awkward, with most of her weight on her right leg ¨C but turning she saw her attacker felled on the road.


    The second black-armoured man walked back towards her, unhurriedly.


    A mist of rain washed over them, sparkling in the shifting rays of the sun. Cruelly, a rainbow arced between them, overlaid upon the dark form of the murderer.


    Outwardly, Raemint shivered as rain slicked the exposed skin of her arms and face.


    Inwardly, she burned.


    Stooping, she picked up the black sword from the lifeless fingers of the unknown soldier at her feet, and waited.


    Shadow fell once more, all warmth banished from the world, save the mighty fire of grief and rage that roared inside her.


    The black-armoured man lifted his sword and ran at her.


    He was still grinning, even through the blood and rain on his face.


    This time, their swords clashed, the sound ringing through the air, scattering droplets.


    They fought. Raemint attacked viciously, throwing all her strength into her blows, hammering her opponent, not allowing him a chance to strike at her.


    Several times, she slipped past his guard, but her blade slid off his armour as though it were greased.


    She herself had no such protection.


    They were both experienced fighters, but the outcome was inevitable.


    Letting out a furious cry, she struck at his head.


    She missed, but her blade caught his helmet, flinging it away.


    He used the opportunity to duck and roll to her injured side.


    She swung again, desperately twisting away, yet already knowing that she was too slow¡­


    She felt the blade plunge into her side, a mind-numbingly cold shock of pain.


    But her two-handed swing carried through its momentum, directly into her attacker¡¯s neck as he straightened.


    They fell together, in almost graceful slowness: her body, his, and his head gently toppling to the ground.


    She almost didn¡¯t feel the impact of the cobblestones, or the spasming twitches of her body, or the blood streaming from her. Mostly, she just felt a clenching cold that gripped her body and stilled her mind.


    She lay there, listening to her breath falter and watching her fingers slowly release the black sword still in her hand.


    There was blood between the cobblestones. Incongruously, a small clutch of forget-me-nots poked through, bobbing their tiny blue heads in farewell.


    As her vision darkened around the edges, the rain eased and a bright patch was illuminated on the road ahead.


    A sad, dark figure lay there, unmoving.


    I died bravely, she thought. I am redeemed...


    Then, at peace, she allowed her eyes to close.

 Chapter Ninety Seven

    A time to hide, to be discreet


    When all else fails, let villains speak.


    Lord Requar observed the scene ahead from atop a small rise in the road. The wind was strong, snapping his cloak about him ¨C a cloak bluer than the sky. Overhead rolled an unending sea of grey clouds, darkening in the north.


    A few miles before him lay the refugee camp, sprawling through the fields in every direction except west, which was claimed by the rocky shore and the sea.


    The camp was bigger than some Outland towns.


    ¡°We will proceed as we did in Tulstan,¡± he said to Commander Trice, who sat beside him atop Foxxin, raising his voice to be heard above the wind.


    Grisket glanced down at him and nodded wordlessly.


    Arzath appeared on his left. ¡°Must we bother with this nonsense again? We are sorcerers, for Dark¡¯s sake! We need only snap our fingers and no one will dare stand in our way!¡±


    Requar regarded him from beneath his hood, which he clutched over his head with one hand. ¡°In case you have forgotten what happened in Meadrun,¡± he reminded his brother, ¡°some people are stupid enough to attack us, and I would rather not waste my energy saving people from themselves!¡±


    Arzath looked away, the wind tossing his hair across his distasteful expression, but found no argument with that.


    Relinquishing his hood to the wind, Requar grabbed his brother¡¯s arm. ¡°Stop complaining,¡± he ordered, weaving a camouflage spell over both of them with his free hand.


    Arzath had never bothered to learn any concealment spells. He wanted to be noticed; he took great satisfaction from overt displays of power. He craved nothing more than to be respected and feared.


    Requar knew the reason for this. As a child, his brother had been ignored by everyone except their mother. He had certainly never been worthy of their father¡¯s attention.


    For Requar, it was different. As firstborn, he had been shoved against his will into a glaring spotlight ¨C expected, forced to become someone he was not.


    Though they shared the same house, they had had very different upbringings.


    He glanced a little ruefully at Arzath as the Freeroamers took the lead, heading down towards the camp. Sometimes, he envied his brother¡¯s brazen, carefree approach. He had a much more straightforward attitude to things.


    But a part of Requar ¨C an old, sad and very quiet part, that had been there since childhood ¨C wished that they weren¡¯t so¡­ different. That they could share a greater bond.


    He turned his gaze pensively to the fields around them. He had to admit, Arzath¡¯s sudden change of behaviour puzzled and vaguely troubled him. Ever since the tragedy of the SOMS, his brother had dedicated his life to destroying Requar. Nothing else had mattered to him. But in the hall of Requar¡¯s castle, when the truth about what had happened to Lady Fyona had been revealed, something inside Arzath seemed to have broken. The shield of hatred he had built up to protect himself had shattered.


    Requar thought the Sword of Healing might have played a part in that. The Sword was capable of repairing mental wounds as well as physical ones. It was a reasonable explanation.


    But something still seemed amiss.


    Arzath had become rather overbearing since then, constantly insisting that Requar eat, rest and stay away from danger. He was worse than their mother. Why such paranoid overprotectiveness? Why such an extreme change of heart?


    His blue eyes found no answers, only more questions in the broken eucalypts scattered across the landscape, their jagged white trunks pointing at the sky like splintered bones, and the golden leaves spinning across their path from the few surviving poplars lining the road.


    They hadn¡¯t needed to use magic to know that Ferrian had passed this way.


    He put thoughts of his brother carefully aside. There were more important things to focus on.


    Such as getting through the next settlement without causing yet another disaster.


    Tents, caravans and ramshackle lean-to shelters crowded close along the road, wobbling, rattling and flapping in the wind. Despite the inclement weather, there were a lot of people about. Crying children, barking dogs and raised voices mingled with the brooding rush of the wind into a cacophony of sound.


    The road narrowed to the point where they were forced to proceed in single file. Lieutenant-Commander Cairan assumed the lead.


    In Tulstan they had been ignored: workers were intent on rebuilding the main street and paid them little attention. Here, however, people pressed up against them on either side, pawing at Grisket¡¯s horse, or ¡®accidentally¡¯ bumping into him. More than a few of them genuinely stumbled into the sorcerers and were left looking around themselves in bewilderment.


    No one touched Cairan. A large black Centaur armed with a bow and full quiver of arrows was not someone that anyone wanted to mess with.


    Requar lifted a hand in between bouts of jostling, using a little magic to subtly push groping hands away from Foxxin¡¯s saddlebags. He looked anxiously at the crowd around them. Far from degenerate vagabonds, the majority of these folk wore good clothes ¨C if in need of a wash ¨C and appeared to have led fairly comfortable lives before unexpectedly finding themselves homeless or having lost loved ones, through no fault of their own. Their eyes were desperate, many clutched children in their arms, and nearly all of them begged for food.


    Some were in need of medical assistance. Bruises, cuts and scrapes, hacking coughs and crippled limbs bound up in makeshift slings. Requar¡¯s throat tightened as he passed them, forced to ignore their pleas for help. He tried not to look at the children, but it was impossible not to. His jaw clenched, his fingers tingled with the urge to reach back for his Sword.


    Instead, he reached into his money pouch and slipped a gruble here and there into unsuspecting pockets.


    Arzath was tense beneath his grip, his fists balled tightly. His eyes flared as he fought a much more violent urge.


    He did not at all appreciate being jostled. He barely tolerated Requar holding him.


    Requar gave him a warning look, at the same time hoping that his brother¡¯s patience, short as it was, lasted just a little longer¡­


    It was forced to stretch longer than expected, as their passage was slow and difficult. Requar struggled to keep up with the Freeroamers while maintaining his camouflage. Being invisible, people naturally got in their way, threatening to cut them off from Grisket and Cairan. The spell wasn¡¯t perfect, either: a slight disturbance of the air marked their passing. But with all the wind and flying debris, and movement of the crowd, no one noticed.


    It was impossible to avoid running into people, however, and a trail of heated arguments and fist fights broke out in their wake.


    Better that than a trail of burning corpses, Requar told himself grimly.


    Eventually, however, they reached the crossroad. A wide space opened up onto the cobblestoned highway. It was ringed by hawkers flogging questionable wares, but few folk had anything to trade.


    They turned north.


    The going was easier here, as shelters occupied only one side of the road. Large, grassy-topped boulders rose on their left; the sea thundered somewhere behind them. The wind brought with it the smell of salt and seaweed.


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    They began to relax a little, walking directly into the breeze, and with space to breathe again. But a minute later, Cairan stopped abruptly.


    The Centaur said nothing, merely stood in the middle of the road, staring ahead.


    Grisket rode up beside him. Requar stepped to one side, pulling Arzath with him, to see what was going on.


    The Watch blocked their path.


    Their armour gleamed brightly, even in the grey light, and their weapons were drawn. But they had not yet noticed the Freeroamers.


    Instead, they stood in a circle around two teenage boys. The youths appeared to be unarmed, or at least disarmed. There were seven Watchmen: five were recognisable as the same men who had manned the toll back at Merinriver Break.


    Requar cursed quietly under his breath.


    Two Watchmen restrained one of the boys with his arms behind his back. The other boy stood in the middle of the circle as the Watch leader stalked around him, a smug look on his face, his blue cloak billowing.


    ¡°Dammit,¡± Grisket muttered. ¡°Pickin¡¯ on someone weaker than themselves, just because they got their backsides handed to ¡®em back at the Break.¡±


    He and Cairan exchanged glances, then Grisket turned in his saddle to glance back at where he supposed the sorcerers to be.


    Requar understood the unspoken question.


    What now?


    Requar considered. He could extend his camouflage spell to the others, but it would require physical contact with each of them, and moving like that as a group would be awkward. The Watch took up the whole of the road in any case; there was not enough space for them to pass. And to make matters worse, a crowd had gathered, peering out of all the alleyways between the shelters at the confrontation.


    Requar frowned. He was aware of Arzath giving him an intently pointed look, but ignored him.


    Grisket took his lack of a response for what it was: indecision, and made up his own mind.


    The Watch leader was waving his sword idly about the fearful youth and threatening him in a casual manner. Grisket spurred Foxxin forward.


    ¡°Got nothin¡¯ better to do than wave sharp pointy things at young ¡®uns, eh?¡± he said as he rode up to the group.


    The Watch turned in surprise, raising their weapons. The Watch leader stopped and spun mid-sentence; the look of astonishment on his face was comical. ¡°You again!¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± Grisket replied conversationally. ¡°Just passin¡¯ through.¡±


    The Watch leader stared at him for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. ¡°You did not pay the toll, as I recall,¡± he declared imperiously. ¡°And you are very much in our jurisdiction, now!¡±


    Grisket rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a small drawstring bag. He took two round, golden coins from it and flipped them to the ground. They clinked and rolled over the worn cobblestones, one coming to a spinning rest at the foot of the nearest Watchman, who stared down at it dumbly.


    The Watch leader stared at it too. Then suddenly it occurred to him where the money had come from. He took a few steps forward, his face darkening in anger, slicing a hand at his men. ¡°Arrest them!¡±


    Four of the Watchmen advanced immediately on the Freeroamers.


    Cairan calmly took an arrow and notched it to his bow, but did not draw it.


    The Watch slowed.


    ¡°ARREST THEM!¡± their leader shouted.


    Warily, the men moved forward again.


    Cairan lifted his bow and drew it.


    Again, the Watch hesitated, glancing at each other nervously, as though hoping that someone else would arrest the angry Centaur.


    A tense silence fell. Nothing moved save the leaves and a scrap of rag that tumbled across the roadway.


    A hand clamped down on Requar¡¯s wrist, startling him.


    He looked to the side to see Arzath staring at him, and realised suddenly that his fingers were digging into his brother¡¯s arm.


    Slowly, Requar relaxed his grip, but Arzath did not remove his. His eyes continued to bore into Requar¡¯s.


    Finally, shoulders slumping in resignation, Requar allowed his hand to fall. A shimmer passed over Arzath as the magic melted away.


    Arzath took a moment to smooth out his silken sleeves and rearrange his cloak, brushing some dirt off it. Then he strolled forward to stand beside Cairan, folding his arms.


    The four Watchmen from the pass stepped backwards, gasping. The two in charge of the second youth looked puzzled. The Watch leader was either very brave or too shocked to move, as he remained frozen in place.


    The blood drained out of his face.


    He swallowed a few times before speaking. ¡°In¡­ in league with sorcerers!¡± he managed. ¡°I¡­ I shouldn¡¯t be surprised...¡±


    But he clearly was. There was a hint almost of betrayal in his voice, as though he couldn¡¯t believe that even Freeroamers would stoop so low.


    Requar watched gloomily. The crowd had grown larger, and at the mention of sorcerers, gasps and murmurs ran through them, rising above the sigh of the wind.


    The Watch were unlikely to flee, this time. There were witnesses, now.


    Commander Trice raised his eyebrows at Arzath¡¯s appearance, but did not deny the Watchman¡¯s accusation. ¡°As I said,¡± he answered carefully, ¡°we¡¯re all just passing through.¡±


    No one said anything. The Watch made no move to stand aside, though most of them shifted uncomfortably, their gazes flicking between Arzath, their commanding officer, and each other.


    Waiting to see what is going to happen, Requar thought. And hoping it isn¡¯t going happen to THEM¡­


    After a long, strained moment, Grisket gestured at the youths. ¡°Let those kids go,¡± he said. ¡°And let us pass.¡±


    Some colour returned to the Watch leader¡¯s cheeks as sparks of anger reignited. ¡°This is no business of yours!¡± he snapped.


    ¡°What did they do?¡±


    ¡°Nuffin!¡± the boy in the middle of the road shouted.


    ¡°If you must know,¡± the Watch leader replied, glaring at Grisket, ¡°we caught them red-handed attempting to steal a weapon from one of my men!¡±


    ¡°They never gave us no food!¡± the boy interjected defensively. ¡°Them Watch promised to give out food parcels, but they never gave us none! They was real picky about who they gave ¡®em to, yeah, and they accused us of bein¡¯ Outlanders!¡±


    Grisket regarded him. ¡°Are you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but¨C¡±


    ¡°They came here specifically to cause trouble!¡± the Watchman interrupted heatedly. ¡°We have caught many of their ilk! They pickpocket and claim food that is not meant for them, depriving genuinely starving folk of assistance!¡± He turned and gave the boy a vicious look. ¡°They are no refugees!¡±


    He spun back to face the Freeroamers, and waved a hand at the shelters. ¡°This camp is three times as large as it should be considering the actual number of homes that have been destroyed!¡±


    Judging by the boys¡¯ flushed faces and inability to meet anyone¡¯s eye, the officer¡¯s accusation was accurate.


    It was at that moment, however, that Arzath¡¯s patience finally reached breaking point.


    ¡°Fascinating!¡± he declared sarcastically, drawing everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°As much as I would love to stand here all day being subjected to petty rural politics, you and these ridiculous tinpot soldiers are standing in my way!¡± He carefully unfolded his arms, settling his stare on the Watch leader. ¡°Move.¡±


    The four Watchmen in front of the Freeroamers stepped wisely aside. The two guarding the kids didn¡¯t appear to have any idea what was going on. The Watch leader, considering his earlier experience in the pass, should have known better, but with the crowd watching decided to make a foolish attempt at bravado. He shifted his stance to indicate he had no intention of going anywhere.


    Oh dear, Requar thought. Sighing inwardly, he withdrew his Sword and waited for the inevitable.


    Arzath didn¡¯t bother to step forward, or give another warning. He simply lifted his hands in front of him, as though holding a bowl, and magic pooled into them, emitting a bright, lurid purple glow.


    Then, as everyone stared mesmerised, he moved his hands apart, crackling with energy, and slashed them violently downwards.


    Lightning crashed onto the group from the clouds above, a rapid series of blinding, deafening strikes.


    Everyone save the two sorcerers cowered in shock. Foxxin reared, almost throwing Grisket off his back. Requar didn¡¯t flinch, his shield flickering into place as an unconscious force of habit.


    The attack lasted only a couple of seconds, then it was over. For a moment there was a sudden, deep silence and stillness, before the wind picked up again, swirling tendrils of smoke that drifted from charred patches of road.


    Gradually, people removed their arms from over their heads. The Watch straightened themselves tentatively, looking amazed that they weren¡¯t dead. The two boys bolted into the camp before anyone could stop them.


    Remarkably, not a single person had been struck.


    Controlling elemental magic of this nature with such finesse and restraint was exceedingly difficult without a Sword to channel it. Requar was impressed.


    Astonishingly, the Watch leader picked himself up and resumed his stance. Though horribly pale and trembling, the fact that he was still alive actually seemed to have emboldened him.


    He was the only one still standing in their way.


    Arzath strode forward, his black cloak billowing.


    Now he¡¯s serious, Requar thought. Dismissing his shield and camouflage, he walked into view after his brother.


    The Watch leader pointed his sword at Arzath. He might as well have been holding out a fish.


    Arzath flipped it out of his hand with a bored gesture, summoning purple light into his fist.


    Requar stepped quietly up beside him, set his Sword point downward into the groove between the cobblestones, and folded his slender hands on top of the pommel stone. Not looking at either of them, he contemplated the grey sky, wondering how many times he was doomed to repeat versions of this conversation.


    ¡°My brother wishes to hurt you,¡± he said, still gazing at the clouds. ¡°Very much so.¡± He looked down at his hands. ¡°As a healer, I am obliged to save your life. However, in the meantime you are going to experience a great deal of pain.¡±


    He lifted his eyes to the petrified Watchman. ¡°You are not the villain here,¡± he said. ¡°We are. You will not lose face if you back away.


    ¡°Of course, you may hunt us down later, if you must. With pitchforks and your best angry mob. You may be suitably outraged from a safe distance¨C¡± he waved a hand idly¨C ¡°atop your shining horse, or what have you.


    ¡°But at this moment, the only person who is going to get hurt here...¡± he pointed at the Watchman. ¡°Is you.¡±


    The Watch leader swallowed several times. He looked a little blank, as though his brain had ceased functioning.


    Requar gestured gracefully at the rapt onlookers, and added: ¡°In front of everyone.¡±


    The Watch leader licked his lips, then made a valiant effort to compose himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out again. Straightening, he said, with all the politeness he could muster: ¡°Very well. My Lords; Freeroamers. You are free to pass. The Watch will not detain you any longer.¡±


    Then he stepped aside. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin, even though the wind was cold.


    Arzath walked slowly past him, magic still dancing on his fingers, his gaze burning into the Watchman, until he finally turned away, a smirk twitching on his lips.


    Requar put a hand to his chest and bowed slightly, giving the Watchman a grateful smile. ¡°Many thanks.¡± Taking up his Sword, he followed his brother.


    The Freeroamers came after. Grisket tipped his hat to the Watch leader as he went.


    They left the camp, and a hush in their wake.

 Chapter Ninety Eight

    A gruesome find; a chilly day


    At last a meeting of the ways.


    Three and a half days later, the Freeroamers and sorcerers found themselves in much wilder country, where the wind flew free and rippled the grass like waves on the ocean. Crowds and settlements vanished, and the signs of Ferrian¡¯s destruction dwindled as the land opened up to little more than rocks, grass and trees stooped like weary travellers on a pilgrimage to nowhere.


    The wind blew relentlessly in their faces from the direction of the mountains north, flaring cloaks, hair and tails behind them. It bore a sharpness to it that made them wonder if they were at last closing in on the infamous boy that they were seeking, or if it was merely an early change of season.


    The sky remained sullen, casting a dreary pallor over the landscape. The road beneath their feet was old and unused, weeds rustling restlessly in their passage.


    Cairan walked a little way ahead of the rest. His natural ability to sense magic meant that the sorcerers did not need to waste time and effort using spells to detect Ferrian¡¯s trail.


    There was only one road, however, and it led to only one place:


    Arkana.


    Grisket was baffled as to why the Gods Ferrian would want to travel to Arkana, until Requar told him about Grath Ardan.


    He felt hardly more enlightened, however, as it still did not explain why the boy had left the mentorship of two sorcerers to ride off to a forbidden library on his own.


    Requar seemed to think that Ferrian didn¡¯t trust them, which was understandable. But the kid was so intent on finding them, Grisket brooded.


    When he asked Requar what had happened at the castle, the sorcerer had difficulty answering, frowning as though he didn¡¯t understand it himself.


    Arzath kept to himself, striding at the back of the group and refused to engage in conversation.


    Grisket turned his attention forward, leaving Requar staring at the ground with a troubled expression, and Arzath staring at his back as though contemplating the possibility of blasting him off his horse and stealing the ride for himself.


    But he had more important things to worry about, such as what had become of the Freeroamers he had sent after Ferrian: Hawk, Raemint and Dogwyn. Were they with him now? Were they in danger? Having lost so many of his people already, he felt anxious for their safety. If any of them tried to return to the Guard House, they would find it no longer existed and a horrifying demon-Dragon had taken up residence there instead.


    Oddly, he also found himself thinking about Flint.


    He couldn¡¯t fathom why a Bladeshifter would have tried to save the life of a Freeroamer, but he was thankful more than he could say. He regretted having to abandon the man to his fate.


    Then, with a jolt, something that Dogwyn had said on the bridge flashed into his mind: Called himself Lord Requar. And he was travelling with a Bladeshifter, of all people. Some guy with a massive crossbow¡­


    He turned in his saddle. ¡°Requar.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm?¡±


    ¡°You know someone named Flint?¡±


    The sorcerer looked up at him in surprise. ¡°Starshadow Flint? Large hat and ridiculous crossbow?¡±


    Grisket nodded. ¡°That¡¯s him.¡±


    Requar blinked at him. ¡°I do indeed! You¡¯ve met him?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Grisket rubbed his beard. ¡°Back at Forthwhite. He saved Cairan¡¯s life: pulled him down the hill out of the flames.¡± He shook his head, frowning. ¡°I¡¯ve no idea why.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Requar replied. ¡°I would guess he had gone there to join you.¡±


    Grisket¡¯s eyebrows raised. ¡°You don¡¯t say?¡±


    Requar nodded. ¡°He had no desire to rejoin the Bladeshifters.¡± He raised an eyebrow. ¡°You may trust me on that.¡±


    Grisket mused. ¡°How d¡¯you know him?¡±


    Requar was quiet for a moment, then smiled slightly. ¡°That,¡± he said, ¡°is an interesting story.¡±


    Grisket smiled as well. ¡°Interesting enough to share?¡±


    Requar started to reply when an awful sound froze the blood in their veins.


    It was something in between a scream and a shriek. It took Grisket a horrified second to realise that it had come from Cairan.


    Up ahead, the Centaur surged into a full gallop.


    Feeling the pit of his stomach drop out, Grisket spurred Foxxin after him.


    A few yards later, however, he reined the stallion to an abrupt halt. He climbed out of his saddle, the world tilting around him, heart pounding in his ears.


    There was blood all over the road, vast amounts of it. It was dry, several days old at least, and there were bodies lying amongst it.


    Two wore black armour, like the rogue soldiers he had witnessed attacking people in Sunsee. One was a horse with no head. The others¡­


    Dogwyn and Raemint.


    They had been slaughtered.


    Cairan knelt by Raemint¡¯s side, weeping. Grisket did not want to move to the nearest body, but found his feet taking him there regardless.


    It was almost unrecognisable, save for the blue sleeve and silver, blood-smeared badge.


    He fell to his knees.


    Dimly, he noticed movement on his peripheral vision, of Requar placing a hand on his shoulder, saying something, shaking his head, moving away.


    Eventually, he became aware of talking, distant words carried on the breeze. Though his mind was wrapped in fog, something about the urgency of their tone caused him to turn his head.


    The others were gathered in the centre of the carnage, around Raemint. Requar knelt beside Cairan, his Sword out, gesturing with his free hand, apparently explaining something. Arzath stepped around him, up to the corpse and then took a step backwards in shock.


    What has been done to her? Grisket thought in grief and horror.


    He forced himself to get to his feet and walk over to them.


    ¡°¡­ need to take the sword out, but by all the Gods, do it carefully!¡± Requar was saying. ¡°Do NOT touch the blade!¡±


    Cairan took hold of the hilt of the black blade impaled in Raemint¡¯s side. There were tears on his face, but his eyes were fierce.


    Grisket looked down at the body. She looked very dead.


    Noticing his expression, Requar looked up. The sorcerer was pale, but his eyes were calm and determined. ¡°She lives,¡± he told the Freeroamer Commander. He shook his head. ¡°She should have died of her wounds, but the trigon is keeping her alive.¡±


    Grisket struggled to speak. ¡°Trigon?¡±


    Requar nodded. ¡°If we do nothing,¡± he continued quietly, ¡°she will eventually turn into a demon-wraith.¡±


    Grisket turned away, shaking.


    ¡°I can save her, Commander,¡± Requar said from behind him. ¡°I brought Arzath back, and his infection was far more advanced than this.¡±


    Grisket squeezed his eyes until the tears subsided, then turned back to them and nodded wordlessly.


    Cairan appeared to be having trouble sliding the sword out of his partner¡¯s body. The Centaur shook his head in frustration. ¡°It will not come out!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d best leave it in,¡± Arzath muttered darkly.


    They all looked at him, but he offered no further comment.


    Requar considered for a moment, then placed a hand on Cairan¡¯s shoulder and nodded, indicating that he should move away. ¡°Arzath,¡± Requar looked up at his brother. ¡°Collect the rest of the trigonic weapons and armour, take them away from the road and bury them as deeply as you can.¡±


    Arzath looked as though he would rather lop off his own arms. For a moment he just stood there staring around at the corpses, before finally, grudgingly, moving away to do as he was told.


    Requar turned to the others. ¡°Stand well back,¡± he warned. ¡°And do not, under any circumstances, interrupt me.¡±


    Breathing deeply, he placed a hand gently on the fallen Centaur¡¯s side and closed his eyes. ¡°It will take some time and require all of my concentration,¡± he said.


    Cairan got to his feet and he and Commander Trice moved away to the side of the road.


    Arzath finished blasting a hole in the ground with his magic. It was annoying work. Getting lightning to strike the same spot multiple times was practically impossible. He had to use short, sharp hand strikes, which were not as powerful, but eventually got the job done.


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    Standing in the wafting smoke of charred dirt and grass, he used more magic to drag the vile trigonic items into the hole: two swords, a helmet, and two corpses clad in black armour. Doing it this way was difficult and inefficient ¨C the trigon absorbed most of his magic ¨C but physically touching them was worse.


    He had no idea where the hell these things had come from, but their very existence sent boiling anger rushing through him.


    One trigonic dagger had ruined his entire family.


    A whole army equipped with such weapons¡­ and armour made of the stuff! It was likely those soldiers had gone insane.


    And now his brother was obliged to do battle with trigon again to save the life of yet another Freeroamer.


    He turned and looked towards the road. Requar crouched there alone. He had extricated the sword without incident and was now fighting to purge the Centaur¡¯s body of the black evil. His head was bowed, deep in concentration, his form almost obscured by the blazing blue light from his Sword and an inky halo of shadow that roiled around him.


    Arzath turned away from the incredible sight and his attention back to filling in the hole.


    Having completed this task, he stood with his hands on his hips, sweat from his exertions chill on his skin. After a moment of consideration, he lifted a hand and uprooted a nearby boulder, rolling it carefully over the disturbed patch of ground.


    Then he made his way back to the road.


    He gave Requar a wide berth, heading instead to where the Freeroamers stood sadly near their fallen comrade, the one far beyond saving. Grisket¡¯s fine red horse stood on the slope above them, oblivious, grazing.


    They seemed to be waiting for him, growing quiet and turning as Arzath approached.


    They asked if he would help them bury Dogwyn.


    ¡°No,¡± Arzath replied flatly.


    He cared nothing for these people. Let them bury their own damned dead!


    They looked taken aback, and Commander Trice gave him a dark look, but they said nothing. Instead they gathered up their friend and carried him up the grassy hillside.


    Arzath stood on the road with his arms folded, watching his brother and attempting to ignore the Freeroamers. But their pitiful attempts at digging into the hard, stony soil without any adequate tools irritated him. They would be there for a month at that rate.


    His foot tapped on the cobblestones.


    Finally, sighing loudly, he strode up to them, blasted a hole barely deep enough for a grave, then swept away, ignoring their heartfelt thanks.


    But something fluttered in his chest as he stepped back onto the road.


    He had never known true gratitude before.


    He had never, until now, granted anyone a favour, especially someone he barely knew.


    Feeling heat rising in his face, he folded his arms again and stared moodily down the road.


    * * *


    The journey through the mountains had been long and dismal. The Winter kept pace, white flakes falling gently around them, into a silence broken only by the soft crunch of the horses¡¯ hooves in the snow.


    Hawk rode quietly beside Ferrian. The Freeroamer had barely said a word since leaving Arkana, and this was worrying. Hawk had always been the cheerful one, always ready with a joke or a smile when their spirits were low, even in the darkest circumstances.


    But there was no one now to cheer up Hawk.


    Ferrian couldn¡¯t manage it, lost as he was in the murky swamp of his own thoughts. It felt wrong to leave a member of their party behind, to an uncertain fate. He wished he had ignored Hawk and gone in search of Mekka.


    But if the Angel had indeed gone to the Pit, there would be no trace of him left behind.


    They would never know.


    It was the not knowing, of course, that weighed on them both.


    Though it had been many days since they left the land of the Angels, Ferrian still occasionally searched the skies and the rocks around them, hoping for a glimpse of black feathers.


    Sometimes, he found them, but it was only crows.


    He eyed them warily, hoping that they weren¡¯t following him like those damned plant things in the jungle, waiting for a meal.


    They passed the old traveller¡¯s shelter that he, Hawk and Mekka had rested in shortly after Ferrian had met them. He suggested stopping for a break, but Hawk shook his head, insisting they press on, even though they had been riding since dawn. Ferrian didn¡¯t argue, but glanced at Hawk anxiously; his friend looked weary.


    I guess the Winter isn¡¯t helping, Ferrian thought gloomily. His magic might be preventing his body from deteriorating, but it wasn¡¯t doing much for anyone¡¯s mood.


    He tried to turn his attention to what to do when he reached the castle, but the fact was, he simply didn¡¯t know. He wasn¡¯t entirely sure why he was going back there in the first place, except that the Dragon wanted him to. But he had nowhere else in the world to be, so it was as good a destination as any, he supposed¡­


    He was ruminating on how to convince Hawk to return to the Freeroamers and leave him to continue his journey alone ¨C he was pretty sure there was no way that Hawk was going to agree to that ¨C when he noticed a glow through the fog ahead.


    He brought Serentyne to a halt. ¡°Hawk.¡±


    Hawk looked up and reined in Ardance. They both stared at the light for a moment. It was a bright, slightly scintillating patch in the gloom like the sun shining through water, clean and cold, and seemingly in the middle of the road.


    ¡°What is that?¡± Hawk commented. ¡°It doesn¡¯t look like a campfire.¡±


    Ferrian studied it nervously. ¡°It looks an awful lot like magic...¡±


    Hawk turned to him in surprise. ¡°Magic? How could¨C¡±


    A figure appeared out of the mist.


    They both drew their swords.


    The stranger approached unhurriedly, snow swirling around his black cloak, and stopped a short way from the horses.


    Then he lifted his head.


    A flash of fierce, familiar eyes beneath his hood caused Ferrian¡¯s sword arm to drop to his side. His mouth fell open.


    ¡°Well, well!¡± the figure below remarked. ¡°What a fortunate coincidence!¡±


    Ferrian climbed hurriedly down from Serentyne¡¯s back and walked a few steps forward, not believing what he was seeing. ¡°A¡­ Arzath?¡± he gasped. ¡°I¡­ I thought you were¡­¡±


    ¡°Back at the castle?¡± the sorcerer offered. ¡°Dying in a horribly gruesome way? Surely turned into a demon-wraith by now?¡±


    Ferrian didn¡¯t know what to say. He could do little more than gape.


    ¡°Tsk, tsk.¡± Arzath smirked. ¡°You really should make more of an effort to keep up with events, boy.¡±


    ¡°Ferrian?¡± Hawk appeared at Ferrian¡¯s side, silvertine sword in front of him. ¡°You know him?¡±


    ¡°And who is this?¡± Arzath looked Hawk up and down, then his eyes caught sight of the blue sleeve. He threw his arms up. ¡°Oh Gods, not another one of you Freeroamer people!¡± He made a sound of disgust. ¡°You are everywhere! Like rats!¡±


    Hawk¡¯s eyebrows raised, affronted. ¡°Excuse¨C¡±


    ¡°I expect your Commander will be pleased to see you, however,¡± Arzath cut him off, folding his arms across his chest. ¡°I imagine it will come as a relief to find at least one of his people still in one piece...¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Ferrian demanded.


    Hawk stared at him. ¡°Commander Trice is here?¡±


    Arzath raised an eyebrow. ¡°Oh, indeed.¡± He made a shooing gesture with his hand. ¡°Why don¡¯t you run along and find him?¡±


    Hawk hesitated. He stared into the gradually darkening fog ahead, then at Arzath, then at Ferrian.


    Ferrian watched Arzath for a moment, then turned to Hawk. ¡°Go ahead,¡± he sighed. ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±


    Hawk frowned. ¡°You sure?¡±


    Ferrian nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡± He rolled his eyes. ¡°What¡¯s he going to do to me? I¡¯m already dead.¡±


    Hawk cocked his head to indicate that Ferrian had a point. Then, with another uncertain glance at the sorcerer, he backed away and mounted Ardance. Nodding to Ferrian, he galloped ahead, disappearing into the mist.


    ¡°This had better not be a trick, Arzath.¡±


    The sorcerer snorted. ¡°Please. When have I ever given you reason to doubt me?¡±


    Ferrian hesitated. It was an unexpected question. Of course, he had pretended he¡¯d had magic when he hadn¡¯t, but that had been a matter of self-preservation, which would have ended horribly if Ferrian had not provided an escape route.


    He could not be sure if everything Arzath had told him about Requar was true, but considering what he¡¯d learned in Grath Ardan, Ferrian was inclined to believe that it was.


    He looked down at the snow and scuffed at it with his boot. ¡°Maybe you haven¡¯t,¡± he conceded.


    Arzath stepped forward.


    Despite himself, Ferrian raised his sword.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be a fool!¡± Arzath hissed. He swiped a hand. ¡°I did not travel halfway across the country in search of you in order to cause you harm, unless you provoke me!¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°And you¡¯d best think before pointing that Sword at anything!¡±


    Ferrian would have flushed, if he¡¯d had the ability to. But he could still feel embarrassed. He had forgotten that it was no longer a Sword of Frost but something highly dangerous that he wasn¡¯t completely sure how to control.


    He put it away and folded his arms across his chest. ¡°Why did you come here then?¡± he said, feeling sulky. ¡°To call me pathetic? To remind me that I¡¯m not worthy of wielding¨C¡±


    ¡°Requar is alive.¡±


    The words died in Ferrian¡¯s throat. He stared up at Arzath wide-eyed.


    ¡°Not just alive.¡± Arzath stepped nearer to him. ¡°Healed. Whole.¡± Arzath moved even closer, uncomfortably close, his eyes narrowing and his voice lowering. ¡°I came here to ensure that he stays that way.¡±


    Though Arzath had claimed that he didn¡¯t intend to hurt him, it was a clear warning that he wouldn¡¯t hesitate to do so if Ferrian crossed him.


    But Ferrian could hardly think about Arzath. His mind had taken a backward turn, his world shattered into a thousand pieces, as though he had gone inside his Sword and fallen through the wrong reality after all.


    He stared at the light in the distance, hazy through the mist. ¡°But,¡± he whispered. ¡°How? He was¡­¡± he shook his head uncomprehendingly. ¡°You said¡­ his mind was ruined¡­¡±


    ¡°It was.¡± Arzath took a breath and closed his eyes. ¡°I brought him back.¡±


    Arzath explained to him everything that had happened back at the castle, of his struggle to piece together his brother¡¯s mind, and eventual success.


    Of the lie he had been forced to tell to convince Requar to use the Sword of Healing on himself.


    Ferrian listened in silence.


    ¡°Do you see now,¡± Arzath said quietly, ¡°why it is imperative that you do not tell Requar what happened?¡±


    Ferrian said nothing for a long moment. ¡°Yes,¡± he replied finally.


    ¡°He must never know that he attempted to kill himself,¡± Arzath said emphatically. ¡°He will be undone!¡±


    Ferrian looked him in the eye. ¡°I won¡¯t tell him.¡±


    Arzath seemed to sag into himself, as though a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. He put his face in his hands, which were shaking.


    Feeling suddenly sorry for everything the sorcerer had been through, and moved by his remarkable change of heart regarding his brother, Ferrian repeated: ¡°I won¡¯t tell him. I promise.¡±


    Slowly, Arzath removed his hands from his face. Straightening, he attempted to regain his former composure, though Ferrian was certain he saw a glitter of tears in his eyes.


    The sorcerer said nothing, however, simply turned and strode back towards the light.


    Taking hold of Serentyne¡¯s reins, Ferrian quietly followed.


    Dusk descended swiftly, though there was no sun to declare it, just a deepening of the gloom and chill. The magical light dwindled and went out, leaving only a grey fog hiding everything beyond the road¡¯s edge.


    The corpse of a large animal passed to Ferrian¡¯s left; a horse maybe, covered in snow. He was disturbed to see that it had no head.


    His anxiety grew as a group of people materialised, huddled around something on the ground. He drew closer, then stopped in shocked recognition. ¡°Raemint,¡± he whispered.


    Hawk and Commander Trice stood looking down at the body; Cairan knelt at her head, cradling her. Arzath crouched beside a white-haired man that could only be Lord Requar.


    As they watched, the Centaur woman stirred. Everyone moved back as she rose to her feet, looking startled and confused.


    Cairan let out a sob and embraced her.


    Requar looked as though he was about to collapse. Arzath helped him up, retrieved his Sword and sheathed it for him.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Arzath,¡± Ferrian heard him say. ¡°Don¡¯t fuss...¡± But he held his head as he said it.


    Serentyne nudged Ferrian¡¯s shoulder; she was hungry. Ferrian stroked her nose and released her reins, allowing her to wander off in search of something edible.


    Then the sorcerers turned, and Requar lifted his head and saw him.


    There was an endless moment as they stared at each other through the drifting snow, each frozen in place.


    ¡°Ferrian,¡± Requar whispered.


    He was far more handsome than he had a right to be, Ferrian thought; his face surprisingly sympathetic, with eyes of piercing intelligence.


    The cold, empty space inside him expanded into a cavern, and began flooding with conflicting emotions...


    Requar started towards him.


    Ferrian took a step back, resisting the urge to reach for his Sword. He wasn¡¯t ready for this. He hadn¡¯t expected to meet Requar so soon; hadn¡¯t expected to meet him at all, actually. He had thought he would return to a castle full of wandering wraiths.


    The sorcerer stopped, his expression turning sad. ¡°Ah,¡± he said, closing his eyes. ¡°I see.¡± He nodded wearily, as though expecting this reaction.


    ¡°You need to rest,¡± Arzath told him abruptly, eyeing Ferrian.


    The Freeroamers were engaged in a joyful reunion and didn¡¯t appear to have noticed Ferrian, yet. Hawk was busy with conversation, so Ferrian decided to speak up.


    ¡°There¡¯s a shelter a couple of miles back that way.¡± He pointed north. Then, without looking at anyone, turned and walked over to the horses.


    It occurred to him, as he fed Serentyne a handful of oats from the saddlebag, that she was in fact Requar¡¯s horse and that he would most likely want her back.


    ¡°Guess it¡¯s bye, then,¡± he said sadly, stroking her mane. Ardance peered at him from over Serentyne¡¯s back, wanting some oats as well but too proud to ask for them.


    ¡°Ferrian!¡±


    This time it was not Requar, but Commander Trice.


    ¡°Commander,¡± Ferrian greeted him awkwardly, feeling suddenly incredibly self-conscious. Hawk was used to his appearance, but the other Freeroamers weren¡¯t yet aware of his¡­ condition.


    Unsure of what to say, he rubbed his neck. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ um¡­ kind of¡­ dead.¡±


    If Grisket was repulsed or shocked, he didn¡¯t show it. Ferrian was glad it was getting dark, and they were all little more than shadows, now. ¡°We know, lad,¡± Grisket said reassuringly.


    Then, without warning, he pulled Ferrian into a hug.


    Ferrian let him.

 Chapter Ninety Nine

    Deep in frosty, frozen night


    A glimpse of shadow; a spark of light.


    ¡°Well, this is familiar!¡±


    Hawk stood in the warm glow spilling from the shelter¡¯s entrance, hands on hips, breastplate glimmering. Ferrian sat in the icy darkness outside, amongst the frozen weeds, in exactly the same place he had sat some weeks previously, when they had first passed this way.


    He was glad he had an excuse not to stay inside. The heat of the fire was unbearable, but the curious glances from his companions even more so. Thankfully, he had been spared a conversation with Lord Requar: the sorcerer had collapsed into an exhausted slumber the moment they had set foot inside the cave.


    Now Ferrian sat in the falling snow, staring into the blackness of the night, his mind once again conjuring thoughts he wished it wouldn¡¯t. He felt lonely and hollow inside, as though he wasn¡¯t really a part of the group; he couldn¡¯t sit with them, couldn¡¯t eat with them, couldn¡¯t share their warmth and laughter. He was even more of a freak now than he had been when this journey had started.


    Until now, he had been so intent on finding Grath Ardan that he hadn¡¯t really given much thought to how he appeared to others. But meeting Grisket and the Freeroamers again had made him painfully aware of how much had changed since they had last seen each other.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Hawk said, when Ferrian made no response. ¡°You¡¯d better not be blaming yourself for Constable Dogwyn¡¯s death.¡±


    Of course I am, Ferrian thought bitterly. Practically everyone he had come into contact with for the past couple of months had suffered in some way or been killed because of him. The enormity of the destruction that his Winter had caused was something that he had still not yet fully come to terms with. It was a huge, numb hole in the middle of his mind, pulling all thoughts in towards it. He just took it for granted now that wherever he went, someone was likely to die¡­


    Hawk crunched over the frosty grass and sat down beside him. For a long moment the Freeroamer simply stared at the drifting snowflakes with Ferrian.


    Then he lifted an arm and punched Ferrian lightly in the shoulder.


    Ferrian ignored him, continuing to gaze into the darkness.


    Hawk punched him again.


    Again, Ferrian did nothing.


    Hawk punched him hard enough that he had to flail a hand out to stop himself falling over.


    ¡°Okay!¡± Ferrian burst out. ¡°Alright! Geez! Don¡¯t put a hole in my arm!¡± He glared at Hawk.


    His friend merely gave him an amused look. ¡°To go with the one in your shoulder there,¡± he said, pointing, ¡°and the one in your chest...¡±


    Ferrian¡¯s glare turned into a flat look. ¡°Funny.¡±


    Hawk chuckled, evidently thinking so.


    ¡°So,¡± the Freeroamer mused after a moment¡¯s silence. ¡°Found those sorcerers after all, eh? Never expected that! Nor Commander Trice with them, just wandering down the road looking for us!


    ¡°And that Lord Requar...¡± Hawk shook his scruffy, snow-dusted head. ¡°From what I hear, Constable Raemint should have perished. Run through with a trigonic sword...¡± He shook his head again, as though unable to believe what had happened. ¡°That Sword of Healing¡­ it just¡­ brought her back. Banished the trigon from her body. Just like that...¡±


    He rubbed his injured arm as he said it, staring down at the improvised bandages. ¡°He didn¡¯t know her from a bar of soap,¡± Hawk went on quietly, half to himself, ¡°and he spent all of his energy saving her life. Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve met many blokes that would¡¯ve done the same, even with incredible power like that. He seems like a mighty decent¨C¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not.¡± Ferrian cut him off abruptly. His glare had returned, smouldering not at Hawk but into the blackness beyond the mist, as though he could burn the night away with the force of his silver stare alone.


    Hawk stared at him, taken aback, but Ferrian did not elaborate.


    ¡°You should get him to fix that arm, though,¡± he went on, not looking at Hawk, his voice sounding colder than he meant it to. ¡°You¡¯re infected, too.¡±


    The silence that followed was deep and awkward. The soft, murmuring chatter that had been filtering from the cave mouth had ceased; the others had obviously retired for the night. Now Hawk and Ferrian sat alone in the chill by the side of the road, with the last dying embers of the campfire dancing on the snow.


    Slowly, Hawk leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands before him. ¡°You learnt something in Grath Ardan,¡± he said quietly. It was a statement rather than a question.


    Hawk wasn¡¯t looking at him, but Ferrian turned his head away anyway. ¡°A¡­ few things,¡± he answered uncomfortably.


    Hawk was silent. Ferrian expected him to say something more, but he didn¡¯t, which made him feel unaccountably guilty for keeping things from his friend. Plucking irritably at the frozen grass, he decided suddenly that there was no reason not to tell Hawk what he had discovered.


    He let out a long, slow sigh. ¡°He gave me to the gypsies,¡± he stated.


    Hawk looked up at him in surprise. ¡°Whoa,¡± he replied. Then he frowned in confusion and shook his head. ¡°Wait¡­ what?¡±


    ¡°I thought¡­¡± Ferrian paused, then went on uncertainly. ¡°At first I thought¡­ maybe, he murdered my parents. Or killed them by accident, and decided to give me up out of¡­ guilt, or something. But¡­ now¡­¡± He hesitated again. He didn¡¯t need to breathe, but took a deep breath anyway. ¡°Now I¡¯m afraid¡­ I think¡­ he might be...¡±


    Hawk grabbed his arm suddenly, startling Ferrian and silencing the rest of his sentence.


    Hawk put a finger to his lips.


    Ferrian gave him an anxious look. Hawk was peering intently into the night.


    ¡°Hawk?¡±


    ¡°I thought I saw something,¡± Hawk whispered, nodding to their right.


    They both watched the darkness beyond the gently swirling snow. Ferrian¡¯s vision wasn¡¯t good in the dim light; to him they faced a black, velvety cold wall, with a few white specks fading in and out of it.


    If something was out there, Ferrian couldn¡¯t tell.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he whispered back nervously.


    Hawk hesitated. ¡°No,¡± he admitted. ¡°It¡¯s damned dark out here!¡±


    Ferrian was glad that he wasn¡¯t the only one who couldn¡¯t see anything, but it was hardly a reassuring thought. An irrational joke welled up despite himself. ¡°I thought you had eyes like a hawk.¡±


    He could barely see Hawk¡¯s face in the gloom, but he was certain the Freeroamer rolled his eyes. ¡°Funny!¡± Hawk hissed.


    They were both on edge now, however, and Ferrian knew that Hawk was thinking the same thing he was:


    Black soldiers.


    Then an even more horrible thought crawled insidiously over the top of that one, baring its pointed teeth.


    What if I didn¡¯t kill all of the Murons?!


    He had assumed that he had wiped out the last of them in Grath Ardan, but what if he hadn¡¯t? What if there was one remaining, lurking in the forest? What if it had followed them all the way from Arkana?!


    They stared into the night; tense, waiting.


    But nothing happened.


    ¡°Maybe it was the mist?¡± Ferrian ventured. A Muron wouldn¡¯t attack them now, surely? With two sorcerers in the cave behind them? ¡°You could have imagined¨C¡±


    They both heard it clearly.


    A soft, sharp crunch in the silence: like a footstep.


    Hawk shifted position, quickly but quietly, rising into a crouch, hand on his sword.


    Ferrian did likewise, sliding his Sword of¡­ Sword of¡­ Doom from its sheath as silently as he could manage.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°Go inside and warn the others!¡± Hawk whispered, leaning close. ¡°I¡¯ll go and¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, Hawk!¡± Ferrian hissed back. ¡°I¡¯m already dead: you¡¯re not! I should be the one to--¡±


    ¡°Kid!¡± Hawk glared at him in the dimness. ¡°Did you see that horse carcass back there?! You may be dead, but you can still lose your¨C¡±


    Their arguing cost them valuable seconds. Something appeared out of the mist, a shadow detaching itself from the surrounding darkness.


    They both froze for half a second. Then Ferrian leapt forward, hoping to draw the thing¡¯s attention before Hawk had a chance to do something equally as crazy.


    Lifting his Sword, he began to swing it at the black figure before Hawk¡¯s sudden cry of warning threw him off balance. He tried to pull up short and his attack flew wildly past the thing as he slipped on the icy cobblestones, spun in a half-turn and fell clumsily onto his back.


    ¡°Oh Gods!¡± Hawk gasped. ¡°Oh Gods!¡±


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Panicking, Ferrian scrambled to get up, his footing treacherous on the ice and snow. Snatching up his Sword, he spun¡­


    To see the black thing fall in a heap in front of Hawk.


    The Freeroamer dropped his sword, a glimmer of silver in the reflected firelight, and sank to his knees.


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Ferrian cried again, running towards them.


    Then a gasp left his own throat as a shock of realisation flashed through him. He threw himself to his knees as well.


    ¡°Mekka?!¡±


    It was indeed the black-winged Angel. His wings were stiff against his back, slick with frost, his clothing stuck to him. He was hunched over, his arms hugged against his chest, black-gloved hands curled into immovable claws. Dark hair, where it fell across his face and eye patch, seemed frozen there.


    ¡°Oh, Gods, Hawk, did you¡­¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Hawk shook his head. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t touch him!¡±


    Hawk seemed to be having trouble breathing, and Ferrian glanced at him in alarm, wondering if he was in pain. But the Freeroamer was merely trying to stifle sobs of relief. He put an arm across his face.


    Ferrian turned back to the Angel. ¡°Mekka! Are you all right? How did you get here? Did you follow us all the way from Arkana?!¡±


    Mekka¡¯s voice was a barely discernible whisper over his pale, cracked lips. ¡°F-follow¡­ f-follow¡­ no s-sleep¡­ Angels¡­ d-darkness¡­ d-dead Angels, d-dead Angels¡­ whispering, c-calling¡­ f-follow¡­ c-cannot stay¡­ f-follow¡­ the d-darkness...¡±


    ¡°Hawk, we have to get him inside, he¡¯s delirious!¡±


    Composing himself, Hawk wiped at his face and helped Ferrian get Mekka to his feet. Carefully, they half-carried, half-dragged him into the shelter. The Angel didn¡¯t seem capable of walking any further, and appeared only vaguely conscious. They set him down beside the fire. Hawk immediately began gathering fresh wood and stoking the flames back to life.


    Ferrian looked around anxiously. The others were all asleep. The Centaurs lay on the floor in one corner, curled up against each other beside the horses, who dozed standing up. Grisket was wrapped in his cloak opposite. The sorcerers were off to his left, in the far, narrow end of the cave. Arzath sat with his back to the wall, head forward on his chest, eyes closed.


    The Sword of Healing lay on the sandy floor at Requar¡¯s back.


    Ferrian¡¯s eyes lingered on it, and on the sleeping form of its owner, wrapped in his blue cloak.


    He¡¯s exhausted, Ferrian thought. He used all of his magic to save Raemint. Is he capable of helping Mekka?


    Ferrian¡¯s eyes went back to the Sword. Could I do it? I used it once¡­ didn¡¯t I?


    Getting to his feet, he walked quickly across the floor to Commander Trice, and shook him awake. ¡°Commander!¡±


    Grisket turned over grumpily and peered up at him groggily.


    ¡°Commander, it¡¯s Mekka!¡±


    Grisket blinked at him and pushed himself upright. Rubbing his face, he stared at the black, frozen, winged form by the fire. His grey eyebrows raised. ¡°By the Gods!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°What¡­¡±


    ¡°Please¡­ I need your cloak.¡±


    The Commander relinquished it at once, bundling it into Ferrian¡¯s arms. Ferrian took it over to the Angel, draping it around him as best he could.


    Grisket got up and came over, kneeling on Mekka¡¯s other side. He put a hand on the Angel¡¯s shoulder, face drawn in concern. ¡°Where¡¯d the lad come from?¡± he asked incredulously. ¡°I thought he¡¯d returned to Selvar.¡±


    Hawk, attending the fire, shook his head. ¡°Decided to tag along with me at the last minute,¡± he replied, and sighed. ¡°Damn him.¡±


    Mekka was oblivious to all of them, whispering something undecipherable under his breath.


    He wasn¡¯t shivering, Ferrian noticed. That was a bad sign.


    Ferrian looked over his shoulder again, at Requar¡¯s Sword.


    Mekka is NOT going to die! he thought vehemently.


    Getting to his feet, he balled his fists, steeling himself. Then he walked towards the sorcerers.


    Arzath¡¯s legs were stretched out across his path, blocking access to Requar and the Sword. Ferrian hesitated, staring down at them.


    He had just worked up the courage to step over those golden-black boots when Arzath opened his eyes and lifted his head.


    Crap, Ferrian swore. He wasn¡¯t as fast asleep as Ferrian had assumed¡­


    The sorcerer gave him the kind of look Ferrian thought a tired Dragon might if a Human suddenly woke it up by stabbing it in the nose.


    Arzath turned his gaze from Ferrian to sweep around the cave, and it came to rest on Mekka.


    He got to his feet quicker and more gracefully than Ferrian would have expected. ¡°What is this?¡± he demanded. ¡°An infirmary?! Get him out of here!¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s my friend!¡± Ferrian retorted. ¡°He needs help!¡±


    Arzath took two steps towards him. The sorcerer was a couple of inches taller than he was, and looked ready to shred Ferrian with his bare hands, but Ferrian held his place, and returned Arzath¡¯s glare.


    ¡°I do not care,¡± Arzath said, voice lowered in anger, ¡°if that is the last Angel in Arvanor! Get. Him. OUT!¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Ferrian reached back and withdrew his Sword.


    Arzath did not move. ¡°You will not use that,¡± he sneered. ¡°You and I both know it. You aren¡¯t capable of controlling that kind of power.¡± He raised a hand. ¡°I, on the other hand¡­¡±


    Ferrian clutched his Sword tightly with both hands, knowing that Arzath was about to try and fling it out of his grip. A rush of desperate anger surged through him. He refused to abandon Mekka to his fate because of Arzath¡¯s arrogance.


    The sorcerer could do to him whatever the hell he wanted, but Ferrian would NOT stand by and let another friend die!


    The Winter responded to his fury. He felt the white light blaze through him. Not even bothering with a concentration spell, he let it come. Let it fill him. Somewhere on the edge of his mind, he sensed the danger, but he no longer cared.


    The anger solidified into a cold, hard ball. Frost rushed outwards from his hands, his feet, covering anything it touched. Wind and snow raced in through the entrance, flattening the campfire and causing everyone to shield themselves.


    Before he realised what he was doing, the Sword in his hands glowed to life. A high-pitched keening sound filled the air.


    Arzath stepped backward hurriedly, a stunned expression crossing his face, his purple shield flickering protectively into place.


    Ferrian could feel himself being drawn downwards, into his Sword, and suddenly, he panicked.


    No, he thought, his anger fleeing in blind fear. No, this isn¡¯t what I want!


    The keening sound was deafening now, his Sword trembling as though seeking to leap from his hands. His vision began to darken and distort, his sense of reality dissolving. The shelter seemed to fade into the distance¡­


    NO!


    He didn¡¯t know how to stop it, his mind was tangled up with emotion¡­ so he did the only thing he could think of: he tried to drop the Sword.


    But his hands seemed fixed to the hilt, as though part of it. To his horror, he couldn¡¯t tell where his body ended and the Sword began¡­


    ¡°Dragon!¡± he cried. ¡°Help!¡± He focused with all his might on the place he thought his hands had been, trying to pull them apart, trying to pull his whole body apart if he had to¡­


    Darkness.


    Silence.


    ¡°NO!¡± he yelled into the eerily familiar black void. ¡°No! Dragon, where are you? Please, I have to get out of here! My friends are in trouble!¡±


    Silence.


    Ferrian squeezed his eyes shut, though it made no difference. Focus, he thought desperately. Focus, focus! The Dragon can¡¯t hear you in here, she can¡¯t help¡­


    But his fear was overwhelming. He didn¡¯t want to go back into that shattered room, didn¡¯t want to see the horrifying alternate outcomes of which he was forced to choose¡­


    You are capable of controlling this power, a soft, melodic voice floated through his distraught consciousness.


    It was the most wondrous thing he had ever heard.


    Be free, Ferrian¡­


    And then his vision returned.


    He found himself kneeling on the floor of the cave. The sand had turned to granules of ice; his Sword lay in front of him.


    He looked down at his hands, stupefied, half-expecting them to be shredded to pieces. But one was bound in dirty bandages, the other as pale and dead as it had been for some time now.


    He looked around himself.


    Ice covered the walls of the shelter, and the floor, with mounds of snow piled up around the edges. In the furthest corner, the horses cowered. Cairan and Raemint had hold of them, the Centaurs very much awake now, looking cold and alarmed.


    Grisket and Hawk sheltered Mekka. The fire was all but extinguished; a single flame flickered forlornly in the embers, scattering a dim light about the cave.


    Ferrian watched the Freeroamers unfurl themselves. Hawk shook snow out of his hair, then checked Mekka¡¯s condition.


    ¡°Not good,¡± he told Grisket worriedly. ¡°We¡¯re losing him. He¡¯s hardly breathing¡­¡±


    Ferrian turned to find Arzath.


    The sorcerer crouched beside his brother, his face pale but his eyes burning with mingled fury and fear. He hadn¡¯t expected Ferrian to call his bluff.


    Ferrian hadn¡¯t expected to, either.


    ¡°W-wake Requar,¡± Ferrian ordered, his voice hoarse.


    Arzath made no move to comply.


    ¡°WAKE HIM!¡±


    Ferrian¡¯s scream filled the shelter, a fresh wave of frost crackling softly outwards from where he knelt.


    Wordlessly, Arzath turned and attempted to rouse Requar.


    The white-haired sorcerer was deeply asleep, and did not respond.


    Hell, Ferrian thought despondently, he didn¡¯t wake up with a Winter storm on top of him¡­


    Arzath shook his brother several more times without success. Finally, he placed a trembling hand to Requar¡¯s temple. A soft purple glow leaked from his fingers.


    Requar stirred. Assisted by magic and Arzath¡¯s reluctant coaxing, he gradually awoke.


    Arzath helped him up into a sitting position and handed him some water. Requar blinked and rubbed at his eyes, trying to keep them open. He looked wrecked, as though he hadn¡¯t slept in a week.


    Ferrian would have felt guilty about dragging him out of his rest if Mekka¡¯s life hadn¡¯t depended on it.


    ¡°Lord Requar,¡± Ferrian said quietly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but my friend is going to die without your help.¡± He looked down at the sand and added: ¡°Please.¡±


    He could feel the sorcerer¡¯s eyes on him, but Requar said nothing. He just reached out for his Sword and used it to push himself to his feet.


    Ferrian got up as well and stepped quickly out of the way as Requar walked slowly through the cave, supporting himself with his Sword, stooping a little as the ceiling was low. Hawk moved aside, allowing him to kneel before Mekka.


    Requar took the Angel¡¯s deathly pale face in his hands and gently lifted it. ¡°Arzath,¡± he whispered. ¡°A light.¡±


    Arzath came forward and provided one without question, summoning a globe of bright purple light into his hand. He looked over at Ferrian as he did so, his expression far from friendly.


    Requar touched Mekka¡¯s forehead lightly with his fingertips, and closed his eyes.


    Everyone watched and waited breathlessly.


    After a long moment of silence, Requar whispered: ¡°Hypothermic. Prolonged cold exposure. No physical trigonic infection. But¡­ he has come into contact with it. His thoughts are black. His mind¡­ collapsed. His body is on the point of failure.¡±


    Opening his eyes, Requar moved his fingers down to the eye patch. Very carefully, he peeled it aside, examining the old wound beneath. He prodded the skin gently. ¡°The eye is intact.¡± He nodded. ¡°Good.¡±


    He turned to the Sword on his lap and unsheathed it, then hesitated, looking at everyone gathered around the room. ¡°This may look a little gruesome,¡± he apologised, ¡°but I assure you, he will not be harmed.¡±


    Taking up the Sword of Healing, he positioned it point first in front of Mekka¡¯s blind eye. Then, holding Mekka¡¯s chin up with his free hand, he slowly slid the Sword into his eye, until the gleaming blade protruded from the back of his head.


    Hawk drew an audible breath, and Ferrian winced and looked away. There was no blood on the Sword, of course, but it was indeed a disconcerting sight.


    Arzath allowed his light to go out as blue magic flared along the Sword.


    Ferrian sank to the ground and rested his back against the wall of the cave.


    Relief flooded through him.

 Chapter One Hundred

    On peaceful eve, ¡®neath sun¡¯s last ray


    Blood and darkness to end the day.


    The road was a little-used one, just a couple of cart-ruts along a grassy path that wound through a forest of oak and birch trees. Yellow leaves fluttered to the ground, catching the late afternoon sunlight. A tiny creek trickled amid ferny shadows, spanned by a small, simple wooden bridge formed of felled logs.


    With the sun falling in hazy streamers at their backs walked five black-clad men, incongruous against the lazy green and gold of the trees and twittering birds that hopped across the path. Now and then, one of them spat into the undergrowth.


    Their leader strode at the head of the small group ¨C what was left of the once-notorious Bladeshifters ¨C fuming. A knife flashed at his side, twirling absently in his left ¨C his only ¨C hand.


    His dark eyes flashed even more fiercely, shaded by a sweep of blond fringe.


    His entire body felt as though it was burning from within, filled with a pressure that grew steadily more intense with each passing day. He had lost all of his best, most loyal, and most skilled people ¨C Bloodmoon Grim had been the final straw.


    He hadn¡¯t bothered to hang around waiting for Grim or Darkstar to return, figuring they would turn up if they were still alive.


    They hadn¡¯t.


    Now he was left rolling around with the dregs at the bottom of the barrel: a ragtag bunch of losers who had survived only by virtue of their cowardice.


    It occurred to him that he could count himself among their number, but he brushed the thought angrily aside.


    If that damned Dragon hadn¡¯t intervened!


    If the Dragon hadn¡¯t intervened, he reminded himself, there was a good chance that Flint would have shot his other arm off and demanded to know where his sister was.


    Nightwalker snorted a laugh. Too bad, Flint, he thought. Too bad you never knew that she was right in front of your stupid face the entire time¡­


    The expression on Flint¡¯s face had been more than worth finally revealing that little secret. However, it meant one thing was for certain, now.


    Flint would be searching for him.


    The knife twirled faster; back and forth, flashing in the sun.


    He had hoped, of course, that the wretched traitor had died in the fire, but the rational part of his mind told him that if he had been able to escape the conflagration, then Flint would have, as well.


    That Starshadow Flint was likely still alive bothered him.


    It bothered him a great deal.


    He caught himself checking over his shoulder from time to time, and cursed himself for it. Thankfully, the other men were too distracted flicking glances at the sky, thinking the Dragon was coming after them; or else thought he shared their own nervousness. For the love of hell, two of them were stone-cold killers, the others petty thieves, and all of them near pissed themselves every time a cloud passed over¡­


    Nightwalker stopped abruptly at the edge of the old log bridge. His knife went still in his hand. Then he spun.


    ¡°We¡¯re going back,¡± he declared, and started walking back the way they had come.


    For a long moment, the four remaining Bladeshifters just stared at him dumbly while their brains struggled to catch up. Then one of them spoke.


    ¡° ¡®Ang on,¡± he said slowly. ¡°I fought we was goin¡¯ to Skywater?¡±


    One of the other men snorted. ¡°You wish!¡±


    Nightwalker stopped again, but didn¡¯t turn. He tapped his knife slowly against his thigh, staring at the sun-dappled road ahead. He didn¡¯t have time to deal with these imbeciles.


    ¡°We are not going to Skywater,¡± he replied calmly. ¡°We are going back to Forthwhite.¡±


    ¡°What the hell for?¡± a grating voice complained. It was Blackeye, a short, dark-haired, barrel-shaped man who was always lagging behind. He was probably still alive only because he had arrived at the scene far later than everyone else. ¡°There¡¯s a bloody black monster sittin¡¯ on top of the town!¡±


    ¡°I din¡¯t sign up for this!¡± Horsehair Bill agreed. ¡°I din¡¯t sign up to the Blades for no Draggins!¡±


    There was a chorus of ¡®ayes!¡¯ from the others.


    Nightwalker¡¯s arm moved with a swift, casual grace, and Blackeye dropped to the ground like a boulder.


    He could have killed any one of them: they were all equally useless. But Blackeye was closest.


    ¡°You signed up to the Bladeshifters,¡± he told them as he sauntered over to the still-twitching body, ¡°because all of you are boot scum, with nowhere else to go.¡± Placing his own black boot on the huge chest, he leaned down and pulled his knife from the man¡¯s throat. Blood spilled into the grass, pooling under the Bladeshifter¡¯s head.


    Nightwalker remained in position, inspecting the blood-coated blade with his arm resting on his knee. ¡°And I am your leader,¡± he reminded them, ¡°because none of you,¡± he pointed at them with a slow arc of his knife, ¡°have the balls to stick one of these,¡± he tossed the knife into the air and caught it, ¡°into my back.


    ¡°Now,¡± he went on, in a reasonable tone of voice. ¡°I¡¯m going that way,¡± he pointed with his knife. ¡°North, to Forthwhite. I have reason to believe that Flint is still alive, and I don¡¯t want him sneaking up on me with that damned Justifier. The rest of you are perfectly welcome to go south,¡± he gestured again with his weapon, ¡°but you should know that the first man so much as glances in that direction might, if he¡¯s lucky, get about¡­ oh, half a step before ending up like old Blackeye here.¡±


    Nightwalker straightened and shrugged, as though it was of no consequence to him. Which it wasn¡¯t. ¡°Up to you.¡±


    The Bladeshifters were silent. Bill had drawn his mace, but swallowed, looking like he was doubting that decision. The other two were youngsters, just boys, a couple of years younger than Nightwalker, but mentally about twenty years less experienced. They were twin brothers, and barely knew what they were doing in the Bladeshifters in the first place. They simply nodded, looking pale. No one caught Nightwalker¡¯s gaze.


    He gave them all a cheerful smile, wiped his blade clean on Blackeye¡¯s leather jacket, then stuck it in his belt. ¡°Good!¡± He began walking north.


    Only to find one of their number who hadn¡¯t been there before.


    A small, slender figure emerged from the leafy shadows of a tree.


    Nightwalker¡¯s steps, as well as his thoughts, stopped in their tracks.


    Darkstar.


    He recovered from his astonishment quickly. ¡°Where the hell have you been?¡± he demanded.


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    The girl slunk tentatively out onto the road, eyeing Blackeye¡¯s corpse. She met Nightwalker¡¯s stare, briefly, before glancing away. ¡°Doing things,¡± she replied evasively.


    ¡°Doing things?¡± Nightwalker repeated.


    Darkstar circled him carefully, nonchalant but guarded at the same time, heading towards the others. She shrugged. ¡°Personal stuff.¡±


    Personal? Her? Darkstar was one of the most impersonal and unemotional people he had ever met.


    ¡°Oh?¡± he replied, raising an eyebrow. ¡°And you can¡¯t tell me what it is because¡­?¡±


    Darkstar paused in the middle of the group, folding her arms tightly across her chest, as though hugging herself. Flicking her hair out of her eyes, she stared into the gently rustling leaves beside the path.


    To her credit, she didn¡¯t tell him it was none of his business. She knew better than that. She was a Bladeshifter: everything any of them did was his business.


    And she knew he wouldn¡¯t tolerate secrets, or lies.


    Instead, she did the admirable, but not necessarily smartest thing.


    She turned around to face him, lifting her head to look him directly in the eye.


    ¡°I killed Flint,¡± she said simply.


    Nightwalker stared at her. Her eyes were shadowed, cold and hard, without the slightest hint of remorse. They were challenging eyes; she knew he would be furious, and she didn¡¯t care.


    You killed Flint, he thought. You¡¯d stab me in the back, wouldn¡¯t you, Darkstar? You already have.


    He had wanted a piece of Flint to stick on his jacket. Wanted it more than anything, and she had taken that opportunity from him. He hadn¡¯t even been there to see the expression on Flint¡¯s face before he died, or the exquisite moment of realisation at who his sister really was.


    He eased his body into a relaxed stance, keeping his expression carefully under control. He nodded, and forced a smile. ¡°Well done,¡± he said. ¡°That bastard had it coming. So!¡± he swept out his hand, looking around at them all. ¡°Skywater it is then! The taverns await our esteemed company!¡± He gestured at the girl. ¡°Why don¡¯t you scout ahead, Darkstar?¡±


    Darkstar didn¡¯t move at once, just stared at him, trying to read his expression. Then, glancing aside at the other men, she slowly started walking.


    None of the others made any move to follow. Nightwalker shrugged and strolled unhurriedly after her.


    Darkstar reached the log bridge and hesitated, glancing over her shoulder.


    That¡¯s right, Nightwalker thought, still outwardly smiling. You¡¯ll have to cross that bridge before you can skulk off into the trees, like the little rat you are.


    He could see her calculating her chances, whether she was quick enough to make it across or if she should try for the creek¡­


    As soon as she turned her back, Nightwalker slipped his knife out of his belt.


    She stepped out across the logs. The creek gurgled beneath her. Butterflies floated amongst the ferns. Then she went for the third option.


    There was a soft clink as Nightwalker parried the dart.


    Darkstar turned and ran.


    She was fast¡­ but not fast enough.


    A small, mouse-like squeak left her lips as she pitched forward into the grass beyond the bridge.


    Nightwalker continued walking, his boots thumping on the logs. You had it coming too, Darkstar, he thought coldly. You b--


    His vision went instantly red as his chest exploded.


    The two young Bladeshifters fled, terrified, into the forest in opposite directions, leaving only one man left standing on the track.


    Two men.


    ¡°Evenin¡¯, Bill.¡± A badly burned man in a large, scorched hat nodded to the Bladeshifter as he cranked another bolt onto his giant crossbow.


    Horsehair Bill was bloodless, his mouth, full of cracked and rotten teeth, open. He dropped his mace and ran across the bridge, leaping Nightwalker¡¯s gruesome body, his horse-hair helmet falling off into the creek, and pelted off south down the grassy road.


    That left only Starshadow Flint, standing alone in the long shadows and slanting light of the setting sun, listening to the peaceful chirping of birds, while golden leaves drifted softly around him, coming to rest on the blood-soaked carnage.


    Nothing much seemed to have changed. He had thought that assassinating someone ¨C Nightwalker especially ¨C would feel more¡­ momentous, somehow. Just a moment ago was a world in which Nightwalker existed. Now, he didn¡¯t. But the sun continued to set, the leaves sighed softly on the trees, and those still alive carried on living.


    Except that now, Flint was finally a killer.


    He hadn¡¯t thought he was, until now.


    Funny, that.


    Hefting the Justifier with both hands, he limped over to the bridge.


    Eltorian Nightwalker was dead. Dead beyond any doubt. The bolt had gone right through him, landing in the grass some way ahead. It had made a mess of him.


    Flint stared down at the body. This time, there was no sorcerer to save him.


    He wondered if even Requar could have fixed that.


    Blood leaked between the logs, dripping into the clear water of the creek.


    Flint stepped around him and went over to Darkstar.


    She was still alive, panting into the ground. To his surprise, her eyes were filled with tears, trailing through her makeup, leaving dark streaks down her face. He was under no illusion that they were for him, however. Or Nightwalker. Or anyone save her own, sorry self.


    He looked at her in silence. There was nothing to say. The creature lying in front of him was not his sister. He had come to realise that the quiet, shy, sweet little girl he had known as Sandy had never existed. She was a figment of his imagination.


    This thing was a monster.


    He bent down and yanked the knife out of her back, causing her to gasp and shudder. Then he lifted the Justifier and pointed it down at her.


    He didn¡¯t bother with any last words. One was already etched onto the bolt.


    He pulled the trigger.


    Then he limped away.


    Evil, he thought, as he made his slow way back through the dusky forest to where he had tethered Whitey at the edge of the plains; the evil in Human hearts was much like trigon. No amount of justice or revenge would ever put it right. It couldn¡¯t be destroyed. It would always exist. It just moved around, from person to person, until someone was willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good.


    It was a cold, dark evening, three days later, when Flint arrived back in Forthwhite. Dark even for that time of year.


    It was black, in fact. Black and starless.


    Flint had seen the blackness on the horizon as he approached, like a great, terrifying scar between plains and sky. It could be seen for miles. He encountered no one else as he went; the plains were empty under grey skies, farmhouses abandoned. Livestock lay scattered and dead, with here and there the gigantic, gory, half-eaten shells of hillbeasts.


    The sky darkened as he went until he seemed to be riding in a black void, with the town an eerie pale jumble of buildings at its centre. Whitey refused to go any further, so he abandoned the nervous horse and went ahead on foot.


    Now he stood at the base of the hill, at the town¡¯s entrance, staring up. Curiously, despite the pitch-black surroundings, he could see quite a lot. Forthwhite rose before him, a mound of dead, silent, blocky white buildings, like a vast pile of odd skulls. Strangely, the trees and bushes around the base of the hill were still green, the flowers continued blooming. The summit of the hill, though, was lost in a deep, black fog.


    Something stirred up there. He caught glimpses, in the mysterious light, of scales and ragged wings and claws so huge that his chest went tight.


    And tentacles. Many tentacles, shiny, iridescent black, winding their way from the top of the hill throughout the town ¨C in and around the houses and shops and carts and trees, like the massive, invasive roots of an appalling tree. Some of them moved, sluggishly.


    Flint was afraid. He was deathly afraid, and he had known what to expect, but it had been his decision to come back here.


    He only wished he had taken up Grim¡¯s offer earlier.


    Tearing his eyes away from the horror on the hill, he forced himself to advance towards the Hungry Deer Inn.


    The door creaked open into darkness, and silence.


    Flint stood in the doorway for a moment, listening, but there was nothing to be heard. The interior of the bar smelt like old ale and tobacco smoke, and was cold. Freezing cold, as though the hearth hadn¡¯t been lit in years, rather than the week or so since the townsfolk had evacuated. Flint found himself shivering.


    He wondered if Grim had been and gone; if he was too late. The thought depressed him, but if that was the case there was nothing to be done about it. He just hoped that the big Bladeshifter had left him a drop of beer.


    Stepping inside, Flint groped along the wall until he found a lantern, then rummaged in his pocket for his match tin, and lit it. A bright circle of warmth bloomed outwards, revealing a few nearby tables. The rest of the large room and bar at the back remained bathed in shadow.


    Flint moved to his left, to the other side of the main doors, and lit another lantern. A bit more of the tavern came to life.


    Strangely, though, the chill seemed to deepen, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. There was a large patch of shadow opposite him, in the far corner of the room.


    Something about it was unsettling.


    His heart pounded too hard, but he ignored it. Taking a candle from one of the tables, Flint lit it and crept cautiously through the room.


    He wondered, watching the shadows, if he ought to have loaded his Justifier first.


    And then wondered if it would do him any good, anyway¡­


    He found Grim.


    The big, red-bearded Bladeshifter was slumped over a table, in the corner beside a window. A large, glass tankard of ale was gripped in his fist, still half-full of golden liquid. Different sized bottles and pitchers were arranged on the table in front of him, most of them empty.


    A second tankard, full and untouched, sat on the opposite side of the table, closest to Flint, in front of an empty chair.


    Swallowing against the tightness in his throat, Flint reached out, very slowly, and placed his candle on the table, taking great care not to disturb anything. Then he unhitched the Justifier and set it down gently on an adjacent table, followed by his hat.


    He moved over to the unoccupied chair that was meant for him, and sat down. Taking hold of the tankard¡¯s handle, he took a slow, steady breath, and looked up again at Bloodmoon Grim.


    A tentacle protruded from the man¡¯s back. It was as thick as Grim¡¯s entire body, curving out of the shattered window beside him, black and slick like a monstrous leech. What he could see of Grim¡¯s skin was blue, veined with black.


    Flint gripped the tankard as hard as he could manage with his burned, bandaged hand, but it still wobbled as he lifted it.


    ¡°Cheers, Grim,¡± he said, quietly and sadly.


    Then he took a long, long drink.

 Chapter One Hundred One

    Morning bright, friends reunite


    But one of them now gone from sight.


    Hawk¡¯s stomach awoke before the rest of him did, grumbling in anticipation as the scent of frying eggs crept into his nostrils.


    Roused by his mouth watering, Hawk pushed himself up off the sandy floor, wincing at the stiffness in his back and shoulders. He had fallen asleep in his armour again. It was a bad habit that he seemed to have picked up recently; he had taken more care of himself in the army. He took off the beautiful golden breastplate but not without a strange sense of reluctance and discomfort as he did so. It almost felt as though he was peeling off a part of himself.


    Still, the armour fit better now than it had when he had stolen it off the Angel guard; he guessed he had lost weight since then. The Winter had made fresh food hard to come by, he thought ruefully. He would be glad to eat something other than that peculiarly awful Angel fare¡­


    Removing his one remaining gauntlet, the events of the previous evening suddenly came back to him in a rush. Scrambling to his feet, he looked around the cave.


    It was mostly empty, apart from Grisket Trice cooking breakfast by the fire and the two sorcerers oblivious in their corner of the shelter.


    There was no sign of anyone else.


    ¡°Outside,¡± Grisket said without looking at him, nodding at the cave entrance as though reading his thoughts.


    ¡°Is he alright?¡± Hawk asked anxiously as he made his way to the fire.


    ¡°See for yourself,¡± Grisket replied, but he smiled as he scraped the eggs from the pan onto a tin plate and handed it to him. ¡°But eat your breakfast first.¡±


    Hawk took the plate, glancing at the bright opening of the shelter, but worry for his empty stomach took over. He sat down, wolfing the food.


    He was most of the way through his meal before realising what else was bothering him.


    The sun was shining outside.


    He paused with the last portion of egg on his fork, and lowered it, frowning at the entrance. The ice had melted into damp patches inside the cave and a few lumps of snow still lingered in the shadow of the overhang outside. But the trees and grass beyond the road were bright, and the sky was a vivid, unblemished blue.


    The Winter was gone.


    Grisket shook his head, watching Hawk¡¯s expression change, and sighed. ¡°You might as well know it,¡± he muttered. ¡°Ferrian¡¯s gone.¡±


    Hawk lowered his plate abruptly. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Disappeared some time before dawn,¡± Grisket went on. ¡°No one saw him leave, though Cairan was on watch at the time. He and Rae have gone looking.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Hawk repeated, even more alarmed. ¡°On their own? Without adequate weapons?!¡±


    Grisket shook his head again, grimly. ¡°They insisted. Couldn¡¯t stop ¡®em. Cairan feels responsible.¡±


    Hawk set aside the remains of his breakfast and got to his feet, running a hand through his hair in frustration. ¡°Why would Ferrian just take off like that?¡±


    Grisket sighed again. ¡°He thinks he¡¯s a hazard, Hawk. He hasn¡¯t yet managed to gain control over his Winter, or his emotions for that matter.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t he realise that we¡¯re all just trying to help him?!¡±


    The Commander looked at him steadily. ¡°He knows it. That¡¯s what troubles him. And truth be told,¡± he shook his head unhappily, ¡°there¡¯s not a lot we can do for him. He¡¯s dead, and he doesn¡¯t trust those two worth a damn,¡± he nodded over his shoulder at the back of the cave.


    Hawk felt helpless and dismayed. They had all come so far, and struggled so hard, for Ferrian¡¯s sake. That the kid had abandoned them was a kick in the guts, for sure. But the Commander was right; they had not been able to protect him from a strange death and none of them, save the sorcerers, knew a thing about magic.


    And, Hawk had to admit, he probably would have done the same thing in Ferrian¡¯s place. It couldn¡¯t be easy to be around people you cared about if you were a walking destructive force¡­


    Closing his eyes, Hawk took a deep breath. But he had carried out his mission. He had found Ferrian and escorted him safely back to the Freeroamers. His duty in that regard was technically over. And as much as he wanted to join the Centaurs and search for the kid, he had someone else to worry about, now.


    Someone in much greater danger. Someone that he couldn¡¯t bear to lose.


    ¡°Commander,¡± he said. ¡°I request your leave.¡±


    Grisket looked up at him.


    Hawk turned back to him. ¡°It¡¯s those black soldiers,¡± he said. ¡°They¡¯re from the Darorian Army. And that monster you saw in Forthwhite...¡± he swallowed. ¡°I¡­ think I know what created it. Dreikan was developing special harpoons made of the black metal. He must have launched an attack on the Dragons with them.¡±


    Hawk shook his head dismally. ¡°The General was ignorant. We all were. We¡¯ve known for years that something was weird about that stuff, but no one knew that it was trigon. No one¡¯d even heard of trigon. We all just called it moltmetal¡­¡±


    He took another breath. ¡°Carmine knows nothing about it, and Captain Sirannor doesn¡¯t know exactly what it¡¯s capable of, either¡­¡±


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    ¡°Hawk,¡± Grisket said calmly. ¡°You have my permission.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Hell,¡± he added, ¡°you hardly need to ask for it.¡±


    Hawk was relieved.


    ¡°Go and find them,¡± he told his Sergeant. ¡°And be safe.¡±


    Hawk nodded. Then he walked outside, suddenly longing for the touch of warm sun on his skin. The chill of the cave had gone right through him.


    I should never have brought Carmine into this, he thought, distressed. He¡¯d only asked her to assist the Commander because there had been no one else around at the time and he knew she was capable of looking after herself. But if anything happened to her¡­


    ¡°Ardance is saddled and ready to go,¡± a soft voice said from behind him.


    Hawk turned.


    Two dark shapes loitered just to the right of the overhang, where the sun had not yet reached. One of them was four-footed, nibbling at the still-frosty grass but eyeing him watchfully. The other leaned against the rock wall with his arms folded, wings curving graceful and pitch black against the stone.


    Hawk just stared at Mekka, unable to comprehend how the Angel could be standing there, nonchalantly as though nothing at all had happened, when mere hours earlier he¡¯d been little more than a tragic, huddled ball of frozen flesh and feathers.


    The cheek of him! Hawk thought, fuming. How dare he keep on dying¡­ but not quite!


    Hawk stormed over towards him. ¡°You!¡± he demanded, pointing a finger at Mekka. ¡°You¡¯ve got some nerve!¡±


    Mekka stared back at him ¨C with both eyes, darkly amused in his handsome face.


    Hawk tried to think of something else to say, but words ¨C and his anger ¨C failed him. Instead, he grabbed the Angel and hugged him.


    When he pulled away, Mekka looked uncomfortable. He rubbed his neck. ¡°Hawk¡­¡± he said, and his shoulders slumped a little. ¡°I am¡­ sorry.¡±


    Hawk put a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Just glad you¡¯re alright, Mekka. We were afraid you¡¯d¡­ you know¡­ gone to the Tower...¡±


    Mekka closed his eyes. ¡°I¡­ considered it,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°But you¡¯re okay now?¡±


    Mekka opened his eyes, looked at Hawk seriously, and nodded.


    Hawk smiled. ¡°How¡¯s your eye? You¡¯ve lost that cool rogue look you had going on.¡±


    Mekka lifted a hand self-consciously to his face. ¡°It¡­ takes a little getting used to,¡± he replied. He glanced over at the cave entrance. ¡°That Sword is¡­ remarkable.¡±


    Hawk looked in that direction as well. He was fairly sure that Lord Requar was not going to wake for a long while, and he didn¡¯t have time to wait around to be healed. He would just have to deal with his own problem later.


    Thankfully, Commander Trice appeared from the shelter at that moment, relieving him of the awkward silence. ¡°You off now?¡±


    Hawk nodded, taking the armour and silvertine sword that Grisket handed to him.


    ¡°Carmine,¡± he explained to Mekka as he re-donned his breastplate and belted his sword back on. ¡°She¡¯s gone to the Isle in search of Sirannor.¡±


    Mekka nodded; apparently, Grisket had already told him.


    Hawk didn¡¯t need to ask Mekka what he was planning to do next, then.


    The Angel turned to Commander Trice. ¡°Commander,¡± he said. ¡°Please give my sincerest thanks to Lord Requar. I regret that I cannot thank him in person.¡± He hesitated. ¡°If there is anything he requires of me¡­¡±


    Grisket waved a hand. ¡°You owe him your life,¡± he finished. ¡°And much more besides. Don¡¯t we all.¡± He smiled. ¡°I will, son.¡± Then he embraced Mekka as well, and Hawk after. ¡°You two,¡± he growled as Hawk mounted Ardance, ¡°are not to get yourselves killed. That¡¯s an order.¡±


    ¡°Not planning on it, Commander,¡± Hawk replied. ¡°And this winged freak here has got about a hundred lives, although I think he¡¯s used ninety-nine of them already.¡±


    Raising a hand in farewell, Hawk set off down the road.


    Mekka lingered for a moment. ¡°We will find them, Commander,¡± he assured Grisket. Then he lifted off from the shade of the overhang and soared into the blue sky, racing ahead of Hawk.


    * * *


    Under leaden clouds, a lone form drifted. Great, pale wings spread from it, ethereal as mist on the breeze, the feathery tips leaving faintly coloured trails behind it, like the memory of rainbows.


    The high, sharp peaks of the Barlakk Mountains passed below: grey stone poking like ancient teeth out of the deep snow.


    Be free, Ferrian¡­ The Dragon¡¯s words lingered in his mind, whispering like the icy wind that breathed no life into his pale face or words within ears that were not supposed to hear.


    Ferrian was alone, again. Flying high above the world, far from anyone.


    Far from his friends and companions, from the sorcerers, from¡­ Requar¡­


    He supposed that Arzath would accuse him of running away again, but Ferrian no longer cared. He wasn¡¯t running from anything, he was going towards something.


    He was going where he ought to have gone in the beginning.


    When he had sat in the Guard House at Forthwhite on that warm, lazy, anxious day while the Freeroamers debated his fate, he had thought Constable Dogwyn obstinate and rude, determined to see Ferrian as nothing more than a troublesome thing to be carted off as far from civilisation as possible, never to be heard from again.


    Now he finally realised the devastating truth: Dogwyn was right.


    He was the only one of the Freeroamers with any sense, to have anticipated the terrible things that were to come because of the Winter¡­ and all of the others had ignored him.


    Dogwyn had died a horrifying, grisly death because of this.


    The Perpetual Peaks.


    Verlista.


    A forgotten cave in the mountains, with a pile of dusty bones inside.


    He was taking the White Dragon back where she belonged.


    She wasn¡¯t happy about it.


    A high, mournful keening sound accompanied his flight. It was a little like the awful sound his Sword made when he flooded it with magic, but sadder and sweeter.


    After awhile, it began to get on his nerves.


    ¡°Dragon,¡± he sighed finally in exasperation. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    Her voice echoed in his head as though his skull was an empty cavern: You must go back.


    Ferrian scowled. ¡°No.¡±


    The keening sound began again.


    Ferrian gritted his teeth.


    ¡°We¡¯re not going back!¡± he told her determinedly. ¡°I don¡¯t want to put my friends in danger any longer! I¡¯m tired of almost killing them!¡±


    The mournful moaning continued.


    Ferrian did his best to ignore her. It didn¡¯t matter what the Dragon wanted: she couldn¡¯t control him. It was his body, dead though it was, and she was an intruder, and he would go wherever he damned well pleased!


    At the very least, he wanted somewhere to safely practise using the Winter without anyone getting in the way. Surely, she couldn¡¯t be opposed to that?


    You must go back¡­


    ¡°I told you¨C¡±


    His wings disappeared.


    One moment, he was soaring effortlessly through the frigid air, the next¡­ he was plummeting like a stone!


    The rocky crags below rushed up to meet him.


    His moment of terror was brief.


    The wings reappeared at the last moment, catching him up in a swoop that sent him straight into a snowdrift.


    Ferrian pushed himself up angrily, snow tumbling off him as he stumbled upright. ¡°What the hell did you do that for?!¡± he shouted into the wind.


    There was no response. He stood on a high outcrop, with nothing around him but rock and ice and cloud.


    Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the wings had vanished again. He had forgotten that they belonged to the Dragon ¨C she had given him the power of flight.


    And she could take it away just as easily.


    ¡°Dragon!¡±


    Silence, save for the rush of wind that buffeted him.


    Ferrian¡¯s fists clenched. So now she refused to lend him her wings?


    ¡°FINE!¡± he yelled, furious. He didn¡¯t need to fly, anyway. He could still walk. She couldn¡¯t stop him!


    He stomped through the snow to the edge of the cliff, and looked down. Snowflakes swirled down into a bleak, grey void.


    He hesitated, then scowled again. No! he thought. I don¡¯t need the Dragon¡¯s help! I¡¯ll find my way off this mountain and make it to Verlista if it takes me a hundred years! I have all the time in the world!


    Turning away from the precipice, he started off in another direction, only to encounter a similar scenario.


    Looking around, he saw that the outcrop was at the end of a long ridge, disappearing into the haze. If he followed it, he could possibly find a way down.


    Alone in the mountains, a silver-black ghost in the snow, Ferrian set out.

 Chapter One Hundred Two

    Trails to follow, roads to tread


    A growing danger lies ahead.


    ¡°We could find no trace of him, Commander,¡± Cairan reported unhappily.


    ¡°It does not make sense,¡± Raemint added in her soft voice. ¡°The Winter can be felt in everything it touches ¨C the stones, the air, living things. But we found only a faint memory of the first time he passed this way, some weeks ago. His presence should have been sharp and easy to follow, but it disappeared shortly beyond the shelter.¡±


    Grisket frowned, rubbing his beard. ¡°Could he have used some kind of spell to conceal his trail?¡±


    Cairan shook his head. ¡°No, Commander. A strong scent may mask another strong scent, but something recognisable would remain. He has simply vanished. It is baffling.¡±


    Grisket¡¯s frown deepened, troubled. He couldn¡¯t pretend to know anything about magic, but from what he had learned from Hawk and Requar, Ferrian possessed a weapon of mysterious and exceptionally dangerous power, made of peculiar substances that were something other than ordinary magic. Was it possible that Ferrian used his Sword to elude them, in a way that the Centaurs couldn¡¯t detect?


    Or were they all simply missing something obvious?


    He kept his fears to himself, however, instead nodding to his fellow Freeroamers in gratitude. ¡°You¡¯ve done your best,¡± he told them, and turned to look over his shoulder. ¡°Perhaps those two will have better luck.¡±


    Behind him, down on the rugged shoreline, Arzath stalked among the rock pools like a predatory black bird, electrocuting anything that moved with vivid flashes of violet light that hissed and sparked and wafted steam about him.


    Clearly, he was in a foul mood.


    Requar sat quietly on a boulder, where waves slapped against the rocks and stirred kelp languorously beneath his feet in the white foam. Facing towards the brilliant, sapphire-glittering sea, he stared down at a small shell in his hand, turning it over and over in his fingers.


    The white-haired sorcerer had said very little since he had recovered and they had set forth along the highway, retracing their steps southward. The discovery of Ferrian¡¯s unexpected absence had left him seeming somewhat lost and distracted.


    Arzath, in contrast, was furious and agitated. No doubt humiliated that the boy had dared stand up to him ¨C threaten him, in front of everyone ¨C and force his already weakened brother to use precious energy to help a stranger.


    Ferrian had certainly left all of them feeling rather rattled and unsure of exactly what to do next.


    Grisket turned back to the Centaurs.


    ¡°You two head on to Skywater,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve sent the survivors of Forthwhite there and given Middry my badge as acting Commander. They need to be warned of those black soldiers. I counted about two dozen of ¡®em on the docks at Sunsee, but Gods know exactly how many of ¡®em are wanderin¡¯ about, or where.¡°


    He gestured at the road south. ¡°Take the coastal road. The Dragons seem to be headin¡¯ inland, by all accounts. Keep out of sight and don¡¯t engage those damned army rogues!¡±


    ¡°Commander,¡± Raemint hesitated. ¡°If I may make a proposal?¡±


    Grisket regarded her. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Warning our people will not be enough. We cannot run and hide from these black soldiers or demon-wraiths forever. We have no weapons with which to fight them or means to defend ourselves...¡± She paused, exchanging a glance with Cairan. ¡°However¡­ the Angels do.¡±


    Cairan nodded. ¡°We wish to travel to Arkana to seek their aid.¡±


    Grisket was silent for a moment, considering their words. ¡°You may not receive a sympathetic ear,¡± he replied finally. ¡°Fleetfleer is a mess and their government is in disarray¡­¡±


    ¡°As is ours,¡± Cairan pointed out.


    ¡°We must try.¡± Raemint¡¯s expression was fierce, determined. He understood how grim and terrible her last battle must have been; a reflection of it could still be seen in her pool-dark eyes.


    A fight to the death with enemies whose weapons and armour greatly outmatched her own, regular soldiers who were no longer entirely Human¡­


    The helplessness of watching a friend and fellow Freeroamer fall before her¡­


    She didn¡¯t want to find herself in that situation again.


    She didn¡¯t want to see anyone else die or be turned into something hideous at the end of a black sword.


    And neither did he. The bloody scene that had confronted him on this very highway only a couple of days before still haunted him. It was only by the grace of Lord Requar that beautiful Raemint stood here now in all her dark, sunlit fire, and not at rest on a lonely hillside beside poor Dogwyn.


    Grisket nodded. ¡°Go,¡± he said. ¡°I dare say the Angels are well aware of what trigon is and will understand the peril. Not to mention they respect Centaurs a good deal better than Humans.¡± He gestured at the horses. ¡°Take whatever supplies you need from the saddlebags, and best of luck to you.¡±


    Raemint put her hand to her chest. ¡°Thank you, Commander.¡±


    As the Centaurs walked off to prepare for their journey north, he gazed down the road again. The well-worn cobblestones stretched along the coastline like an old, dry serpentskin between the hazy line of the Barlakks east and the blue expanse of the ocean to the west.


    He nodded again, making a decision. I¡¯ll travel to Skywater myself, then, he thought. Folks still need to be warned of the danger.


    It was regrettable that the party had split so soon after their joyful reunion, but he could find no compelling reason to deny his Freeroamers their individual quests.


    Still, worry for his companions had fractured now into a myriad of separate concerns ¨C for Cairan and Raemint. Hawk and Mekka. Carmine and Sirannor.


    And Ferrian.


    Always Ferrian.


    A dark, fateful feeling seeped into his chest as he pondered which of them, if any, he was likely to see again.


    As Sirannor would say: Only Lady Fate knows.


    Resigned but glum to the fact that he couldn¡¯t influence the destinies of any of them, he left the highway and clambered down the rocky slope to inform Arzath and Requar of the news.


    * * *


    Ashen Cove was so named because once, a thousand years ago, it had been the lair of a Dragon.


    Black soot still stained the uppermost reaches of the vast cavern, stalactites hanging like innumerable dark teeth in a cold maw beyond the vibrant glow of the myriad coloured lanterns arrayed about the lower walls. More lanterns of various sizes and styles hung on chains from poles around the labyrinth of rickety wooden walkways and piers that clustered against the back and sides of the cave. The wharves competed for space with warehouses, dockworkers¡¯ huts and questionable shops and stalls in dark corners, where contraband and black market wares quietly shifted from one cloak to another.


    The Red Watch maintained a presence here, inspecting barges and boats before they entered the mouth of the river Sel, which emptied into the Cove through a long, dark underground tunnel.


    Most of the Watch were bribable, however.


    Everine Arva wasn¡¯t worried about the Watch. With her sweet, innocent face and pretty clothes with the neckline just short of immodest, she barely had to bat her eyelashes most days for the Watch to wave her through.


    Today, however, Everine wasn¡¯t smiling.


    Today, her round face was frowning and flushed with irritation.


    The entire cavern was packed full of ships and boats of every kind, hull to hull so that no one could move. It was as though every single seafaring vessel in Arvanor was trying to fit into Ashen Cove at once.


    The Watch were just as flustered, trying to force their way through the anxious crowd milling about the docks and attempting in vain to placate angry merchants. Wagons and carts were backed up the cliffside road for at least half a mile.


    Yelling did no good, because everyone was yelling.


    The din inside the cave was tremendous. It was starting to give Everine a headache.


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    She scrunched up her blue eyes, wondering ironically if any of these people actually knew the history of this place, and what exactly would happen if its former occupant decided to come back.


    She supposed no one had thought of that. In their panic, no one wanted to be out in the open, especially not on the sea ¨C half a dozen Darorian war brigs had been set aflame and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.


    Everine wasn¡¯t afraid of Dragons, either. She had yet to see one, and up until recently had been sceptical of the whispered rumours of the Aegis¡¯s imminent failing. Until, of course, the great red shield simply wasn¡¯t there. And the plume of thick black smoke rising on the horizon from the direction of Sunsee was further ample evidence that the Dragons were, indeed, no longer contained.


    But she figured if a Dragon were to attack Ashen Cove, there was nothing anyone could do about it.


    She was much more concerned about her cargo.


    Not the cabbages, which had begun to go off and stunk so much that she was sure she¡¯d never get the damned stink out of her clothes. No ¨C the other consignment.


    Duke Rufus was not going to be pleased.


    She kicked at one of the open crates sitting on the deck. Her thick, well-worn leather boots were at odds with her exquisite, deep blue skirt with its lacy overlay, her fine waistcoat and pale blue, silken blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.


    Everine was a wealthy woman, but she was no Lady. She was a pragmatic Enopian girl, and she swore like one.


    A cabbage rolled off the top of the pile and fell to the deck with the kind of disgusting leafy thud only a half-rotten vegetable could make. Everine scowled at it, hoping that the next thing rolling about on this deck wasn¡¯t going to be her head¡­


    ¡°Not fond of cabbages, I presume?¡± a voice said from behind her.


    Everine spun with a start of surprise.


    A dark figure slouched on top of the cabin, cutting a striking silhouette against the blue sky and sea behind him, the wind gently ruffling his hair and raven-black feathers. He held one of the aforementioned vegetables up in one hand, examining it.


    ¡°Neither am I.¡± He tossed it away. It landed on an adjacent boat with a dull thunk. ¡°This, however¡­¡±


    A round, orange-red coin appeared in his black-gloved hand. The Angel regarded it with interest, closing one eye and peering through the triangular hole in the centre. ¡°A very good quality fake,¡± he commented. ¡°You Enopians are fine craftspeople¡­¡±


    Everine realised that her mouth was hanging open, and she closed it quickly. All the blood seemed to have drained out of her, but it returned in a sudden, hot rush. ¡°Hey!¡± she said, pointing a finger in accusation. ¡°You¡¯re him! That spy from Sel Varence! The Darkshadow, the one who skulks about on the rooftops at night!¡±


    He smiled slightly, still admiring the coin. ¡°So it seems,¡± he replied. He gave her a wink. ¡°But you may call me Mekka.¡± He tossed the coin into the air with a deft flick and caught it again. ¡°And you,¡± he said, ¡°are Everine Arva: general merchant and smuggler extraordinaire.¡±


    Everine chewed her lip, feeling her heart start to throb with panic even as it sank into the depths of her stomach. Dammit! she thought. Where did HE come from?! How did he find the royals? Did someone tip him off?


    Noticing her expression, the Angel flipped the coin down to her. ¡°Relax. I am not going to turn you in to the Watch.¡±


    Everine caught the coin, glancing nervously at the piers, but the Watch had plenty to occupy themselves with already: no one was paying her or the Angel any attention. She shoved the coin quickly down the front of her blouse, then brushed a blonde curl out of her eyes, put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ¡°Then what the hell are you doing on my ship?¡±


    Mekka shifted into a cross-legged position, black wings arcing behind him, looking all at once very serious. ¡°You are friends with Carmine, are you not?¡±


    Everine blinked. ¡°Carmine Vandaris?¡± She folded her arms across her chest, then examined her chipped and sadly chewed fingernails. She gnawed one of them. ¡°Maybe,¡± she admitted. She shrugged. ¡°She comes into my shop to gossip, sometimes. What¡¯s it to you?¡±


    The Angel stared at her intently. ¡°She is in trouble.¡±


    Everine frowned. Well, that was hardly news. Every time the red-haired girl came to visit she had another exciting story of misadventure to relate. But Carmine always managed to find a way out of her predicaments. She was someone who was capable of looking after herself.


    Everine didn¡¯t see what this had to do with her. She was about to find herself in a sticky situation of her own, if she didn¡¯t get this illicit cargo to the Duke. This deal was rapidly turning into one of the worst decisions she¡¯d ever made¡­


    She glanced up at Mekka. ¡°Carmine¡¯s always in trouble.¡± She shrugged. ¡°So what?¡±


    ¡°She is on the Middle Isle,¡± the Angel replied. ¡°I am in need of a vessel.¡±


    Everine eyed him suspiciously. ¡°You¡¯re an Angel,¡± she pointed out. ¡°Or are those pretty black things on your back just for show?¡± She stuck her tongue out.


    Mekka didn¡¯t smile, however. His look was dark. ¡°It is a rescue mission,¡± he explained. ¡°There may be more than one person involved. I cannot retrieve them and carry them both across half an ocean.¡± He nodded towards the crowded shore. ¡°And I am not alone.¡±


    Everine considered, but only for a moment before shaking her head, and letting out a sigh. ¡°Look, as much as I would like to help, I can¡¯t. The Duke¨C¡±


    ¡°I will deal with the Duke,¡± Mekka assured her. ¡°I can handle his cronies. But I dare say that you cannot.¡± He gestured at the cabin beneath him. ¡°Or your little brother.¡±


    Everine looked at the cabin. The door was ajar, and there was a brief glimpse of an eye before it ducked out of sight.


    She put her hands on her hips again. ¡°Ben!¡± she chided. ¡°Did you overhear all of that?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± a call came from inside.


    Everine let out a loud sigh. She turned aside, trying to think. She could barely hear her own thoughts, let alone make important decisions with all the racket going on.


    This blockade wasn¡¯t going to clear any time soon, that was for sure. Her shipment was already delayed, and she would be forced to find alternative means to get the royals to Selvar. With Dragons roaming the country, all trading was uncertain. Mekka was offering her a perfect opportunity to get out of the deal, as well as taking the blame.


    But something held her back.


    It wasn¡¯t as though she had no heart. She liked Carmine, maybe even admired her. Carmine was brave where she was not. Carmine sought out danger for the fun of it. Everine took risks, of course, but they were calculated ones; careful. She didn¡¯t like the unknown, and sudden changes of plans made her anxious.


    And she was pretty sure that Mekka wasn¡¯t telling her everything. There were a million secrets locked up in that dashing head of his, and he wasn¡¯t going to share any of them with her unless he had to. He seemed deadly serious, intense. He was calm, but had an air of patient urgency about him. She had an awful feeling that something terribly bad was going on, and wasn¡¯t sure that she was willing to go sailing off into the middle of it¡­


    She chewed on a nail again, looking around at her little ship, the Blueflower. She was fond of it, and didn¡¯t want to see it burnt up and sent to the bottom of the sea. And there was Ben to think about¡­


    Some part of her brain made a decision without consulting her. Before she could stop it, her mouth opened and the word ¡°No,¡± came out, loud and clear.


    She took a deep breath as though to change her mind, then thought better of it. ¡°No,¡± she repeated. ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t.¡±


    Turning her back on Mekka, she went to pick up the fallen cabbage, and set it back in the crate. When she looked again, the Angel was gone.


    She searched the forest of masts filling the rainbow-lit cavern, then the sea spreading out behind her, but there was no sign of him.


    She looked back down at the cabbage under her hand, and closed her eyes, feeling ashamed.


    Sorry, Carmine. But Mekka would find another sailor; there were plenty about¡­


    ¡°Did we just miss out on an adventure?¡±


    Everine opened her eyes to see that young Ben had emerged, looking highly disappointed.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she told him, trying to push away an unaccountable feeling of regret. ¡°Yeah, I¡­ guess¡­ we did.¡± She took a steadying breath. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t feel like growing old waiting for all these idiots to shove off, do you? Let¡¯s get out of here.¡±


    She moved away, preparing to set sail.


    ¡°Mekka,¡± Hawk ventured after a while. ¡°What exactly are we doing?¡±


    They stood on the edge of the cliff, bathed in sunshine and a chill sea breeze, on the road just past the queue of stalled merchant carts leading up from the sea cavern.


    The Angel said nothing, just stood with his arms folded, staring out at the ocean as though waiting for something. A strong wind from the north tossed the dark blue waves into restless whitecaps, and sent them crashing thunderously against the rocks below.


    Hawk gave up. Mekka was a mystery at the best of times. ¡°Wish we didn¡¯t have to abandon Ardance,¡± he said regretfully, looking back up the road, to the grassy-topped cliffs, where beyond, in lonely fields, the black horse now roamed free. ¡°She was a good horse. I wonder where Cimmeran got her from?¡± He fell silent, musing. ¡°Do you suppose he stole¨C¡±


    ¡°There,¡± Mekka said abruptly, pointing.


    Hawk looked. A brightly painted, blue and green merchant vessel was making its way out of Ashen Cove. A pale blue flower bloomed on its sail as the wind caught it, sending the small ship swiftly across the waves, heading south.


    Hawk frowned. ¡°I thought you said she didn¡¯t want to help us?¡±


    ¡°She said ¡®no¡¯.¡± Mekka turned to him and smiled. Then, without any warning, before another word could leave Hawk¡¯s mouth, the Angel grabbed him and threw both of them off the edge of the cliff.


    Everine felt a little better with the wind in her face and sun on her skin, the reassuring rustle of canvas and splash of the waves. It was good to be moving again, for better or worse, and not mired in uncertainty and doubt.


    Rufus would get his damned cargo, one way or another, and then she was done doing shady deals with the nobility.


    Everine re-tied a red scarf around her head, keeping her golden curls in place. Ben was at the rudder. Seagulls swirled in the air above them, and a wall of sun-drenched cliffs passed on their port side. Sunsee was a couple of days sailing, but for now they had a good wind at their back.


    And then a shadow passed overhead.


    She didn¡¯t even have time to look up before something dropped from the sky onto the deck of her ship, causing her to throw herself against the railing with a frightened yelp.


    Ben let out a startled cry as well; the ship rocked as he accidentally twitched the rudder.


    Everine picked herself up and stared in shock.


    It was the black-winged Angel again. And this time, he¡¯d brought along his companion.


    ¡°I apologise,¡± Mekka said with a small bow. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid I cannot take no for an answer.¡± He held out his arm and a wicked silver spike shot out of his sleeve, pointing at Everine¡¯s face. She gasped in startlement.


    ¡°Mekka!¡± his companion exclaimed, getting to his feet. ¡°Is this absolutely necessary?!¡±


    The Angel ignored him. ¡°You will take us to the Middle Isle,¡± he ordered, dark eyes locked on Everine. ¡°Now.¡±


    The other man made a sound of exasperation. He looked like a soldier of some kind, though Everine didn¡¯t recognise his uniform. He wore black with a blue left sleeve, and a beautiful, ornate golden breastplate. His thick, scruffy, pale brown hair was flying around all over the place in the wind.


    He put his face in his hand. ¡°I thought you¡¯d just regained your sanity,¡± he muttered hopelessly.


    Everine stared back at Mekka and composed herself, straightening her clothing and attempting to restore some measure of dignity. She pursed her lips. ¡°Very well,¡± she told him, and sniffed. ¡°Have it your way.¡±


    Mekka regarded her for a moment more, then lowered his weapon. It retracted with a metallic swish back into his sleeve.


    There was an awkward moment, filled with the cries of sea birds and an uncomfortable silence on board the ship. The golden-armoured man scratched his head. ¡°Er,¡± he said, then stuck out a gauntleted hand with a friendly smile. ¡°Sergeant Devandar Hawk of the Freeroamers.¡±


    She shook it warily. ¡°Everine Arva.¡±


    Hawk glanced aside at Mekka. ¡°I guess you know...¡±


    ¡°I do.¡± She gave the Angel a disparaging look, then sniffed again and folded her arms. ¡°And there I was worried about Rufus¡¯s thugs¡­¡±


    ¡°There is a great deal worse to worry about than the Duke,¡± Mekka replied ominously. He turned to Hawk. ¡°I am going on ahead. I will leave you in the esteemed company of Miss Arva.¡±


    He gave Everine another bow, then spun, spread his black wings and lifted off, catching the breeze.


    ¡°Sorry about this,¡± Hawk apologised, having the decency to look embarrassed. ¡°It wasn¡¯t my idea. I¡¯m pretty sure Mekka just enjoys being a pain in the arse.¡± He looked around himself. ¡°Er. And I think I might¡¯ve squashed a few of your cabbages¡­¡±


    There came an excited whoop as Ben jumped up from the stern. ¡°Adventure!¡± he cried.


    Everine lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched the black-winged Angel soar effortlessly through the blue sky ahead of them, banking west. She felt a smile creep across her face despite herself. ¡°Adventure it is, then,¡± she said.

 Chapter One Hundred Three

    Cold the rain at end of day


    Chill of friends left far away.


    Ferrian made his slow, careful way down the mountainside, traversing boulders and clefts, valleys and ridges. The wind beat at him, snow drifts bogged his steps, and slick ice or scree threatened to send him tumbling into bleak, lonely abysses at every turn. Having no life, sustained by magic, he did not tire or require food or water, and stopped only when it became too dark to see. At first light, he continued relentlessly onwards.


    He almost made it down in one piece.


    At last, he came within sight of the Valewood Forest below, but a final cliff stopped him short.


    It was a difficult one, and high, but he managed to find a route down that he thought was reasonable.


    It wasn¡¯t. He found himself stuck in a dead end that was steeper than it looked. He tried to climb back up, but a rock came loose beneath his boot and sent him plummeting fifty feet to the forest floor.


    Ferrian pushed himself up, slightly disoriented. Rain pattered gently on the leaf litter around him, the wind and snow left behind on the peaks. He got to his feet, only to find himself crumpling back to the ground.


    And then he realised that his leg was broken.


    He stared at it for a long moment, uncomprehending. It was twisted at an extremely unnatural angle.


    There was no pain, but he had lost the use of the lower part of his left leg.


    He pushed himself along the ground until his back came up against a tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. He had to pick up the left one and set it straight. It felt strange and wobbly in his hands, as though he was holding someone else¡¯s limb.


    He sat staring numbly into the rain, the full impact of what had happened taking a while to sink in. This injury was far worse than it would have been on a living person, as his body no longer had the ability to heal itself.


    His leg was broken¡­ and it was going to stay that way.


    Horror crept up on him, slowly, like the mist stealing through the autumn trees.


    The Dragon had denied him her wings, and now, as though Lady Fate herself was determined to stop him, he couldn¡¯t walk, either.


    He closed his eyes, trying to think, to calm himself. He was sitting in a remote corner of the forest. There were no houses nearby. No one was likely to come along and help him.


    Opening his eyes, he brushed water off his face. He couldn¡¯t just sit here forever. He had to do something to help himself.


    He looked around. Perhaps he could make a splint of some kind? There were plenty of branches lying about¡­


    He shuffled on his backside until he found a couple within reach, and snapped them to length. He had nothing to use for binding except his clothes, so he withdrew his Sword and carefully slashed the cloth away from his ruined leg, cutting it into black strips.


    Then he regarded the leg.


    It was horrible to look upon, the skin greyish and blotchy like a¡­ well, like a corpse. Worse, the shattered end of the bone had ripped through the flesh and was poking through.


    Grimacing, he took hold of the leg and re-aligned it as best he could. Then he bound the sticks either side of it, tightly.


    When he was done, he used the tree to ease himself up, then slowly tested his weight on the leg.


    The splint held, but he felt the bones grate against each other and then slip. Something began to tear.


    Quickly, he shifted his weight back to his good leg and sighed in despair, thumping his head back against the trunk of the birch. The limb was too fragile. He wasn¡¯t going to be able to walk long distances like this. It might fall off entirely¡­


    I¡¯ll never make it to Verlista, he thought hopelessly. He wasn¡¯t even entirely sure where the town was, only that it was somewhere in southern Siriaza, in the Snowranges ¨C the band of smaller mountains that led into the Perpetual Peaks. Those majestic mountains were so named because they went on forever ¨C or so it was said. At least, no one had ever crossed them and returned to tell about it.


    But it was a journey of several hundred miles, at least. Perhaps a thousand. Or more. He had no idea. He had to cross the entire Outlands to get there, and the border of Siriaza, which was well guarded by imperial soldiers.


    But that was a problem he would worry about when he got that far. Perhaps by then the Dragon would have stopped sulking and come to her senses¡­


    He gritted his teeth. He refused to ask her for help. He knew she would only give it if he agreed to go back to the sorcerers.


    And that was something he was not prepared to do.


    He would crawl all the way there if he had to.


    I just need to make some crutches, he thought. Then I can manage¡­


    He set about doing just that.


    The rain poured down in a straight, glimmering curtain, hammering the dirt road into mud and tiny rivulets. The bright yellow leaves of the trees overhanging the road did little to brighten the gloom, but clung limp and dripping from their branches until finally surrendering to the onslaught.


    The road was deserted save for one struggling figure, dressed in tattered grey and black, his legs bare, his pale hair plastered against his undead face, silver eyes bright with determination.


    Ferrian¡¯s makeshift crutches kept sticking in the mud, but at least it was preferable to the forest, where they snagged on every bush and bramble. The going was slow, but he had made some progress: he had made it to a road. He concentrated on just moving ahead, one step at a time.


    After awhile he came to a crossroad. To the west the road curved back upwards into the mountains, towards Merinriver Break. He definitely didn¡¯t want to go that way.


    Instead, he turned to his left and went south.


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    He wasn¡¯t entirely sure why; south wasn¡¯t the direction he needed to go, either. But east was the road to Meadrun, and he couldn¡¯t face seeing the destruction he had wrought there, much less the people who had suffered from it.


    He yanked one of the sticks out of another puddle. He supposed that made him a coward, but what was he supposed to do? Apologise for unintentionally wrecking their town? What good would that do? He couldn¡¯t bring back those who had died, and he was in no condition to help them rebuild. And he looked like something out of a horror story. He didn¡¯t think that would help matters.


    Ferrian willed the snow to return. The rain was making him miserable, and bogging him down. A few minutes later, the downpour dwindled off and was replaced with quiet, fluffy snowflakes.


    He felt lonely, and desperately missed Hawk¡¯s company. And the Freeroamers. And Mekka. He was relieved that the Angel was going to be all right, but the fact that Ferrian had very nearly killed him ¨C twice ¨C with the Winter had formed a large part of his decision to leave. Aari¡¯s death had shaken him badly, and it could so easily happen again, to any of his friends. The Winter was just too dangerous. He could not be around normal people.


    The others would be safer without him. The sorcerers could deal with the Dragons and black soldiers; Requar could heal anything, even trigon. Everyone would be fine as long as they stayed away from Ferrian.


    Snowflakes danced in front of him and settled affectionately on his clothing.


    And yet, the Winter was cold company.


    Ferrian kept as far to the verge as he could without becoming tangled in the undergrowth, hoping to pass unnoticed by travellers. There were not many other people using the road, but unfortunately the ones that did pass slowed upon seeing him, either to closer inspect the strange figure limping along, or perhaps to offer assistance. But on drawing near, all of them sped hastily on their way without stopping.


    He supposed they thought he was sick, or carrying some disease, or perhaps even in danger of becoming a wraith. None of those was true, of course, but Ferrian didn¡¯t care. In fact, he was glad. He had no desire to be approached by anyone.


    Dusk was falling, however, when a wagon came trundling towards him from the south, its travelling lanterns swinging, their glow bright and hazy through the mist. It had almost drawn level with him when he heard someone urge the driver to pull up.


    Ferrian sighed.


    There was an elderly lady, bundled in layers of cloaks, riding beside the driver. She peered down at him.


    Her eyesight must have been poor in the gloom, because she started tutting and saying things like: ¡°You poor thing,¡± and ¡°You¡¯ll catch your death out here!¡± and ¡°Nothing a warm fire and a good bowl of soup won¡¯t fix¡­¡±


    And then, ignoring her companion¡¯s protestations, she climbed down and started hobbling towards him.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine!¡± Ferrian insisted, but the woman kept coming.


    He turned and limped away on his crutches as fast as he could.


    But nothing could escape a well-meaning old lady.


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± she was saying, catching up to him in only a few steps. ¡°Nonsense, dear! We¡¯ve warm blankets and food in the wagon. Hendrik! Fetch the blankets! I¡¯m sure we¡¯ve some spare clothes--¡±


    ¡°NO!¡± Ferrian cried as the old woman took his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. Panicking at the thought of being bundled into a warm wagon and forced to eat food, Ferrian drew his Sword and rounded on the woman.


    She let go of him in surprise and stepped back.


    ¡°I¡¯m FINE!¡± he repeated, glaring at her fiercely.


    But to his amazement, she seemed undeterred. She started tutting again. ¡°Nonsense, dear,¡± she kept repeating, ¡°nonsense.¡± She shuffled forward again. ¡°You¡¯ll catch your death¨C¡±


    ¡°Please leave me alone!¡± Ferrian near shouted. ¡°I don¡¯t need your help or anyone else¡¯s! I¡¯m not sick or cold or hungry! I¡¯m not going to catch my death because I¡¯m ALREADY DEAD!¡±


    And to prove it, he turned his Sword in his hand and ran himself through with it.


    That brought the woman up short.


    Her hand went to her mouth, trembling. ¡°Oh my,¡± she quavered. ¡°Oh¡­¡± she sank into a pile of skirts and furs onto the snowy ground.


    The wagon driver leapt down and hurried over to her, staring at Ferrian in horror.


    Ferrian glared at him. He pulled his Sword back out and sheathed it, then bent awkwardly to retrieve his improvised crutch, turned his back on them, and limped away.


    He didn¡¯t look back, and was relieved when he heard the wagon rattle off to the north, at a somewhat more reckless pace than before.


    Darkness and cold and the whispery sound of falling snow enclosed him once more.


    He moved onwards, a ghost in the night.


    * * *


    A cold wind blew off the shrouded peaks, edged with ice. The moon, half full, struggled to escape the heavy cloud bank, yet to the west, a million of its shattered cousins lay scattered across a clear, dark sky.


    Below them, not far distant, a gathering of warm orange lights lay spread at the edge of plains and mountains like a giant¡¯s campfire. A dark line ran through the middle of them, where Winter¡¯s cold had left its mark.


    Requar watched them from his seat on the grassy rocks. He and Arzath had made camp in the hills above Tulstan, far enough from the town and the road that they would not be bothered by late-night travellers. Arzath had laid protective spells anyway, as usual.


    The Freeroamers had gone their own way, on separate missions, leaving the brothers to travel on alone, with Serentyne.


    Requar knew where he was going and yet, looking at the town below, he felt lost.


    He had always liked the look of distant homes in the night, little sanctuaries of warmth and light in a sea of darkness. The promise of a roaring hearth and hot tea, friendly conversation and books read quietly in comfortable chairs. A home to go back to at the end of a weary day, a door closed against the cold, a soft bed to sink into and dream away the night.


    All of those things were lost to him, now.


    Requar missed his sunlit study, the books and cabinets lining the walls, the deep blue carpet, the ticking of the clock in the silence. The little birds peering in at him from the balcony railing.


    All gone.


    His castle lay in ruins, now, demolished by the Dragon, and Arzath¡¯s keep was burnt out. Neither of them had homes to return to any longer, or any place to go where they would be welcomed. Not even so much as a change of clothes. They slept by the side of the road and travelled by day towards an uncertain destiny.


    With only each other for company.


    It could have been one more¡­


    But that was wishful thinking. He had never expected a meeting with Ferrian to go well, let alone that the boy would want to spend time with him. He hadn¡¯t expected, however, to wake and find out that Ferrian had run off again.


    Obviously, Ferrian didn¡¯t want to have anything to do with him.


    Requar pulled his cloak around him, the wind tossing his white hair about in long, ghostly streamers. He didn¡¯t feel disappointed.


    He felt shattered.


    It was as though a piece of his heart had been ripped out and thrown away.


    ¡°Brooding will achieve nothing,¡± Arzath said tersely from behind him.


    Requar stared at the lights of the town for a moment longer, then slowly rose and made his way back to the campfire. ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± he agreed softly, sitting down, grateful for the warmth. He felt cold all the way through.


    Arzath regarded him from the other side of the fire, where he slouched on the ground, the gold on his clothing gleaming brilliantly, filthy and slightly ragged as it was. ¡°You had better not be having doubts,¡± he warned, tossing a piece of heather into the fire, ¡°or we may as well forget the whole idea. Your Sword will not be effective otherwise.¡±


    ¡°I realise that,¡± Requar replied quietly, staring at the Sword of Healing lying at his side, sapphires glittering in the light of the fire.


    He fell silent, but Arzath continued to stare at him. Finally, his brother sighed in frustration, pushing himself into a sitting position. ¡°That damned boy!¡± he fumed. ¡°We could have used his help!¡±


    Requar said nothing.


    Arzath glared up at the dark mountains, into the wind. ¡°This weather could belong to Ferrian,¡± he posited. ¡°It is possible that we may have caught up to him by coincidence. If he is on foot¡­¡±


    ¡°Leave him be.¡±


    Arzath looked at him.


    Requar held his gaze. ¡°Ferrian has decided to go his own way. There is nothing to be gained by chasing after him. He will return to us when he is ready.¡±


    Arzath scowled, but did not contradict him.


    They were silent for a long time, the fire dwindling between them, the shadows growing deep. Finally, Arzath shifted position, turning to face his brother.


    ¡°Requar.¡±


    Requar looked up.


    Arzath glanced away for a moment. ¡°I would like to¡­¡± he hesitated, as though unsure how to express what he wanted to say. ¡°I would like to help you rebuild your castle.¡±


    Requar stared at him in surprise.


    Arzath took a breath. ¡°I wish to¡­ rebuild the School.¡±


    Requar blinked.


    ¡°Not as it was,¡± Arzath added quickly, frowning. ¡°Obviously. But¡­ as it¡­ ought to be.¡± He gestured at Requar¡¯s Sword. ¡°Magic is capable of achieving great things,¡± he said. ¡°Of changing the world in ways that neither of us can anticipate. Its secrets and possibilities should not die with us, nor be hidden away in Grath Ardan.¡±


    He sighed, closing his eyes. ¡°I do not wish to see everything that we have struggled for disappear to time.¡± Opening his eyes, he glared into the fire. ¡°Or be treated with contempt wherever we go, as though sorcery were shameful rather than a mark of respect!¡±


    Requar understood. ¡°And you hope,¡± he guessed, ¡°that Ferrian will be the first student to create a new legacy.¡±


    Arzath looked up at him and nodded warily, as though afraid that Requar would be furious at the proposition.


    He wasn¡¯t. Instead, he smiled. ¡°When he is ready,¡± he repeated, and nodded. ¡°He will return.¡±

 Chapter One Hundred Four

    Town of white now dark as night


    To face the horror, one must fight.


    Dawn slunk across the plains like a furtive beast, unwilling to show its face. There was no sun, only a leaden sky rolling sullenly over a vast white blanket of snow.


    At some point, Ferrian had reached another road leading east, and followed it to the edge of the Arlen Plains. It was the same road he had taken with the Freeroamers when they had set out from the Guard House many, many weeks previously, full of hope and determination, in search of a sorcerer.


    It felt like half a lifetime ago.


    Ferrian could not have guessed, when he started on this long journey, that the next time he found himself walking this road, he would be dead.


    And poor Aari had not made it back at all.


    The plains stretched away, flat and unbroken, ahead and to his right, with scattered patches of forest to his left. There was no one to be seen, and no sign that anyone had passed this way. And it was eerily quiet and still; nothing moved save the snow falling and the clouds passing silently overhead.


    But there was something vastly more disturbing about this landscape.


    To the southwest, a black patch of¡­ something¡­ spread across the horizon. It wasn¡¯t smoke. It didn¡¯t move. It was like a giant stain, blacker than night, despoiling both sky and land.


    And it was coming from the direction of Forthwhite.


    Normally, the white town could be seen for miles across the plains, glittering in the sunshine, but now¡­


    Now, it was simply gone.


    A wave of fear passed through Ferrian at the sight of the blackness. He had no idea what it was, but it looked like something created from trigon.


    It was stark and horrible against the whiteness of the Winter.


    Nevertheless¡­ he had to go east.


    He started forward again, reluctantly.


    The huge, hulking forms of hillbeasts dotted the landscape, but they were motionless. Drawing closer to one of them, Ferrian noticed that it was just a shell, ripped open, its insides hollowed out.


    The rest of them appeared to be the same.


    Then he started noticing more dead animals: cattle, horses, dogs, rabbits, even birds, all scattered about and dead, frozen in the snow.


    And to his horror, all of the carcasses were black, as though drowned in crude oil.


    Ferrian paused, feeling shaken and nauseated. He looked again at the ghastly shadow to the south.


    Something terrible is happening here, he thought fearfully.


    It was definitely trigon: he recognised the distinctive, cold, unpleasant prickling sensation in his skin.


    He decided to cross these plains as quickly as possible.


    Turning back to the road, however, he found a Dragon crouching in front of him.


    Shocked, he fell onto his backside in the snow.


    How had such a huge creature managed to sneak up on him, out of an empty plain?!


    He stared at the Dragon, aghast, but it made no move to attack, simply stared back at him with its great fire-bright eyes.


    He thought it might be the same one he had confronted in Fleetfleer. The markings on its face seemed familiar, and there were sword wounds on its body from the Angel guards.


    The Dragon watched him, filling the world with its menacing presence, saying nothing.


    There was a sound behind Ferrian, and he turned quickly to look over his shoulder.


    Another Dragon was there, also staring at him.


    Then came movement from overhead, and a third Dragon swooped down and alighted to Ferrian¡¯s right. This one was greatly battle-scarred, with a large burn wound to its face. One eye was half-swollen shut and charred patches marred its scaly hide. Its massive wings were even more tattered than those of its brethren.


    They surrounded him.


    What do they want with me? Ferrian thought, confused and alarmed. The White Dragon already told them to back off!


    He remained very still, but was prepared to grab his Sword if any of them made a move.


    Dragon, he pleaded silently. I know you¡¯re angry, but please don¡¯t let them eat me¡­


    The Dragons merely watched, however, looming over him like scaly, deadly, charred-flesh smelling hills.


    The first Dragon rumbled deep in its throat, a sound that Ferrian could feel through his bones. He started to move his arm towards his Sword, but then the other Dragons responded, turning their heads towards each other. They appeared to be communicating in some fashion.


    The first Dragon turned back to Ferrian after a time, snorting a cloud of smoke from its nostrils. Then it opened its fearsome jaws.


    And spoke.


    ¡°We are the last three,¡± it said in its deep, resonant voice. ¡°This is all that remains of our once mighty race.¡±


    ¡°We escaped our prison,¡± the Dragon behind him said, ¡°to find not the freedom we have craved for centuries, nor vengeance at last: but death.¡±


    Ferrian said nothing, not daring to speak until he knew what they wanted.


    The eyes of the first Dragon narrowed. ¡°One of us has been devoured,¡± it went on. ¡°Corrupted by a foul waste of misery and hatred that seeks to consume all life in its madness.¡±


    It snorted smoke and rumbled again. ¡°This thing you know as trigon.¡±


    Ferrian glanced at the black shadow to the south. The Dragon to his right shifted aside so that he could behold it.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­¡± he stammered, ¡°t-that¡¯s a Dragon? A wraith?¡±


    The Dragon with the burned face turned to regard him. ¡°Indeed,¡± it replied.


    ¡°It will destroy everything,¡± the Dragon behind him growled. ¡°It will grow in power until every life force within its grasp has joined it in everlasting death.¡±


    Ferrian stared at the black stain, wide-eyed.


    ¡°We cannot approach it,¡± the first Dragon explained, baring its formidable teeth in anger. ¡°We cannot stop it. This black wraith is an enemy beyond our means to fight.¡±


    ¡°And the means of all other races,¡± the burned Dragon added ominously.


    Ferrian tore his eyes away from the distant wraith with an effort. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t see what it has to do with¡­¡±


    But he realised then that he did.


    He shook his head quickly. ¡°No,¡± he said vehemently. ¡°No way.¡±


    ¡°You are dead,¡± the first Dragon pointed out, staring at him intently with its huge eyes. ¡°And you possess a weapon that is capable of banishing this abomination.¡±


    Ferrian kept shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ not a sorcerer¡­¡±


    But the words trailed off, sounding weak, even to him.


    And he knew they weren¡¯t true.


    The Dragons knew it, too. They laughed; all three of them, at once.


    Ferrian cringed. He couldn¡¯t help himself. The laughter of Dragons boomed around him and through him, crushing him like the mockery of Gods.


    Ferrian, the White Dragon¡¯s voice whispered in his mind, a gentle, soothing sound amid the overwhelming noise. Listen¡­


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Ferrian didn¡¯t want to listen. He wanted to get up and run away as fast as he could, prevented from doing so only by the fact that his leg was broken.


    Instead, he gathered up his crutches and pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. ¡°Why are you asking me to do this?¡± he said furiously. ¡°There¡¯s a real sorcerer out there who could kill that thing! Lord Requar has a Sword of Healing that can destroy trigon!¡±


    The first Dragon regarded him, amused. ¡°He comes.¡±


    Ferrian hesitated. ¡°What?¡± he looked around at the Dragons. ¡°Requar is on his way here?¡±


    The Dragons stared at him. ¡°Yes,¡± the first Dragon replied.


    ¡°How¡­ how far away is he?¡±


    ¡°Closer,¡± the burned Dragon answered, ¡°than you think.¡±


    Ferrian scowled and looked away from them. ¡°Then you don¡¯t need me!¡±


    The first Dragon lowered its great head, peering at him. ¡°You would abandon the world to darkness?¡± it asked curiously.


    Ferrian stared at the snowy ground, frowning. Who do they think I am, he thought bitterly. A hero?


    He was a stupid, dead kid who had abandoned his friends and caused people to die. He was cursed with magic he barely understood and couldn¡¯t entirely control. And his Sword was arguably more dangerous than the thing he was supposed to slay with it.


    When he looked up again, his silver eyes were cold and hard as they met the Dragon¡¯s fierce orange gaze. He held it for a long moment, as gloom surrounded them and death gripped sky and land across the plains.


    Then, tightening his hands on his crude crutches, he started forward, heading east.


    The Dragon was directly in his path, but he no longer cared.


    It made no effort to move, but it didn¡¯t need to. In an instant, Ferrian was yanked into the air.


    He thought it was over. For half a terrifying, relieved second, he thought his dead life was at an end.


    And then he saw that the Dragons were below him; all three of them, looking up.


    He blinked, disoriented, and then gasped.


    His wings were back. The White Dragon had borne him aloft.


    But not to save him.


    Against his will, the wings sped him towards the black terror consuming Forthwhite.


    * * *


    Mekka circled the ruined war camp. It sprawled as a large, burned scar from the red cliffs beneath him, all the way to the docks reaching out into a clear, blue bay. He had been drifting over the camp for a long time, but had seen no sign of life.


    There was much death, however.


    The most prominent corpse was that of a Dragon, which had crash-landed almost directly into the middle of the camp. There were other bodies, too, blackened lumps scattered about the scorched ground amid the wreckage.


    Many of them.


    Mekka carefully kept his fear in check. The bodies were charred beyond recognition: any one of them could have been Carmine or Sirannor. But he wasn¡¯t yet willing to come to that conclusion.


    Not yet.


    Something was wrong, however ¨C something that the Angel couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on. He had first assumed that the Dragon had attacked the camp and the soldiers had slain it, but something about the way the beast had been slaughtered didn¡¯t add up. Its massive jaw was completely cleaved in two: only a trigonic or silvertine weapon could have achieved such a thing.


    This in itself was not a surprise; he had learned from Hawk that an entire company of the army had been issued with the vile black swords. But the injury didn¡¯t seem consistent with a retaliatory attack, and the bodies lay about randomly, as though killed fleeing in panic, with no evidence of formation or a concerted assault.


    What happened here? Mekka thought, frowning.


    His gaze swept once more across the surrounding hills, but there was nothing to be seen. Barren, rusty-red rock rose in steeply sloping peaks into the distance. A thin haze of smoke wafted from a nearby volcano.


    Vibrant blue sky curved overhead, all trace of the Aegis gone.


    Mekka descended in a slow arc to the ground, his shadow a dark doppelg?nger swooping to meet him. He landed quietly, his wings stirring the dust.


    A piece of burned canvas rustled gently in the sea breeze.


    Nothing else moved in the ruins.


    Charred support posts rose around him, like the remains of a razed forest. Mekka started forward, watchfully, into the open area that formed the centre of the camp.


    A few of the bodies were clad in trigonic armour, gleaming sickly in the sunlight, unmarred by the fire. One or two black weapons lay about, as well.


    Mekka accidentally caught his reflection in one of them.


    And found that he couldn¡¯t look away.


    A cold darkness gripped him as he stared at himself in the polished surface of the sword, at the wind playing through his hair and feathers, at his eyes¡­


    His left eye was a black hole in his head. Something dark trickled from it, down his cheek¡­


    With a gasp, Mekka wrenched himself away, putting his hands to his face.


    But no blood, or anything else, came off on his gloved fingers. He touched his eyes, and found that they were both still there, still whole.


    Requar had repaired his ruined eye, restored his sight. The Sword of Healing had put his thoughts in order as well, had banished the despair that had plagued him for so many years. But Mekka could feel it beginning to return, trying to claim a hold of him again¡­


    He staggered away from the sword, dropping into a crouch, placing one hand on the ground to steady himself. He was shaking and sweating. Memories of the trigonic dagger flashed brutally through his mind: The Seraph. The Governor. Tek¡¯Hari.


    The Pit. The madness.


    Swallowing against a sudden wave of nausea, he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, gaining control of himself. The memories were bad, and they would always be there. They were a part of him, now. But he would not let the trigon abuse them again. He refused to listen to the dark thoughts creeping up on him¡­


    A small sound caused him to open his eyes. A soft scuff, as of someone trying to be quiet.


    He whirled, spike shinging from its sheath, in time to parry a blow from a black blade.


    He spun away, blocked another swing, then leapt back.


    And reeled in shock.


    A woman stood in front of him; a woman he barely recognised. Her hair hung dark and lank, tangled and filthy. Her face was so caked in layers of reddish dirt or blood ¨C it was impossible to tell which ¨C that the colour of her skin was unidentifiable. She wore a long, oversized greatcoat with orange chevrons on the folded-over sleeves. It was open at the front, revealing black armour gleaming horribly underneath. Her hands and legs were clad in it as well, and she held a black sword two-handed in front of her.


    But her grey eyes, however strange they looked, were unmistakable.


    ¡°Carmine?!¡± Mekka gasped.


    ¡°This is my island,¡± she whispered, her eyes wide and filled with madness. ¡°This island is MINE!¡± She screamed the last word, and attacked him again.


    Her blows were swift and strong. She had become much better than the last time he had sparred with her.


    But Mekka had fought a Seraph ¨C and won.


    Carmine was not a challenge.


    He allowed her to press him, however; let her think she had the advantage. But when the moment was right, he rolled under her swing, sweeping her legs out from under her.


    She crashed onto her back on the ground.


    Mekka moved quickly, flicking her sword away with his spike and throwing himself on top of her, pinning her arms to the dirt. ¡°Carmine!¡± he said. ¡°Do you recognise me?¡±


    She screamed again, struggling wildly, trying desperately to throw him off.


    ¡°Carmine!¡± he repeated fiercely. ¡°Do you recognise me?¡±


    She did not reply, just continued to thrash about, shrieking and squealing in panic, like a trapped animal. He held her down until at last she wore herself out and lay still, panting heavily.


    He stared at her for a long moment. ¡°Do you¡­ recognise me?¡± he said again, softly and sadly.


    She did not reply at once, but then finally, to his great relief, she nodded her head. ¡°Yes,¡± she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. ¡°M-Mekka...¡±


    The tears overflowed, spilling down her filthy cheeks.


    Mekka¡¯s throat tightened. He took a chance and released her arms, very slowly.


    She did not attempt to struggle or attack him. He stood up, removing his weight from her, and crouched instead by her side.


    She continued to lay there limply, tears running down her face.


    Slipping an arm under her shoulders, he eased her up into a sitting position. She did not resist or speak, just sat slumped over, head bowed, like a broken doll.


    He hesitated for a moment, but it didn¡¯t appear to be a bluff. Reaching out, he took her chin in his hand and lifted her head, and brushed her hair gently out of her face. ¡°Redfeathers,¡± he whispered. ¡°What has happened to you, hmm?¡±


    She wouldn¡¯t look at him. ¡°My father,¡± she said raggedly, ¡°is dead.¡±


    Mekka felt his heart plummet. Oh, Gods.


    ¡°Dreikan¡­ killed him.¡±


    ¡°The General?¡± Mekka glanced around at the ruins, suddenly alarmed.


    ¡°He¡¯s dead,¡± Carmine went on. Her lip quivered. ¡°I killed him.¡±


    Mekka looked at her in surprise. She killed the General?


    He took a deep breath, and swallowed. ¡°Carmine,¡± he told her. ¡°You will need to take off that black armour. It is made of trigon and is affecting your ability to reason.¡± He took her cheek in his hand. ¡°You are safe now. There is no need to¨C¡±


    The backhanded blow caught him completely by surprise, sending him sprawling.


    She lunged past him and grabbed her sword. He recovered in time to catch her arm as she swung it down at him.


    Her eyes were full of rage again, swimming on the edge of insanity. ¡°No!¡± she cried. ¡°NO!¡±


    He grabbed the hilt with his free hand and twisted it out of her grip. A cold, prickly sensation rushed through his fingers as he did so. Gritting his teeth, he flung the blade away and pushed himself upwards, twisting Carmine¡¯s arm behind her back in one swift movement and shoving her face downwards into the dirt.


    ¡°Take it off,¡± he ordered.


    ¡°No!¡± She began to fight him again. ¡°I can¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°You can.¡±


    ¡°LET GO OF ME!¡± she shrieked.


    ¡°Take it off!¡±


    ¡°I CAN¡¯T!¡±


    He yanked her up and spun her to face him, gripping her arms. ¡°You will take it off NOW,¡± he demanded furiously, ¡°or I will do it for you!¡±


    She glared at him with all the fury of a storm, breathing heavily through her nose. Then her eyes filled with tears again. ¡°I...¡± she choked. ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t¡­¡±


    She began to sob.


    Mekka stared at her, and a dark, sickening feeling began rising in his gut again. His eyes widened.


    Releasing her arms, he hurriedly pulled off her coat and began to inspect the black armour. It was very close fitting, the plates seamless. His heart pounding in his chest, he ran his fingers over her shoulders, arms, sides and back, ignoring the unpleasant shiver that passed through him at the touch of trigon.


    There were no clasps or buckles. No gap where one piece fitted into another. It pressed right up against her skin, which had gone dark, like a bruise, where the trigon touched.


    ¡°Oh no,¡± he whispered. ¡°Oh no...¡±


    She was telling the truth. She could not remove the armour. It had sealed itself onto her body.


    He was speechless with horror.


    ¡°I...¡± He placed his hands on her shoulders, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. His own eyes filled with tears. ¡°I will¡­ find a way to¡­ get this off you...¡± He looked away, lowering his head and closing his eyes.


    How could this have happened? he thought, devastated. Hawk or I should have been here for her, should have kept her safe.


    He knew that there was no possible way of knowing that this would happen, but he couldn¡¯t help feeling responsible¡­


    Something brushed his cheek and he flinched. Opening his eyes, he saw that Carmine was touching his face, her eyes wide.


    He hadn¡¯t noticed that he¡¯d been crying until he felt the wetness on his face. He felt embarrassed, but he realised a moment later that this wasn¡¯t what she was staring at.


    His eye.


    Of course.


    His eye. Lord Requar had healed it, with his Sword that could cure anything, including trigon.


    His breath caught in his throat. Is it possible¡­?


    Reaching up, he took her hand in his own, and met her gaze. ¡°There is hope,¡± he whispered.


    They stared at each other for a long, intense moment, as ash blew softly around them, and waves slapped against the pier in the distance. The flash of wonder in Carmine¡¯s eyes faded, replaced with a sad, haunted bleakness that made Mekka¡¯s chest ache, because he recognised it.


    She didn¡¯t believe him, even when faced with a miracle. Her father¡¯s death, everything she had experienced here had crushed her so badly that hope no longer held any meaning.


    So it had been for him, once. And he had come back.


    He squeezed her hand, wanting nothing more in the world than to take her pain and sorrow away. But he had nothing with which to convince her but his gaze alone.


    He loved her madly; his heart raced with it. But that was another pit that he wasn¡¯t willing to fall into.


    Swallowing, he sighed brokenly. What could have been¡­


    Picking up her coat, he settled it back onto her. Then he gathered her against him, resting his cheek on her hair. She buried her face in his shoulder.


    When Hawk arrives, he thought, we will leave this island of horror behind.

 Chapter One Hundred Five

    On an island of blood and pain


    Shall the darkness stir again.


    Hawk broke into a run at the sight of Mekka kneeling in the ruins. He dropped to his knees in the dirt beside the Angel.


    ¡°Carmine!¡± he gasped.


    She lifted her head from Mekka¡¯s shoulder and folded into Hawk¡¯s embrace.


    ¡°Be careful,¡± Mekka warned. ¡°She is not¡­ herself.¡±


    Hawk barely heard his words, hugging Carmine fiercely. The only thing that mattered was that she was alive, and he was holding her.


    She clutched him back tightly.


    They remained that way for a long moment. Finally, Hawk pulled back.


    And that was when he noticed the glint of black.


    ¡°What¡­ Car, what are you wearing?!¡±


    ¡°Hawk...¡± Mekka said carefully. ¡°The armour, it¡­ it won¡¯t come off.¡±


    Hawk stared back at him, uncomprehending. ¡°Wh¡­ what do you mean, it won¡¯t come off?¡±


    Mekka swallowed, looking pale. ¡°It¡­ the trigon appears to have sealed itself to her body. There is¡­ no way to remove it.¡±


    He looked back at Carmine, but her head was lowered, unwilling to look at him.


    ¡°Like hell there isn¡¯t!¡± Hawk said angrily. ¡°There must be a way!¡±


    It was too horrible. He shook his head in denial. Carmine could not become one of those insane soldiers. Or a¡­ a wraith. He would not let it happen¡­


    ¡°We will need to find Requar as soon as possible,¡± Mekka said. ¡°He may know how to help her.¡±


    Hawk swallowed, shaking his head again. His hands tightened on Carmine¡¯s shoulders. ¡°He went off to fight some Dragon thing,¡± he replied.


    ¡°Then we should make haste.¡±


    Hawk looked off into the burned remains of the camp. He didn¡¯t want to waste time chasing after the sorcerers. He wanted to get that armour off Carmine now, rip it off with his bare hands¡­


    He reached for his sword.


    Mekka grabbed his arm. ¡°Hawk, stop! That will not work!¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± Hawk demanded. ¡°It¡¯s silvertine!¡±


    ¡°It does not work that way!¡± Mekka sighed in exasperation. ¡°The weapon and the armour are both hardened. They will likely just repel each other. It requires magic to destroy one with the other!¡±


    Hawk didn¡¯t care. ¡°I¡¯m going to try it anyway.¡±


    ¡°Hawk!¡±


    Throughout their argument, Carmine had remained still and silent. Now she lifted her head. ¡°Why is it so dark?¡± she said in a small voice.


    They fell silent.


    She was right. A strange gloom had settled around them, though they had arrived hours from dusk. As they watched, darkness fell around them in a great shadow, sweeping across the sky and the ruins, like onrushing night.


    Hawk felt the wave of shadow pass right through him, leaving him feeling shivery and ill.


    Mekka tensed. Carmine¡¯s eyes grew wide.


    ¡°GET DOWN!¡±


    Without warning, Mekka threw himself on top of them both, his wings spread to shield them. Hawk heard the distinctive sound of a blade swish overhead.


    The Angel rolled off them at once, and there was a clash of metal, sparks flaring in the darkness.


    Hawk and Carmine scrambled up.


    Before them stood a thing of horror. It was clad in black armour that had melted into grotesque forms that moved languorously about its body, so that it was impossible to tell where the armour ended and the figure it had claimed began ¨C if there was such a difference. Its cape hung in ragged tatters at its back ¨C or perhaps it was a cloak of mist. Beneath its helmet, its face was a grey, ethereal skull; gaping holes in place of eyes, nose and mouth. These features constantly moved, twisting and shifting horribly between solid and insubstantial in a manner that made their stomachs lurch.


    Oily, smoky mist poured off the thing in all directions, rising up at its back like a mockery of wings. Its right hand gripped an oversized black sword with a blade shaped like a Dragon¡¯s wing.


    ¡°What,¡± Hawk choked, fighting an urge to be sick, ¡°is that?!¡±


    Mekka stood in a half-crouch nearby, his spike extended. ¡°I believe,¡± he replied grimly, ¡°it was General Dreikan.¡±


    Carmine screamed.


    It was full of anguish, rage and terror, wrenched up from the pit of her soul. It caused every hair on the back of Hawk¡¯s neck to stand on end, and his breath to catch in his throat. He had not imagined her capable of uttering such a terrible sound.


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    He drew his sword.


    ¡°No!¡± Mekka cried. ¡°You cannot fight this thing, Hawk!¡± He gave his friend a desperate look. ¡°It killed Sirannor!¡±


    Hawk went cold. His hand tightened on his sword. ¡°Get Carmine out of here!¡± he ordered as the thing moved forward. ¡°Take her to the ship!¡±


    ¡°Hawk!¡±


    The wraith attacked.


    Hawk blocked its fierce blow, but the force of it staggered him.


    To his left, Carmine surged forward. She had found a weapon somewhere¡­


    Mekka caught her around the waist and disarmed her in a swift movement. ¡°NO!¡± she shrieked. ¡°HAWK! NO!¡±


    Hawk ducked a swing and parried the next. ¡°Mekka! Get her out of here!¡±


    With a growl of frustration, Mekka did so. Carmine screamed and struggled as he pulled her away. ¡°HAWK!¡±


    Mekka dragged Carmine to the docks. She fought him the whole way. ¡°LET GO OF ME!¡± she half raged, half sobbed. ¡°Mekka!¡±


    Gritting his teeth, he ignored her. The sound of clashing weapons in the background sent his blood racing.


    The pall of unnatural shadow fell away abruptly after only a few feet and sunlight washed over them again. The sea was dazzling as he reached the pier, where the Blueflower was moored.


    ¡°Everine!¡± he shouted.


    The blonde-haired woman came to the rail, looking pale and frightened, her blue eyes wide at the sight of the black shadow behind them.


    ¡°Fetch some rope!¡±


    She did so without question.


    Mekka spread his wings and leapt aboard, carrying Carmine with him. He swept her over to the main mast, pulled her arms behind it, then took the rope from Everine and bound Carmine securely.


    ¡°Mekka!¡± her voice was high pitched with despair. She heaved with sobs.


    Mekka stood up and turned to Everine. ¡°Watch her. If she tries to escape, knock her out.¡±


    Everine nodded mutely, to afraid to argue.


    ¡°Be ready to cast off.¡± He strode to the railing.


    ¡°Please,¡± Carmine begged. ¡°Mekka! Don¡¯t¡­ let him die!¡±


    Mekka turned to look at her, his eyes fierce, his fists clenched. ¡°I don¡¯t intend to.¡±


    He took off.


    Hawk fought hard, grunting with the effort of fending off the demon-wraith¡¯s attack. The thing was strong, but unlike his fight with Mekka, he was familiar with its fighting style and knew how to counter it, if not to overcome it.


    It sickened him, though, to think that this monster had once been his own General, and even more so that it had murdered Captain Sirannor. Even as he fought the wraith, he battled his own anger.


    He couldn¡¯t believe that Sirannor was dead.


    That thought lingered at the back of his mind, a dark warning. If the greatest warrior he had ever known couldn¡¯t defeat Dreikan¡­ who could?


    And now, the General was a wraith, a ghastly thing that could only be destroyed by magic¡­


    For a moment, Hawk¡¯s rage and desperation got the better of him. With a cry, he risked a reckless strike, drawing a line of sparks across its trigon-armoured chest.


    He almost paid for it, but managed to twist awkwardly and parry the oncoming brutal blow at the last second. The clumsy defence staggered him however.


    He stumbled away, panting. He was weakening quickly, as though his energy drained away with every clash. Sweat prickled across his skin in cold waves. He felt ill.


    I¡¯m losing, he thought in sudden despair. Mekka was right, I shouldn¡¯t have tried to fight this thing¡­


    A surge of dizziness passed over him, and he put a hand to his head.


    He gritted his teeth, and gripped his sword tightly with both hands, forcing himself to focus. Stop it! he told himself. Stop it! Don¡¯t let it mess with your mind!


    He blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision.


    The wraith had stopped advancing, however. It lowered its great sword, regarding him with its awful, twisting face.


    And then, something odd happened.


    The wraith reached out its left arm, black fingers extended. Hawk¡¯s own left arm released his sword and drifted upwards until it was also outstretched, towards the wraith.


    Hawk watched his arm in confusion. He tried to move it, but found that he could not. He had lost all feeling and control of that arm.


    It hung in the air, like the limb of a puppet on a string.


    And then, to his horror, he found that he could not move at all. His entire body was suddenly paralysed.


    He was a statue, forced to stare ahead at the foul, changing visage of the wraith.


    Out of his peripheral vision, he saw smoke streaming out of his arm, from the wound that Mekka had inflicted there with the trigonic dagger.


    The wound that he had forgotten about.


    His heart hammered in panic, but there was nothing he could do. He could only watch in helpless, gut-churning terror as black, liquid trigon oozed out of the split in his arm, seeping around the bandages. It formed itself into tendrils that wrapped around his forearm and engulfed his hand. The tendrils coiled outwards through the air like serpents lured forth by the wraith.


    Hawk¡¯s ears buzzed, and shadow claimed the edges of his vision. An icy coldness spread outwards from his numb arm through his veins to the rest of his body, rising up his neck and into his head.


    The last thing his conscious mind saw was a streak of silver flashing through the darkness.


    And then his thoughts dissolved into nothing.


    Mekka plunged once more into shadow. Below him, Hawk and the wraith stood with arms outstretched, mist swirling around them, trigon reaching forth from the Freeroamer¡¯s arm in black, gleaming, twisting streamers.


    Mekka dropped from the sky to Hawk¡¯s side, snatched the silvertine sword from his free hand and threw himself upwards again, twisting up and over the wraith, coming down behind it, bringing the sword around in a long, sweeping arc as he did so¡­


    The blade flared briefly with a ghostly silver light as it sheared through the wraith¡¯s neck, decapitating it.


    There was no scream; no sound at all. The wraith simply turned instantaneously to liquid, droplets spraying outwards with the passage of the sword.


    The rest of it collapsed into a formless, dark puddle of trigon at Mekka¡¯s feet.


    The mist dissipated at once; the shadow lifted like a cloak being drawn aside. Warm sunlight flooded over them, and the ruins of the camp came into view once more.


    It worked, Mekka thought, looking down at the sword in his hand in awe. It worked without magic¡­


    He didn¡¯t have time to dwell on his victory, however.


    Hawk lay sprawled on his back on the ground. The tendrils of trigon fled back into his arm.


    Mekka flew over the puddle and alighted beside Hawk. Hooking his arms under Hawk¡¯s shoulders, he dragged his friend quickly away from the pool of trigon.


    Desperately, he checked for signs of life.


    Hawk was still breathing, albeit shallowly, and his heart still beat. His eyes were open, but glazed over, and he was unresponsive when Mekka shook him and spoke his name several times.


    Drawing deep breaths, Mekka placed a hand on Hawk¡¯s gleaming breastplate. What have I done to you, Hawk? he thought in despair, staring at his friend¡¯s infected arm.


    He glanced over at the pool of trigon, but it did not move; it lay still and eerie and mirror-like in the sun.


    Scooping Hawk up in his arms, he bore his stricken friend hastily back to the ship.


    Landing on the deck, Mekka set him down carefully against a crate.


    ¡°Hawk!¡± Carmine cried.


    Mekka got to his feet, walked to the mast and released her bonds with his spike. She lunged forwards at once, throwing herself onto her fianc¨¦.


    ¡°Hawk!¡± She grabbed his face with her hands. ¡°Hawk! Oh my God!¡± She began to cry, hugging him against her.


    ¡°Everine,¡± Mekka said tightly. ¡°Cast off. Get us out of here.¡±


    Everine nodded, biting her lip, tears in her eyes as she looked at Hawk and Carmine.


    As the little ship began to pull away from the docks, Mekka walked to the bow and gripped the rail with both hands. He squeezed his eyes shut.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with him?¡± a quiet voice asked.


    Mekka opened his eyes to find young Ben standing behind him. He turned back to watch the spray leaping brightly in front of him. ¡°Something bad,¡± he whispered. ¡°Something bad that is¨C¡± his breath caught in his throat. ¡°That is my fault.¡±


    There was a moment of silence, then Ben said: ¡°Is he going to die?¡±


    Mekka scowled fiercely at the horizon, his hands tightening on the rail. ¡°No,¡± he replied determinedly. ¡°He is not.¡±


    Behind them, an island of towering, hot red rock gradually dwindled in their wake.


    It was a prison now for no one but the dead.

 Chapter One Hundred Six

    A monster sleeps with shadowed eyes


    In place of death, a life survives.


    The White Dragon set Ferrian down gently, so that his feet just touched the cobblestones. The great, pale, feathery wings continued to move, blurry and dreamlike, keeping him aloft.


    Ferrian looked around himself. He stood on the steeply-sloping main street of Forthwhite that ran directly up the middle of the hill, ending at a cliff with a couple of switchbacks leading to the summit. Surrounding him were white buildings, deathly quiet and still, their shadowed windows like empty eye sockets gazing at him. Beyond the boundaries of the town was nothing but blackness, the rest of the world vanished, as though Forthwhite sat in an otherworldly void.


    And creeping over everything ¨C houses, carts, fences, streets, were thick black tendrils of trigon. He could see it all in stark detail, even though there was no apparent source of light.


    It was hard to believe that this was the same bustling, bright town that Grisket and Aari had brought him to, all those weeks ago.


    He turned his eyes upwards, to the top of the hill, remembering the huge, rambling, whitewashed mansion that had stood there proudly under leafy oaks, the headquarters and home of the Freeroamers.


    There was no Guard House any longer. Now, there was a thick, impenetrable darkness. And something moved in it.


    Something enormous.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to force me to fight that thing,¡± Ferrian murmured unhappily, his eyes transfixed by the sinister glimpses of writhing scales.


    No, the White Dragon responded. It is your choice.


    ¡°Then why did you bring me here?¡±


    So that you may see.


    Ferrian had already seen much more than he wanted to. He felt as though he had fallen through his Sword into the worst version of reality imaginable.


    ¡°So you won¡¯t stop me if I try to leave?


    The Dragon did not answer. But Ferrian guessed it.


    You won¡¯t stop me from leaving, but you won¡¯t help me, either.


    She would take his wings away again. He would be forced to continue the hard way.


    He gazed dismally into the darkness. For a moment, he considered refusing again out of sheer stubbornness.


    But what would that achieve? Supposing he managed to crawl all the way across the border to Verlista: what would he do then? Spend the rest of his existence in a lonely cold cave in some mountains somewhere¡­ doing what?


    Playing with snowflakes.


    He closed his eyes.


    And then he realised the Dragon¡¯s intentions. She hadn¡¯t brought him here merely out of a sense of righteousness: she was trying to get him to face up to his fears. Trying to stop him from running away.


    Something that he had vowed he would no longer do.


    He had been foolish, and he felt suddenly ashamed. He had accepted the Winter as part of who he was¡­ perhaps it was time to accept other things, as well¡­


    He looked back up at the monster on the hill. ¡°Do you¡­ do you really think I can defeat it?¡±


    You can.


    Three living Dragons believed he could, and the ghost of one. Even Arzath had deemed him capable of using his Sword, had given it to him.


    He reached back and slowly withdrew the long, shining weapon. Staring down at his reflection, he turned it over in his hands, looking at the black and white snakes, at the trigonic dagger embedded in the hilt, surrounded by small, glittering diamonds.


    It had been Arzath¡¯s Sword; the sorcerer had forged it out of hate and intended it for murder.


    But it was Ferrian¡¯s Sword, now. And he could use it for something better. It was his responsibility to.


    If only he knew how.


    ¡°I¡­¡± he shook his head. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t know how to use my Sword¡­¡±


    Yes, the Dragon assured him. You do.


    Ferrian hesitated uncertainly.


    You need only believe that you can.


    Ferrian frowned. ¡°As simple as that?¡±


    As simple as that, the Dragon replied softly. And I will be with you.


    He looked down at his Sword again.


    I have always been with you.


    He continued staring at the weapon for a long moment. Then his hand tightened on the hilt.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he whispered. ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll do it.¡±


    She relinquished control of her wings to him. Lifting himself into the air, he flew slowly towards the top of the hill, where dwelt the shadowy black monstrosity that had claimed it for its own.


    The white horse trod in a snowy landscape, the sky above her grim and bleak; ahead of her deep darkness.


    Upon her back, two sorcerers: the last of their kind.


    The mare tossed her head and snorted, coming to a halt.


    Requar leaned forward, gently coaxing, but even his persuasive magic could not stir her. He looked ahead at the growing shadow, then glanced over his shoulder at his brother.


    ¡°This is as far as Serentyne will take us,¡± he said.


    They dismounted.


    ¡°Ferrian is here,¡± Arzath observed.


    ¡°So it seems,¡± Requar replied, stroking Serentyne¡¯s nose. He noticed that Arzath was staring at him, and shook his head.


    Admittedly, he was surprised. He had not anticipated that the boy¡¯s destination was the same as theirs, that he would choose to come here of his own accord. Did he intend to slay a Dragon-wraith by himself?


    Such a thing was admirable, but terrifying.


    Staring at his hand on Serentyne¡¯s nose, he took a deep breath, regretting what he had to say next. ¡°Arzath.¡± He hesitated. ¡°This is¡­ as far as you go, as well.¡±


    His brother turned to him, taken aback. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It is too dangerous,¡± he went on. ¡°You have no means of defending yourself. Magic will not protect you from¡­ this.¡±


    Arzath went pale. ¡°I¡­¡± he stammered. ¡°You¡­ you cannot go on alone!¡±


    Requar looked him in the eye. ¡°I will not be alone.¡±


    Arzath shook his head, his eyes flaring with familiar anger.


    ¡°You will stay here,¡± Requar told him calmly, handing over the horse¡¯s reins. ¡°With Serentyne.¡±


    Arzath¡¯s fist tightened around the reins. Then he tossed them aside and paced away into the snow.


    Requar moved over to him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Arzath,¡± he said softly. ¡°I will return.¡±


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    His brother stared straight ahead, not looking at him, his jaw and fists clenched. His green eyes glimmered.


    Requar lowered his head, sighing quietly.


    ¡°You will succeed,¡± Arzath said finally, though his voice was unsteady. ¡°You have the power to achieve anything.¡± He swallowed. ¡°You have always been stronger than I. S-stronger than you r-realise¡­¡±


    They were both silent for awhile, staring at the drifting snow.


    ¡°The war between us,¡± Arzath said unhappily. ¡°I regret it.¡±


    Requar looked at him. ¡°I know.¡± He lifted a hand again and squeezed his brother¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Take care.¡±


    He started to turn away, but Arzath¡¯s hand on his arm stopped him. They stared at each other for a moment, then to Requar¡¯s astonishment, Arzath pulled him into an embrace.


    His eyes blurred a little as he hugged his brother back. At last, he stepped away, then turned and walked onwards alone, Sword of Healing at his back, across the snow-covered plain towards the waiting darkness.


    The town rose up before him, white and empty and dead.


    No breath of wind stirred the yellow leaves of the great oak trees clustered about the base of the hill. Nothing stirred. There was no sign of Ferrian.


    There was no snow here, either; the Winter was kept at bay by the vast amount of trigon.


    It was cold, however; a sickly, slimy kind of chill that crawled across his skin. Dread formed into a hard ball in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. He was familiar with the physical effects induced by the presence of trigon.


    Requar invoked a Mind Sweep, mostly out of habit. He didn¡¯t suppose there was anything still living in this town; it would be a miracle if there was, but¨C


    His breath caught in his throat.


    There, on his left was a golden, swirling aura. It was tainted with dark stains of sadness and grief and pain¡­ but it was Human, and unmistakably alive.


    It was inside a large tavern at the entrance to the town, on the ground floor.


    Restoring his normal vision, Requar glanced up at the hill uncertainly.


    The Dragon-wraith shifted languorously in its bed of shadow, but didn¡¯t appear to be aware of him yet.


    He hesitated. Someone, against all common sense, was still alive in this deathly place. Judging by their aura, they seemed to be injured and unconscious. He could not leave them there.


    After all, the wraith wasn¡¯t going anywhere¡­


    He headed off the road towards the tavern, his blue cloak swishing in the unnatural hush.


    It was called the Hungry Deer, and there were no lights on inside. Requar eased the door open to pitch blackness.


    He listened.


    Silence.


    Quietly, he stepped inside.


    Holding out a hand, he summoned a ball of light. It flared blue-white over his palm, then abruptly went out.


    Cursing, he tried again.


    This time, he managed to send it most of the way across the room before it fizzled out.


    He sighed in dismay. The trigon was interfering with his magic.


    But the brief wash of light had revealed the approximate location of several tables. He edged carefully over to one of them and felt for a candle. After several failed attempts, it finally ignited with a snap of his fingers into a real flame.


    Taking it up, he looked around the room.


    There appeared to be a couple of shadowy figures slumped over in the far corner, beside the bar.


    Cautiously, he made his way towards them.


    He came to a stop by the table, realising with a sinking heart that he recognised them.


    The big man on his right was the Bladeshifter he had met in Meadrun many weeks ago ¨C his wild, bushy hair and thick red beard were unmistakable. Requar had healed him once, having been forced to defend himself and two hunters against the brute¡¯s unnecessary attack.


    He was beyond even Requar¡¯s help now, however. A huge tendril of trigon had plunged into his back, shattering a nearby window in the process. More trigon sprawled from his hands across the table, like foul vines.


    He had been dead for awhile, his life force gone. There was nothing left to resurrect.


    The other man¡­


    Requar sighed, shaking his head in dismay. ¡°Flint,¡± he whispered.


    Setting the candle on the table amidst the bottles, he turned towards the stricken ex-Bladeshifter and crouched down beside him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. ¡°What misfortune has brought you here, old friend?¡± he murmured sadly.


    Carefully, he pulled Flint up until he rested against the back of the chair. He did not wake. By the heavy smell of alcohol and evidence scattered around the table, he had seemingly drunk himself into oblivion.


    Considering the company he shared, Requar could hardly blame him.


    He examined Flint by the light of the candle. There were serious burn wounds to his face, and much of the rest of him judging by the bandages around his hands and other parts of his body, beneath his clothing. Someone had done a fairly good job of looking after him, but he was not in good shape.


    He was, however, free of trigon, which was frankly remarkable.


    Standing, Requar drew his Sword.


    There was a clink of glass behind him.


    Requar went still. Very slowly, he looked over his shoulder.


    The large man was sitting up from the table. His hands made a sticky sound as he removed one from the tabletop, the other from around his beer glass. Beneath the mass of tangled black hair, he had no face, not even a skull, just a writhing patch of dark greyish mist attempting to form itself into some parody of Human features.


    Requar¡¯s stomach gave a lurch. He stepped back, raising his Sword.


    And then the candle, inexplicably, went out.


    Blackness reigned, and silence.


    The smell of candle smoke drifted past his nostrils, cutting through the stench of death.


    He found that he was holding his breath. He was alone in the dark with a demon-wraith.


    And his magic was unreliable.


    He moved away from the table, away from Flint. Keeping his Sword up with his right hand, he shook his left, trying in vain to produce some light.


    A sudden icy tickling sensation flooded over him. He threw himself to one side out of pure instinct.


    There came an enormous crash where he had just been standing.


    A brief white glow flared in his fingers. It lasted only a second, but showed him the demon-wraith extricating a giant battle-axe from the splintered remains of a table. The wraith turned to him and leered.


    Then his light went out.


    Abandoning attempts at a light, Requar threw his magic hastily into a shield, instead.


    The freezing sensation came again. Requar swung his Sword blindly, but missed.


    The battle-axe smashed into him from an unexpected angle, sending blue sparks exploding into the darkness.


    He stumbled into Flint¡¯s table. Bottles and glass rained down on him, smashing as he fell to the floor. He picked himself up at once and ran, but collided with another table, catching himself from falling on a chair. He spun away just as that table shattered into pieces as well.


    He found himself up against a wall, breathing hard, his heart racing. He only needed to make contact with the wraith with his Sword in order to destroy it, but it didn¡¯t seem intent on letting him get close enough.


    Unfortunately, the wraith could snatch away his life with just a touch, as well.


    And it was draining his magic with alarming effectiveness.


    Frustrated, he edged away, keeping his Sword up, pointing into the darkness. He allowed his shield to drop and tried a night-vision spell instead, which used less energy.


    But the spell required the presence of some small amount of light to work. And there was none. Even the eerie non-light from outside failed to filter through the windows. The wraith had the tavern wrapped up in shadow like a prison.


    The blackness was oppressive, stale and cold and full of a dread that threatened to overwhelm him. The wraith was soundless, apart from its attacks, and could see in the dark. In contrast, his own breathing seemed far too loud, his boots scuffed on the floorboards and he kept bumping into the furniture.


    He was stumbling around like a helpless, ungainly fool.


    But he could feel the wraith coming¡­


    This time he ducked, hearing the axe swish over his head. He swept out with his Sword, but again, either misjudged or the wraith was abominably fast. He rolled to one side immediately and was almost strangled when the axe slammed his cloak into the floor, pinning it.


    Desperately, Requar slashed out behind him and was rewarded by the sound and feel of his Sword shearing through the axe haft. He turned the swing downwards, slicing through his cloak, and freed himself.


    He rolled to his feet and spun to face the direction he thought the wraith was.


    Something yanked on his Sword, almost pulling him off his feet again. He stumbled, but managed to retain his grip. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to wrench his weapon back, but whatever it was had a firm hold on it.


    Now he could see something, however. A thin, silvery mist floated in front of him, ghostly in the darkness.


    Requar¡¯s eyes narrowed. He tightened both hands on the hilt. If the wraith has taken hold of my Sword, he thought with a flash of triumph, it has made a fatal mistake.


    He summoned his magic and poured it with a fierce rush into the Sword.


    Blue light flared down the blade, illuminating his surroundings, revealing the demon-wraith right in front of him. Its left arm was extended, its fingers turned into long, shiny black tendrils of trigon that reached forth and coiled about the blade of his Sword. Silver mist poured off the blade in long, bright streamers where the trigon touched.


    The wraith refused to let go, however. Its awful, substanceless face transformed into a furious, soundless scream.


    And then, with a mighty heave, it tore the Sword of Healing right out of Requar¡¯s grasp.


    He staggered in shock as the Sword flew across the room, its magic fading, hit the opposite wall and clattered uselessly to the floor.


    Blackness descended once more.


    Requar backed away quickly, finding himself suddenly, horribly, without a weapon. Holding out an arm, he tried to summon his Sword back.


    Nothing happened.


    Feeling an oncoming rush of cold again, he darted to his left and came up against another wall. He followed it along, sweating, searching the darkness for the wraith, though he could see nothing.


    Setting his back to the wall, he held out his arm again, once more attempting to call back his Sword.


    He heard it scrape against the floor, but it did not leap into his grasp.


    The wraith grabbed his arm.


    He fought a spike of panic. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm, ignoring the tentacle slithering around his arm, concentrating on nothing but his Sword. He gathered magic inside him, as much as he could manage, a hot, tight fire.


    The tentacle constricted around his arm so that it began to go numb. It crept towards his shoulder...


    And then he went deeper, far deeper, calling on something he hadn¡¯t dared to use for a long time.


    Anger.


    Not just anger, but a cold, dark fury drawn up from the lowest realms of his soul, where he had banished it. The edge of sanity rage, a flicker of that alternative self that had destroyed the SOMS¡­


    ¡°I came here to destroy a Dragon-wraith,¡± he whispered viciously to the darkness, ¡°to banish trigon from this town, and YOU WILL NOT STOP ME!¡±


    White light burst from his eyes.


    The wraith loomed before him, leaking mist into the blackness, its face gaping into a hole of wordless laughter. It lunged for him at the same moment the Sword sprang from the floor¡­


    The wraith¡¯s outstretched fingers dissolved a breath from Requar¡¯s face and the rest of it exploded with blue-white light as the Sword of Healing smashed through its body, flying into the sorcerer¡¯s waiting grasp.


    Liquid trigon splattered everywhere.


    Requar slumped back against the wall, gulping a breath as though having been submerged. Transferring his Sword to his left hand, he checked his right arm anxiously, but to his relief, the trigon had not pierced him.


    The droplets that had landed on his clothing, hair and exposed skin fell away, rolling towards the inky puddle on the floor.


    He stepped away from it, moving unsteadily over to the bar at the back of the room, where he sank onto a stool.


    The deep shadow that had filled the room lifted; he could now make out the dim grey outlines of furniture and walls and windows. He tested his magic by snapping his fingers. It came freely, his fingers lit by a welcoming white glow.


    He took another deep breath of relief and wiped his sleeve across his brow. He waited a few minutes for the trembling to stop.


    Then, wearily, he slid off the stool and went to help Flint.

 Chapter One Hundred Seven

    The fate of all, balanced on a blade


    Light and dark shall be unmade.


    Flint opened his eyes to the warm glow of candlelight, gloom, and silence. Instinctively, he put a hand to his head, wincing, only to find a distinct lack of a roaring hangover. In fact, he felt suspiciously well-rested and clear-headed considering he was slumped in a wooden chair at a beer-stained table in a dark tavern.


    Something else had changed, too. Most of the bottles on the table were gone; or rather, they were now on the floor, in glittering pieces. A couple of nearby tables were smashed into piles of kindling. And Grim and the horrible tentacles of trigon were gone.


    But Flint was not alone.


    Another candle burned at the bar, gleaming on the wall of bottles behind the counter. A shockingly familiar figure sat in the pool of light there, his head resting in his hand, eyes closed.


    Flint stared at him, uncomprehending, wondering with a sinking feeling if he had not actually awoken after all.


    After a long moment in which nothing happened, Flint cautiously got to his feet.


    His chair scraped on the floorboards.


    ¡°Greetings, Flint,¡± the sorcerer said without opening his eyes. ¡°I hope you are well rested.¡±


    Flint froze, a chill going down his spine at the voice. He was real. He was really there.


    Flint¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°L-Lord Requar,¡± he stammered. ¡°What¡­ how did you¡­¡± He floundered, unable to think of what to say.


    ¡°How did I know you were here?¡± Requar finished, opening his eyes. He gave Flint a small smile. ¡°I didn¡¯t. I came here to be rid of that awful thing on the hill. You were an¡­ ah¡­ unexpected discovery.¡±


    Flint continued to stare at him in disbelief. He rubbed at his temple, then realised that he was no longer burnt.


    He looked down at his hands. The bandages were gone. ¡°You healed me!¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± Requar replied. ¡°You were in a sorry state.¡± He gave Flint a worried, yet disapproving look, as though Flint made a habit of almost getting himself killed.


    ¡°Family reunion,¡± Flint muttered, frowning. ¡°Didn¡¯t go too well.¡±


    Requar regarded him for a moment, then took his Sword from the counter and stood up. He looked tired. His fine clothes were dirty and torn. Much of his long hair had come free from its braid and draped tangled about his shoulders.


    He walked over to Flint.


    ¡°Flint,¡± he said seriously. ¡°You need to leave. It is not safe here.¡± He looked towards the door. ¡°I must find Ferrian.¡±


    Flint blinked, startled. ¡°Ferrian¡¯s here as well?¡±


    Requar did not reply. He headed for the door, picking his way over the broken furniture.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Flint grabbed his hat and Justifier from another table beside the wall, and hurried outside after the sorcerer.


    Requar paused on the cobbled road at the entrance to the town, turning to face the hill. His Sword gleamed brightly in his hand, a slash of silver on a black and white background. The yellow leaves of the huge oaks around him were still.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Flint said again, jogging up to him. ¡°You gonna tell me what the hell¡¯s goin¡¯ on?!¡±


    Requar gestured up at the vast shadow looming over the town. ¡°The Dragon-wraith must be slain.¡±


    ¡°That ain¡¯t what I mean!¡± Flint shook his head. ¡°Back at the castle, you¡­¡± He swallowed.


    ¡°You were¡­¡± His words faltered again.


    Requar gave him a sympathetic look. ¡°I understand why you left,¡± he said softly. ¡°You made the right decision. Arzath was turning into a wraith; it was dangerous for you to stay.¡± He paused. ¡°My brother is fine now. I found the strength to cure him.¡±


    He hesitated, looking back at the eerie dead town, and his brow furrowed. ¡°There is¡­ just one thing that eludes me,¡± he went on. ¡°In your letter, you mentioned that Arzath¡­ did something to me.¡± He turned back to Flint. ¡°What did you mean?¡±


    Flint stared back at him, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the weight of everything that had happened. The letter had been meant for Ferrian; he couldn¡¯t have imagined that Requar would ever read it. He found it surreal that the sorcerer was standing here now; alive, and self-aware, and talking to him. And Requar didn¡¯t appear to remember what had befallen him. He had no idea of the days and weeks of misery that Flint, Arzath and Ferrian had suffered in that freezing castle.


    Flint didn¡¯t want to tell him. He wished that he could forget it himself. That Requar was ignorant was a blessing.


    But the sorcerer was staring at him intently, with those blue eyes that bored right through the back of his skull. He felt exactly the same as he had the day they had first met, when Flint had lied to him about wanting to help his sister.


    He could not bring himself to be so dishonest again. But he hardly knew where to begin with the truth.


    Taking a deep breath, he carefully set his crossbow down on the ground. Then he took a single bolt from his quiver, and handed it to Requar.


    ¡°Your brother,¡± he replied quietly, ¡°tried to bring you back.¡± He shook his head and lowered his face beneath his hat, unable to look at Requar. ¡°He¡­ couldn¡¯t. I¡­ did what I had to.¡±


    Requar stared down at the bolt for a long moment, saying nothing, rolling it slowly in his fingers until the name that was etched there faced upwards.


    ¡°I was¡­ infected?¡± he whispered finally.


    Flint nodded, feeling wretched.


    Requar continued staring at the bolt. Then he let it drop and put a hand to his head. ¡°No,¡± he said in confusion. ¡°No¡­ this isn¡¯t right¡­¡±


    ¡°The dagger,¡± Flint went on unhappily. ¡°You ¨C¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Requar stepped back from him, shaking his head in denial, though his face had gone deathly pale. ¡°I¡­ I used the Sword on myself!¡±


    ¡°Ferrian used the Sword,¡± Flint explained miserably. ¡°At least, he tried to¡­¡±


    Requar staggered away. His head began to make odd, jerky movements as though his own memories were hitting him hard in the face. He swayed, and the Sword of Healing slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the cobblestones.


    He fell to his knees along with it.


    Flint stepped forward in alarm. ¡°Requar! What¡­ what¡¯s happening?!¡±


    Requar¡¯s breath came in a series of short, sharp gasps. He clutched at the ground with both hands, his eyes wide. ¡°This¡­ this cannot be!¡± he choked. ¡°Lies! L-lies! N¡­ no!¡±


    All of a sudden he doubled over, grabbing his chest as though in pain. A pitiful, strangled cry left his throat.


    Flint didn¡¯t know what to do. He felt helpless and afraid.


    ¡°Get¡­ get away from me,¡± Requar gasped.


    Flint hesitated.


    ¡°GET AWAY FROM ME!¡±


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    The sorcerer¡¯s scream shocked him so that he stumbled backwards. Light flared from Requar¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°NnnnnnaaarrgghhAAAARRGHHH!¡±


    Magic exploded out of him, in all directions, in a blinding white cataclysm of light.


    His shriek was terrible.


    Ferrian lingered at the top of the hill, watching the Dragon-wraith pensively. It slumbered, but was not still; its long, spiked tail slid restlessly about the hill, its huge wings flexed, its massive, eyeless head swung to and fro, jaws gaping. Its body was part mist, part scale, part oil-black skeleton.


    But some part of it was still a Dragon and it writhed, tormented by its nightmarish existence.


    Ferrian was repulsed and fearful, but he pitied it as well. As terrifying as the Dragons were, they were intelligent creatures and none of them deserved a fate such as this.


    No one did.


    Yet still, he hesitated. The thing was enormous; his Sword, even with all its power, seemed suddenly, somehow, inadequate.


    You must go forth, the White Dragon urged. You must not doubt.


    Ferrian gripped his Sword hard. I must not doubt.


    He had come this far. There was no sense in backing out now. And he was dead, after all; the wraith could not hurt him.


    Quietly, he moved towards the giant black Dragon, his ghostly white wings carrying him just above the ash and burned timber littering the hilltop.


    He made it to the wraith¡¯s side; its awful scaly hide hung in rippling, torn sheets off its skeletal frame. Beneath it, in place of flesh and muscle, was nothing but churning, smoky mist.


    Taking his Sword in both hands, he drew back to strike¡­


    White light flared suddenly behind him, from somewhere below in the town, illuminating the scorched trees. It was accompanied by a distant, dreadful scream.


    The wraith reacted at once, surging to its feet.


    Ferrian fell back with a gasp.


    The wraith reared up, its head swinging towards the light.


    It roared.


    It was the most horrifying, ear-piercing, bone-shuddering sound that Ferrian had ever experienced, like a million voices tearing their throats out in anguish. At such close quarters, his entire body trembled with the force of it, and his vision went black.


    A moment later he could see again, only to find the Dragon-wraith surging into the air. With a mighty flap of its ragged wings, it soared out over the town.


    Hurry! the White Dragon whispered. Without waiting for her host to regain his shattered composure, she picked him up and sped him after the wraith.


    Out on the cold, snow-covered plain, Arzath looked up as a brilliant bloom of white burned through the darkness.


    His eyes went wide.


    Abandoning his brother¡¯s advice, and Serentyne, he broke into a run.


    Flint pushed himself up from the ground. For a terrifying, seemingly endless moment, he thought he had been blinded ¨C or was perhaps dead ¨C as he could see nothing but white.


    But then it faded, shrinking back into the gloom.


    Through the coloured patches swarming across his vision, he saw Requar still crouching on the road, gripping his chest with one hand, in great distress or pain. The area around him in a wide circle was blackened and smoking.


    Shaking, Flint crawled towards his Justifier¡­ and then was flattened again by a mighty roar from overhead. Peering out from under his hat, he saw the massive Dragon-wraith circling in the dark sky above them.


    Grabbing his crossbow, he wondered desperately whether he ought to shoot Requar or the wraith.


    Deciding that neither option would particularly improve his likelihood of surviving, he heaved up his weapon and scrambled over to the wall of the tavern.


    Something with white wings flashed overhead and attacked the wraith.


    It roared again.


    Flint fumbled a bolt out of his quiver and shoved it into his bow. ¡°If I¡¯m gonna die,¡± he said aloud, cranking the bolt into place, ¡°I¡¯m gonna die shootin¡¯ somethin¡¯!¡±


    Then another figure appeared, racing out of the black wall of shadow from the west.


    He was stunned, yet relieved, to see that it was Arzath.


    The sorcerer ran straight at his brother, but didn¡¯t make it before Requar exploded again.


    Flint waited for the glare to subside and lowered his arm from his face. Then, against his better judgement, he set down the Justifier and ran to help Arzath to his feet.


    ¡°Don¡¯t touch me!¡± Arzath raged as he regained his footing. The sorcerer was slightly singed and dazed, but unhurt. Then he noticed Flint again.


    ¡°You!¡± His eyes widened, and he grabbed Flint by the front of his shirt. ¡°What did you say to him?!¡±


    Flint didn¡¯t have a chance to reply, as the white glow blazed from Requar¡¯s eyes again.


    They both ran for cover.


    ¡°What the hell¡¯s goin¡¯ on?¡± Flint exclaimed when they could see again. There were more bursts of light from the sky, and furious screaming roars from the wraith that shook Flint¡¯s bones and made him want to flee in panic. A fierce battle was taking place.


    ¡°A Fatalis.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°A Fatalis!¡± Arzath was staring at his hands, which were trembling. ¡°It is¡­ a form of suicide. He is attempting to destroy himself with his own magic! But it is not working. There is too much trigon around; it is sapping his energy¡­¡± he trailed off, putting his face in his hands.


    Flint stared at him, and looked back at the forlorn figure of Requar kneeling on the road. ¡°He¡¯s tryin¡¯ to kill himself? Again??¡±


    Arzath removed his hands from his face, and they curled into fists. ¡°You hell-damned FOOL!¡± he cried. ¡°You TOLD HIM!¡±


    Flint glared back at him defensively. ¡°He asked!¡±


    ¡°He ASKED?¡± Arzath¡¯s eyes burned with anger. ¡°You had best hope Ferrian kills that wraith,¡± he said viciously, ¡°or we are ALL going to DIE!¡±


    Ferrian¡¯s Sword flashed silver as he struck at the Dragon-wraith, but encountered only mist. His own Dragon flung him sideways, avoiding the pit-black jaws that lunged out of the darkness. Desperately he spun and slashed again, but the wraith was extremely agile, contorting away from his strikes.


    It was a difficult thing to fight, as it was only half substantial. Parts of it were bone and hard black scale, parts of it were greasy mist. Now and then, lingering tendrils of ethereal matter passed straight through Ferrian. Were he alive, its touch would have carried his soul right out of him.


    But the wraith couldn¡¯t steal a life force that wasn¡¯t there.


    That didn¡¯t stop it from trying, however.


    Claws raked at him suddenly, and this time the White Dragon was too slow.


    He spun backwards to find his chest opened up in a huge gash.


    Dammit! he cursed inwardly, clenching his jaw in frustration. He felt no pain, but he couldn¡¯t afford to let himself be ripped to pieces.


    The Dragon-wraith dived at him again, equally furious. Ferrian braced himself, but at that moment there was another flash of brilliant white light from below that momentarily blinded him.


    The White Dragon twisted him aside, and Ferrian lashed out wildly.


    To his surprise, he was rewarded with an echoing scream, and when the light faded he saw the wraith undulating through the air in agitation, liquid trigon leaking from it.


    He took a moment to glance downwards, but could see nothing; he was surrounded by darkness. The shadow emanating from the wraith was so thick that even the white buildings were little more than faint grey shapes in the void below.


    But something was happening down there.


    Clearly, Requar had arrived. Ferrian had no idea what the sorcerer was doing. If he was attempting to attack the wraith, it was having little effect other than to stir the creature into a ravenous frenzy and inconveniently blind Ferrian.


    And that terrible scream, earlier¡­


    He had no time to worry about it. The wraith attacked again.


    Its rushing jaws snapped closed in the space he had just occupied, and Ferrian managed another blow on the side of its head before it buffeted him with its massive skull, sending him tumbling away awkwardly, luminous white wings spiralling around him, trailing rainbow streamers of light.


    His Dragon righted him, turning him to face the wraith again.


    Ferrian felt desperation overtaking him. He didn¡¯t know how much longer he could keep himself together; he was locked in a desperate dance with the creature, and wasn¡¯t getting anywhere. It would take a thousand slashes to kill it this way¡­


    Use your magic, Ferrian, the White Dragon urged.


    He gritted his teeth, knowing with dismay that she was right. He had been putting off the inevitable.


    The wraith glided sinuously in the darkness, huge and vengeful, its great gaping hollow eye staring right through him, a pit to the bottom of eternity. Its razor sharp, obsidian teeth were bared, longing to tear his flesh.


    Fighting back a surge of fear, he grasped his Sword in both hands.


    Then he called his magic.


    It did not come forth in a sudden rush, as was usual, but slowly, sluggishly, as though reluctant to respond. He concentrated harder, and gradually it flowed up inside him, through his hands and into the blade, which shivered and whined in his grasp.


    There was no snow or wind to protect him; the Winter was blocked by the wall of trigon surrounding the town.


    The Sword shook and began to glow.


    He waited, tense, as the Dragon-wraith circled around and surged towards him, jaws wide¡­


    The White Dragon spun him up and away at the last second. With a cry, Ferrian swung his Sword at the wraith¡¯s neck¡­


    Blackness.


    But almost immediately, the void fragmented into a familiar mirrored room.


    Even knowing what to expect, the sight was overwhelming and Ferrian briefly panicked. But he forced himself to focus, and got a hold of himself.


    I can do this, he thought fiercely. He concentrated on remembering that his body still existed. His mind was here, inside the Sword, but his body was still there, outside, in the air, being held aloft by the White Dragon. She would not let him fall. She would not let him fail.


    And then his mind seemed to split itself in two. He became aware of himself floating in mid-air, holding his Sword, its blade buried deep in the wraith¡¯s neck. He could hear the shriek of power and feel the icy flow of magic through him, and see the black scales gleaming back at him. But at the same time, he was inside the Sword, detached and alone, with a thousand different versions of the world surrounding him.


    A thousand realities, all the same, and yet different¡­


    And suddenly, he understood what he was supposed to do.


    He looked at the possibilities, feeling strangely calm, and chose the one he wanted. Then he threw himself into it.


    His body moved, in the blink of an eye, from one position to another. And his Sword sliced the air in between, leaving a hole that could not be seen.


    The part of the Dragon-wraith within that rent simply vanished.


    Ferrian flitted from one reality to another. And another. And another. Every time he did so, small pieces of the wraith disappeared.


    It screamed and writhed, but it could not catch him. Ferrian appeared first on one side of it, then on another, faster and faster, criss-crossing the wraith, shredding the space it occupied as he did so, until it became caught in a net of non-existence.


    Parts of the wraith became disconnected from the rest of it, and dissolved into liquid trigon.


    It shrieked and howled and squirmed in anger and despair.


    Finally, there was little left of it save scraps of its body connected by nebulous streamers of swirling mist, and its head. Ferrian brought his Sword down on one side of its neck, then appeared on the other side and did the same.


    The space in between simply ceased to exist.


    The great skull melted, along with the rest of it, and rained down onto the white buildings below.

 Chapter One Hundred Eight

    The snow is cold, the wind is chill


    One shall fall beside the hill.


    Brightness stole quietly over the town of Forthwhite. It was not a warm brightness, or welcoming. The sun did not show her face, and clouds brooded overhead, stretching across the plains. It was dim, and cold, and snow blew in on the wind.


    But the darkness was gone.


    Ferrian drifted to the ground, amid dancing snowflakes. He came to rest lightly on the cobbled road.


    In front of him, hunched over in a swath of scorched ground, was Lord Requar. Snowflakes were caught in his long hair, which fell about his lowered face.


    He was quietly sobbing.


    Ferrian watched him sadly. ¡°Requar?¡±


    Requar lifted his head slowly and looked at him. His face was streaked with tears. He looked away, his expression broken. ¡°Leave me alone.¡±


    The Sword of Healing lay at his side. Ferrian moved over to it and picked it up. He placed it carefully in front of the sorcerer. Then he lowered himself to the ground, dismissing his wings.


    Requar stared at him. Ferrian held his gaze.


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have run away,¡± Ferrian told him. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Requar put an arm across his face in an attempt to hold back further sobs, but failed.


    ¡°I¡¯ve destroyed the Dragon-wraith,¡± Ferrian went on. ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry about it any more.¡±


    Requar did not reply.


    Tentatively, Ferrian reached out and touched Requar¡¯s arm.


    ¡°Father?¡± he whispered.


    Requar lowered his arm and looked at him. Then he shook his head.


    Ferrian stared at him, stunned. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ you¡¯re not?¡±


    Requar swallowed. ¡°For a time,¡± he replied softly, his eyes brimming with tears. ¡°For a time.¡± He closed his eyes and sighed. ¡°You were everything to me. It broke my heart to give you away. But I could not look after you. Not as a sorcerer.¡±


    Ferrian looked away. He had been so sure¡­


    He didn¡¯t know what to say.


    Why had he been so mad at Requar? Why had he not thought it through properly? Why did he always assume the worst of everyone?


    His breath left his throat wordlessly. He stared at the ground. He no longer had the ability to cry, but an ache began to fill up his chest.


    ¡°I meant to come back for you, Ferrian,¡± Requar said. ¡°I never intended to abandon you. I never wished for you to be alone.¡±


    Ferrian just nodded mutely. After a moment¡¯s silence, he asked: ¡°My¡­ my real parents. Did you know them?¡±


    Requar shook his head. ¡°No. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°They died at Ness?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Ferrian stared at the snow, at the soft, cold, ordinary Winter mist drifting across the plains. No terrors lurked in it.


    Only sadness.


    ¡°There¡¯s something I need you to do for me,¡± he said finally, looking up at Requar. ¡°I¡¯m carrying the soul of a White Dragon inside me. She seems to think that you can help her.¡±


    Requar shook his head despondently. ¡°I haven¡¯t the power to help anyone.¡±


    Ferrian picked up the Sword of Healing and held it out to him. ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°You do.¡±


    Requar stared at his Sword in despair, but after a long moment, held out his hands and took it.


    ¡°You have no life force, Ferrian,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Your Dragon¡¯s magic is the only thing keeping you alive. If I were to use my Sword on you¡­¡± he swallowed. ¡°You will die.¡±


    Ferrian gestured at himself. ¡°Look at me,¡± he said soberly. ¡°I¡¯m already dead! I¡¯m falling apart! I can¡¯t live or grow or eat or sleep or do anything normal! I¡¯m not ever going to see sunshine again! I can¡¯t be around people.¡± He shook his head. ¡°This isn¡¯t a life. I don¡¯t want to be like this forever. And¡­¡± He sighed. ¡°I¡¯m not afraid to die. But the Dragon is.¡± He looked up again. ¡°Please. Let her live. She doesn¡¯t want to exist like this either.¡±


    Requar closed his eyes. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    Ferrian had never been more sure of anything. ¡°Yes,¡± he replied firmly. ¡°I¡¯m sure.¡±


    Requar held the Sword of Healing on his lap for a long moment, head bowed. Snowflakes settled on the gleaming blade. ¡°I am tired,¡± he whispered finally. ¡°But I will save your Dragon.¡±


    He lifted his head again, and there was such incredible sorrow in his eyes that Ferrian felt guilty. It must have shown in his eyes, because Requar reached out an arm and drew Ferrian against him.


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    The sorcerer¡¯s sigh was deep and sad. ¡°I cannot promise that it will not hurt,¡± he whispered.


    Ferrian nodded, closed his eyes, and tried to prepare himself.


    He felt the Sword go through him, sliding effortlessly through his body. It did not hurt, at first. But then magic began to pour through it, and he felt the pain begin.


    The magic was not cold and clear like his own; it was hot. Hot and fierce, like fire. It burned through his flesh and entered his head, and something felt as though it was being wrenched out of him.


    The burning sensation increased until it became agonising. His mind felt as though it was being torn out of his skull. His vision went red, behind his tightly squeezed eyelids. He clutched at Requar, struggling to keep from screaming.


    Requar held Ferrian as he doubled over the Sword, gasping in pain, as the boy¡¯s hands clawed at his clothing, and as he began to cry out in pain. Requar kept the magic flowing, even though it seemed his own soul was being torn out with it.


    His Sword was never meant for this. It was supposed to calm and soothe, to heal, to reassure. To put right what was wrong.


    But Ferrian was wrong. He was a half-dead thing that should not exist.


    And he was terribly right as well; he could not exist like this.


    Through blurred vision, Requar watched a glowing silver stream of magic pour from the end of his Sword, which protruded from Ferrian¡¯s back. The glittering mist swirled, mingling with the falling snow, and began to take form.


    It took a long time. Requar had expended a lot of energy already; the fight with the demon-wraith and his futile efforts to extinguish himself had taken their toll. His own mind had fallen apart when Flint had triggered carefully concealed memories; the foundations of his self confidence had crashed into a heap.


    His memories had been altered, deliberately. He supposed that Arzath had done it to try and protect him.


    Now he was drowning again, and he didn¡¯t have the strength to pull himself out of it. But he did his best to grant Ferrian¡¯s last request. He owed the boy that much.


    At some point, Ferrian stopped moving, going limp in his grasp. And some time after that, when the magic finally trickled away, Requar lifted his head wearily to find something magnificent standing before him.


    The White Dragon regarded him in all her cool, crystalline-spiked glory, her eyes giant, mournful mirrors reflecting the snow.


    She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.


    But he spared her only a brief gaze, instead lowering his eyes to the boy he held in his arms. Removing his Sword from Ferrian, he laid the boy gently on the ground. The last remnants of white light faded from Ferrian¡¯s eyes, replaced with dim silver.


    He was gone.


    The snow stopped falling; the world went quiet and still.


    The Dragon lowered her great head to the ground and closed her eyes, and tears leaked over her scaly, pearl-white nose.


    Slowly, as though in a dream, Requar picked up his Sword of Healing again, and stared down at the long, perfect blade.


    It should not be like this, he thought.


    His Sword could not bring someone back from the dead if their life force was lost.


    Except¡­ that it could.


    He turned back to Ferrian.


    But it could only do so once¡­


    He closed his eyes. There was not much of himself left to give.


    But perhaps it was enough.


    Turning the Sword over in his hands, he lowered it, point downwards, into Ferrian¡¯s ruined chest, into the stone and dirt beneath, pinning him to the ground. He clasped one hand around the handle, the other around the blade, just below the heads of the black and white snakes.


    Then he closed his eyes again, and summoned the very last of his magic.


    There was only a trickle, but it was all he needed.


    He sent it into the Sword¡­ and sent himself with it.


    He tightened his hand around the blade, and felt it cut into his skin. For the first time in its creation, the Sword of Healing drew blood. It ran over his hand and down the blade.


    He squeezed it tighter.


    Burning pain shot through his hand, and along his arm, and in moments his entire body was screaming with it. He felt much as Ferrian must have as his soul was pulled out of his body, borne out of him on a stream of magic.


    At some point the agony dwindled, along with his consciousness. Faintly he was aware of hands on him, trying to pull him away, to break his connection with the Sword.


    But he would not. He could not.


    And then everything just faded away.


    * * *


    The bar was lively, filled to capacity with patrons enjoying the autumn evening. A Grik served drinks ponderously at the counter, his sapphire-studded shell glittering in the lantern-light, foam slopping over the sides of the tankards as he slapped them down in front of the customers.


    Griks mingling with Humans ¨C and not trying to eat them ¨C was an extraordinary sight, but Skywater was not a typical Darorian town. It sat right on the border of the Outlands and the Coastlands, perched proudly on grey cliffs at the southernmost arm of the Barlakk Mountains. It was famous for its unique Grik-run brewery; folks of all races travelled from across Arvanor to try the thick black mead, and usually had to be picked up off the floor afterwards.


    Even members of the Watch lounged about, chatting and laughing freely with Outlanders.


    There was no prejudice in Skywater; differences were carefully forgotten, borders existed elsewhere. All here were considered friends, and were obliged to become drunk on throat-sticking mead together. Anyone who disagreed or disturbed the peace was dealt with very quickly, and were generally never seen in Skywater again.


    One corner of the common room, however, was unnaturally quiet, distanced from the merriment. Commander Trice sat at a table with Middry, Valeran and a few other survivors from Forthwhite. He had just finished relating everything that had happened to him ¨C it took a few hours ¨C and warning them of the rogue black soldiers that were liable to turn up anywhere.


    A sombre silence met the end of his tale; the others took sips of their drinks: Grisket had none.


    He found himself worrying what had become of Ferrian and the others, but there was little to do now but wait for news.


    It came sooner than expected.


    A young boy of about ten weaved his way deftly through the crowd towards Grisket¡¯s table. His brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and he wore a red handkerchief around his throat. ¡°Um,¡± he ventured. ¡°Commander Trice?¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± Grisket replied, turning to him.


    ¡°Do you know an Angel named Mekka?¡±


    Grisket got to his feet at once, his chair scraping.


    The boy waved at him to follow.


    He started to do so, but Middry whistled him back. He turned and the barman flipped Grisket his badge.


    Grisket touched the point of his hat and went after the boy.


    He pinned the badge to his cobalt sleeve as he stepped out into the cool night, and quickly followed the boy through the blue-lantern lit streets. Being high in the mountains, the air in Skywater was never warm, always sharp and crisp, but winter snow had not yet descended. From somewhere in the distance came the steady sound of rushing water.


    The boy led him out onto a curved terrace overlooking the lake that Skywater was built on. The thunderous, musical rush of a waterfall rang off the mountain rock as it plunged into the lake from the cliffs opposite. Moonlight rippled on the dark water.


    A small group was gathered by the ornate stone balustrade. Grisket paused in surprise, then his heart plummeted and he broke into a run.


    ¡°Hawk!¡± he gasped as he fell to one knee beside the wheelchair in which Hawk sat. The Sergeant¡¯s eyes were blank, unfocused, oblivious to everything about him.


    Grisket looked around at the others. Mekka stood behind Hawk¡¯s chair. Beside him was a blonde-haired woman Grisket didn¡¯t know, and on the ground next to her sat Carmine, her back to the railing, arms behind her as though bound there.


    Grisket looked up at the Angel, baffled and anxious.


    ¡°Commander,¡± Mekka said quietly, his face grim. ¡°We have a problem.¡±

 Chapter One Hundred Nine

    Sadness shines in silver eyes


    In the ash a blade there lies.


    Ferrian opened his eyes to bright sunlight and birds chirping outside his window.


    He pushed himself up, confused.


    He was lying in a bed in an unfamiliar, yet homely room. It was white-walled, and furnished modestly with a wardrobe, table and chair, and a straw mat on the floor. Outside the narrow window beside him, the fiery colours of a sprawling oak tree played with a gentle breeze.


    He looked down at himself in bewilderment. His hands were whole and healthy, and he was dressed in simple cotton clothing.


    Tentatively, he put a hand to his chest.


    His heart was beating, and his lungs quietly drew in air.


    He was not a corpse.


    For a breathless, incredulous moment, he wondered if the last couple of months had been a very long, very vivid dream.


    Had any of it even happened? The Dragon-wraith? Requar? Grath Ardan? The Freeroamers? His Sword?


    Looking around the room, he could not see anything that belonged to him, or anything to indicate what had happened.


    I¡¯m supposed to be dead!


    He got up slowly. ¡°Dragon?¡± he whispered to the room.


    Silence.


    There was no voice inside his head save his own.


    He flushed a little, feeling stupid, but disappointed at the same time. Walking over to the wardrobe, he looked inside, but it was empty.


    He found some boots at the end of his bed, however, and sat down to pull them on. Then he went to the door and peered out.


    The landing was deserted. The entire building was eerily quiet; there were no sounds of anyone bustling about, no murmured conversations.


    He walked down the hallway, his boots sounding loud on the worn floorboards, and descended the stairs.


    Halfway down, he stopped and looked around. He recognised the white-walled common room: he was in the Hungry Deer tavern, in Forthwhite.


    It was empty. There was no one at the bar or the tables¡­


    Except for one man.


    He sat at the far end of the room, in a shaft of sunlight streaming through a broken window. A huge crossbow lay on the table in front of him.


    He was staring down at his hands clasped before him. His hat had seen better days; it was badly scorched, as was his bow.


    Ferrian felt a hollow pit open in his stomach. ¡°Flint?¡±


    Flint did not look up.


    Ferrian descended the remainder of the stairs and walked across the room towards him. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    Flint continued to stare at his hands. ¡°Outside,¡± he replied simply.


    Something in his tone of voice made that pit open wider. Ferrian headed for the door, then burst out of it at a run.


    It was a beautiful autumn day, outside. The trees shimmered with vibrant colour. The sky overhead was a hazy blue, streaked with high, wispy clouds. The plains stretched away in all directions, golden in the sun.


    Ferrian walked out onto the road, and abruptly stopped.


    There was a huge burned patch there; a black, incongruous scar on the landscape.


    Fear began to fill up the empty pit inside him.


    It had not been a dream.


    He looked around himself. The town above him was abandoned. There was no sign of any trigon, just the simple, silent sadness of homes without people.


    The tavern sat quietly beneath the shade of the oaks.


    And¡­


    Ferrian¡¯s breath caught in his throat.


    A figure in a black cloak sat at the base of a tree, facing out towards the plains. His hood was drawn up over his head, hiding his face.


    Suddenly, Ferrian couldn¡¯t breathe. ¡°Oh no,¡± he whispered. ¡°Oh no¡­¡± He started to run, but faltered, staggered, and fell to his knees in shock.


    Arzath sat before him, wrapped in his cloak, his head lowered. Ferrian¡¯s Sword, with the black dagger embedded in it, lay across his lap.


    On the ground in front of him reposed a body shrouded in a white sheet. Orange and yellow autumn leaves speckled it. The Sword of Healing rested amongst them.


    The blade was stained with blood.


    ¡°He¡¯s dead,¡± Ferrian breathed, feeling all the blood drain out of him, leaving him light-headed. ¡°How¡­ how can he be dead?¡±


    Arzath said nothing.


    ¡°He¡­ he can¡¯t be!¡± Tears sprang into Ferrian¡¯s eyes. ¡°Why? Why am I still alive?!¡±


    ¡°He gave his life to you,¡± Arzath whispered.


    ¡°But¡­ why?¡±


    ¡°You know¡­ the answer to that.¡± Arzath¡¯s voice was tremulous. He put a hand to his face, hidden inside his hood.


    Ferrian shook his head. He looked down at the shroud, tears spilling down his cheeks. ¡°No,¡± he said in a small voice, which turned into a sob. ¡°No¡­¡±


    Requar¡­ Why did you have to die?


    Later, Ferrian wandered up through the town alone, along the dusty, sunlit main street. Halfway up, his vision blurred so much he couldn¡¯t see where he was going, and he had to stumble onto a porch and sit down until the gasping sobs subsided.


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    Then he picked himself up and continued on.


    He felt that somehow it was his fault. If he hadn¡¯t asked Requar to use the Sword on him¡­


    But he hadn¡¯t known the Sword could be used in that way: that it could transfer the wielder¡¯s own life force into someone else. Ferrian had only wanted to save the Dragon. He hadn¡¯t cared about his own life¡­


    He swiped the tears away from his face angrily with his sleeve. They kept coming, no matter how hard he tried to stop them.


    Requar had been his father, if only for a short time. He had raised Ferrian, or at least tried to. He had wanted to. He had loved Ferrian, and everything he had done had been to protect him.


    Ferrian wished he hadn¡¯t realised the truth far too late.


    He had wanted to be Requar¡¯s son. He had believed it, and that was why it had been so easy to hate him.


    Now he was gone, and Ferrian would never have a chance to get to know him.


    It was as though he had been set adrift, with no idea of what to do or where to go.


    He reached the top of the hill some time later, as the shadows began to grow long, and stopped, shocked all over again.


    The White Dragon was there, curled up in the middle of the clearing on the pile of rubble where the Guard House had once stood. Black, skeletal trees rose up all around her. She was like a giant, glittering gemstone born out of the ash. Her head was tucked under her wing.


    Ferrian was astonished. He assumed that if she had survived, she had left, gone back to the snowy peaks above Verlista, perhaps.


    He approached her carefully. ¡°Dragon?¡±


    She lifted her head to look at him, then let it sink back to rest on the ground.


    She looked as sad as everyone else did.


    And suddenly Ferrian realised what else was wrong.


    He sat down heavily in the charred dirt. ¡°My Winter is gone.¡±


    The Dragon said nothing, merely regarded him morosely.


    ¡°It was a part of me,¡± he lamented.


    ¡°So was he,¡± the Dragon said, blinking slowly. ¡°So am I.¡±


    Ferrian looked up at her. The Dragon looked back, then her great silver eyes closed. ¡°Not all is lost,¡± she murmured. ¡°Winter will come again, soon enough.¡±


    That evening, under a deep, clear sky awash with stars, Arzath lit a torch with a spark of magic and set it carefully onto the pyre.


    As the flames flared up, casting a bright orange glow onto the plain, Flint stepped forward solemnly and placed his Justifier onto the burning sticks, followed by his quiver of bolts.


    Then he backed away and stood beside Ferrian.


    Silently, they watched the fire burn high.


    Arzath began to pace slowly around the pyre, just at the edge of the light, his right hand extended at his side. Large purple runes glowed to life on the ground, one by one as his black cloak swished past, until he had completed the circle. He continued walking inside the circumference of the spell, his stride unchanging, speaking softly under his breath words that neither Flint or Ferrian could understand.


    They sat down on the dry grass of the plains a short distance away, watching the sorcerer pace out his unceasing vigil, a lonely black silhouette against the flames and the night.


    ¡°Thanks, kid,¡± Flint said softly after awhile.


    Ferrian wiped his face and glanced up at him. ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For slayin¡¯ the Dragon-wraith,¡± Flint replied. Light from the pyre flickered over a face that was hard and sad and impossibly weary beneath his hat. He gave a shrug. ¡°Just thought someone oughta thank you.¡±


    Ferrian didn¡¯t know what to say. Was a hero just someone who made the right decision, even though they could have easily made the wrong one?


    Even though they wanted to make the wrong one?


    Eventually, a soft, grey brightness crept around them, and the sun finally crested the distant hills.


    But it was an unfamiliar sun. A different day. A changed world.


    The runes faded. Arzath stumbled in exhaustion and fell to his knees. Beside him, the pyre had dwindled to smouldering ash.


    The only thing left untouched amid the coiling smoke was the Sword of Healing.


    Ferrian sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his shadow stretching wraith-like over the straw mat on the floor. Sunlight from the window behind him warmed his back, but he barely noticed it.


    His stomach complained about a lack of breakfast, and he felt vaguely irritated. He had gotten used to not eating or sleeping; feeling hungry and tired again was annoying.


    He didn¡¯t feel like doing either.


    Someone entered his room. By the sound of the footsteps and the lack of a courteous announcement, he guessed he knew who it was.


    Ferrian didn¡¯t look up and his visitor didn¡¯t speak.


    Finally, the silence grew so thick that Ferrian turned his head, scowling.


    Arzath stood just inside the doorway, staring at Ferrian intently. One arm was extended; held out horizontally in his closed, black-gloved fist was a long, sheathed Sword.


    Ferrian¡¯s Sword.


    Ferrian stared back dispassionately. ¡°I¡¯ve lost my magic,¡± he stated brusquely, as though the sorcerer ought to be aware of that obvious fact. ¡°I can¡¯t use the Sword any more.¡±


    Arzath said nothing, just continued holding out the blade.


    Ferrian looked away.


    He felt something bounce onto the bed behind him.


    ¡°I am returning to the Valley with Serentyne and my brother¡¯s ashes,¡± Arzath told him. ¡°I made him a promise.¡± Ferrian heard him start to leave, then pause. ¡°You can find me there.¡±


    Ferrian continued to stare at his shadow on the floor, listening to Arzath¡¯s footsteps recede down the stairs. After the tavern door banged closed below, he turned and looked at the Sword lying on his bed.


    The hilt glittered in the sunshine, studded with diamonds like tiny chips of ice.


    Ferrian was sitting at the base of the great old oak out the front of the tavern when a covered wagon rolled up to the town, dust floating along in its wake.


    He straightened in surprise as a familiar dark figure soared out of the blue sky, landing on the road. He peered around the trunk of the tree, watching Mekka stride to the door of the tavern.


    But Flint had heard the wagon approach, and was already there, leaning on the doorframe. He straightened as Mekka said something to him, glanced anxiously at the wagon, then took off his half-burned hat and shook his head, answering in a lowered tone of voice.


    The Angel took an abrupt step backwards. Then he turned away and slammed his fist against the tavern wall, and sunk to the ground.


    A woman with curly blonde hair leapt down from the driver¡¯s seat of the wagon and hurried over to Mekka, crouching beside him and glancing up at Flint.


    A boy jumped down from the wagon as well, but stayed by the horses.


    Ferrian got to his feet and walked over to them, giving Flint a questioning look.


    Flint just shook his head, sighing sadly, and headed towards the wagon.


    ¡°Mekka?¡± Ferrian knelt in front of the black-winged Angel.


    His head was lowered onto his arms, and he did not respond.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure there¡¯s something we can do for them,¡± the woman tried to reassure Mekka, placing a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t give up hope.¡±


    Mekka said nothing.


    She looked at Ferrian, and held out a hand. ¡°Everine.¡±


    He took it sombrely. ¡°Ferrian,¡± he replied quietly.


    ¡°You a friend of his?¡±


    Ferrian nodded.


    Everine let out a deep breath. ¡°He needs one.¡± Gathering her long blue skirt, she got to her feet and went back to her wagon.


    ¡°Mekka?¡± he said again, then reached out and shook the Angel. ¡°Hey.¡±


    Mekka lifted his head. He blinked in surprise. ¡°Ferrian? You¡¯re¡­¡±


    ¡°Alive?¡± Ferrian nodded humourlessly. ¡°Yeah.¡± He moved over to sit beside Mekka. ¡°Are you alright?¡±


    Mekka shook his head in despair. ¡°I came here seeking Lord Requar¡¯s help, but¡­¡± he swallowed. ¡°I am too late.¡±


    Ferrian looked at him in worry. ¡°Mekka. Are you¡­?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the Angel replied, seeing his look. ¡°Hawk. And¡­ Carmine.¡±


    Ferrian looked over at the wagon, and his chest constricted in sudden horror as he watched Flint and Everine manoeuvre a wheelchaired figure down the back ramp.


    Another woman jumped out of her own accord, and for a heartstopping moment Ferrian was struck by the resemblance to Sirannor. She was slender and much younger, of course, and her hair was bright red. But Gods, those eyes¡­


    Flint tried to take her arm, but she pulled away, glaring at him, and walked towards the tavern on her own. Her hands were tied behind her back.


    Ferrian¡¯s gut twisted as he caught sight of the black armour beneath her long coat.


    Closing his eyes, he took a long, deep breath.


    His hand clenched into a fist.


    * * *


    The wind carried with it the cold, clear sting of winter as it swept over the mountain rock. Billowing clouds scudded across the sky, sending restless shadows over the peaks and broken remains of two once grand castles: one black, one white.


    Arzath¡¯s black cloak snapped and his hair whipped about his face as he knelt on a high, grassy knoll, with a waterfall roaring beneath him. He did not face the view however, but a silver Sword stuck point downwards into the turf underneath the gnarled arms of an ancient pine tree.


    Sapphires winked on the hilt in patches of sunlight. Blue eyes that would never see again. Magic that was lost forever.


    A life that he had tried so desperately to save, but failed.


    The loneliness was unbearable. The valley so empty, and haunted with mistakes.


    But he had a promise to keep.


    The gemstones on the Sword went dim as a shadow passed overhead.


    But it was not a cloud.


    A White Dragon sailed gracefully over him, alighting on the cliffs above, as snowy and ancient as the mountain peaks; a magnificent beast of glittering pale glory. She turned to regard him.


    Arzath stared back.


    A crunch of gravel to his right caused him to turn his head.


    Ferrian stood there, grey cloak billowing, pale blond hair tossed recklessly by the wind. His silver eyes were mirrors of determination.


    Lifting his own Sword, he thrust it into the ground before him.


    ¡°Teach me,¡± he said.

 Chapter One Ten

    Four Years Later


    Amidst the rain and wind and cold


    All stories have not yet been told.


    Lightning tore the air asunder; bright, angry veins striking at the mountain pass as though seeking to split the ancient grey gorge deeper. Rain pummelled the rocks and turned the sky into a twilight haze. All around, high, snow-capped peaks soared; stolid, oblivious and cold.


    A young woman struggled against the storm, a slim figure bent with exhaustion, hugging herself, her booted feet dragging on the trail. The racing mud caught her feet and she slipped, falling hard on her shoulder. Close beside her, a stream roared, leaping over rocks like a white beast. Rain poured down her face so that she could barely see.


    She could no longer tell if tears were mingled with it.


    The fall had caused her no pain, but knocked what little breath she had left from her lungs. She was numb all over; the rain had a sleety edge to it that coated the ground with a perilous layer of liquid ice. The cold had seeped all the way through her thin silken clothing, through her skin, through her bones, even through her warmest cloak. There was no part of her that it had not claimed as its own. It had seized her thoughts; held her limbs hostage.


    She wasn¡¯t sure how she had even made it this far.


    She turned her head heavily to look at her right hand, lying on the streaming path as though it belonged to someone else, clenched in a fist so tightly she could not open it; her knuckles stood out bone-white against her light brown skin.


    But the small object they held was still there.


    A weak blue light glowed between her fingers, trailing off into invisible wisps. It seemed fragile in the fury of the storm, but it was the strongest it had been since she had started her journey. And though the rest of her hand was lifeless, where the stone pressed against her palm she felt a soft, cool caress, as though she clutched a breath of summer breeze.


    There was a clattering sound from somewhere ahead and a pair of hoofed feet appeared before her. Then she was being pulled gently but firmly to her feet.


    She wasn¡¯t sure that they would support her, but her companion held her steady.


    She looked up into his face.


    His long red hair streamed with rain, the ebony beads entwined in it shiny. Water rippled over his golden-brown skin like a smooth stone in a river. His expression was steadfast, his dark eyes calm. He looked down at her clenched hand, reached out and carefully took it in his own. A shiver passed through him as the blue light brushed his skin, and his jaw tightened. Then he released her hand, turned back to her and nodded.


    They continued onwards.


    * * *


    Footsteps sent damp echoes flapping away into the black halls, mingling with the steady trickling tinkle of water. The remnants of long-abandoned cobwebs floated forlornly in a chilly, wet draught; stirred into agitated life by the passing of a cloaked and hooded figure, they sought to cling to his shoulders in vain.


    The darkness was musty, freezing and oppressive. Cracks ravaged the coal-coloured blocks of the passage, bursting with eager ivy-vines and clogged with patches of vivid green moss. Miscellaneous debris lay scattered about; bones, stones, broken wood, pottery, discarded weapons all tangled up with ragged shreds of crimson-red cloth.


    The figure was relieved when at last a corner appeared and he stepped into a wash of light as misty grey as the cloak he wore. Ascending a set of broad, flat, curved steps, he paused beneath an arched portal.


    He lifted silver, mirror-like eyes upwards.


    Rain fell on his face in cold prickles, but he ignored it. The chains and manacles were still there, still hanging abominably from the rusted grating high above his head. Human and animal skeletons occupied some of them, now shrouded with some kind of foul, dangling green slime.


    He turned his attention to the numerous pitch-black, arched openings embedded in the curved walls.


    The Murons were gone, of course; they were all dead. He had extinguished the last of them himself when he had written their fate on the walls of Grath Ardan; the magic of that strange, ancient library imbuing every word with literal meaning:


    Murons Do Not Exist.


    And yet, a sense of faint unease passed through him as he stared at those awful holes, like eye sockets in a monstrous skull. He would never forget his first journey to this valley, kidnapped by one of the black, reptilian creatures; the dizzying flight over the Barlakk Mountains, the sinister sight of the sorcerer¡¯s spire-ridden castle, the gut-wrenching plunge through the hole at the top of the Muron¡¯s eyrie, and the black walls that had closed around him like a giant fist.


    He had believed he would never escape.


    He closed his eyes, letting the rain patter over his eyelids. How strange it was to be standing here now, looking up at the past.


    How much had changed.


    Opening his eyes, Ferrian began to make his way carefully around the circumference of the large, circular chamber, his grey boots crunching awkwardly on bones with every step. He reached out a hand and ran it along the wall to his right as he walked, both for support and to avoid missing the entrance to his destination.


    Water shimmered down the walls, making them appear alive.


    Ferrian cast a glance at the enormous pile of bones heaped in the middle of the floor of the chamber. They, too, were overgrown with moss, slime and weeds. A small pine sapling had established itself in the middle of them.


    He looked up again at the alcoves. They were empty, nothing to be seen, and yet¡­ the uncomfortable feeling persisted. He wasn¡¯t sure if it was just his memories or¡­


    A sudden rattling sound came from the mound beside him, and Ferrian started despite himself.


    It was followed by an irritable, high-pitched squeaking.


    He took a deep breath to steady himself as a skull detached itself from the pile and toppled away, chased by a furry rodent.


    Scowling, he cursed himself, not understanding why he was so jumpy, and continued on quickly.


    He could not be entirely certain that all of the Murons were gone. It was possible that one or more of them still existed somewhere in the world, hiding in some forgotten corner of the Barlakk Mountains or Arkana or elsewhere. But four years had passed and he had not seen or heard any sign of them, so felt it safe to assume the black Dragon-like creatures were never coming back.


    Besides, he thought darkly, he had worse things to worry about, now¡­


    His trailing hand suddenly encountered empty space. Ferrian stopped and faced the wall. It looked exactly like any other part of the tower¡¯s base: solid black stone, slightly curved, stained grey with mildew. But his hand went through it as though nothing was there.


    Without hesitation, he strode forward.


    He found himself in a narrow, dark passage. The first few feet were dimly lit with grey light from outside that quickly faded into impenetrable blackness. Snapping his fingers, Ferrian summoned a small icelight. It hovered silvery-white above his palm, emitting gentle crackling noises as ice crystals formed and re-formed in a sparkling ball, throwing shifting ghostly patterns on the walls.


    He went ahead into the darkness.


    Behind him, out in the eyrie, the rain continued to fall, making puddles amongst the bones. The rat, its fur wet and scruffy, inspected the skull, then suddenly tensed, its whiskers quivering in the air.


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    Something disturbed the rain droplets, there was a flash of shiny claw, and the rat disappeared.


    The skull looked on dispassionately, rain falling through its empty eye sockets, its black, razor-toothed maw grinning.


    Ferrian pondered, as he slowly climbed the cramped spiral staircase, how on Arvanor a bulky Grik had managed to squeeze its way up here, all those years ago. He saw evidence of the rocky creature¡¯s struggle as he went; long scrapes on the walls, crumbled chips of stone littering the steps. It had practically ripped half its shell off during its determined ascent.


    The thing must have been either mad, he thought, shaking his head, or stupid.


    He found himself wondering, also, what would have happened had the Grik not discovered this place, and the powerful weapon that was hidden at the top. Would Lord Arzath¡¯s minions still have mutinied when they found out their master had lost his magic? Would Arzath have finally claimed the Sword for himself?


    Would Ferrian have never ended up becoming a sorcerer?


    Wiping a cobweb out of his face, Ferrian sighed. He could find out the answers to all of those questions. They lay tantalisingly within reach. He could use his Sword and enter any reality that he wished, alter the world any way he pleased, see the outcomes of all decisions that he had ever made, or ever would make.


    But he dared not.


    He would not.


    Everything that had happened, had happened. But he couldn¡¯t help wondering if all the terrible events that had occurred had been the best possible outcome, or the worst...


    He arrived a short while later at the top of the tower, at an open door. It had been a decent climb; he paused for a moment to catch his breath. The wooden door was sealed against the wall by a thick mass of spiderwebbing. Ferrian swiped an arm through the sticky threads, clearing the entryway, and pushed inside.


    The room beyond was small and crammed with all sorts of peculiar paraphernalia; something between a study, an experimental laboratory and a metalworking shop. There were mysterious apparatus looming in corners, tools, a weapons rack, benches and boxes, and jars and bottles so grimy he could no longer discern their contents, and books upon books shoved haphazardly into every conceivable remaining space. In the very centre of the room was a metal tripod with a melted stub of candle on a chain hanging above it.


    There were no windows in the chamber, as such, but rather a series of iron shutters punched with finger-sized holes.


    Everything was covered in a layer of undisturbed dust, save where one shutter was rusted open, letting in the rain.


    Gloomy light fell upon a gleaming object, incongruous amidst the must and mould.


    Ferrian walked over to it and stared down pensively.


    His Sword.


    The Sword of Mirrors.


    He had replaced it here four years ago, when he had made the decision to study with Lord Arzath in this valley. Back then, he hadn¡¯t been able to use it; his magic was lost, scattered to the winds. It had fled from him when he died, when Lord Requar had used the Sword of Healing on him to end his miserable half-existence and restore the White Dragon to life.


    But then Requar had sadly sacrificed his own life to save Ferrian.


    With the Winter gone and demon-wraiths on the loose, and his friends infected and in peril, Ferrian found himself left with little choice but to regain his magic the hard way: through dedicated study, meditation and practice.


    It had returned to him remarkably quickly, within a year or so. Arzath had told him that his body and mind had become attuned to it since birth, that using magic was second nature to Ferrian. And it was true that he had easily mastered most basic spells. But full control of the Winter still eluded him.


    The White Dragon insisted that it would return eventually, that it just needed time to recognise Ferrian again.


    Listening to the rain hammering on the slates of the roof, he wondered if that were so. The current mid-spring storm had lasted longer than normal, and was unusually freezing.


    The thought lifted his spirits.


    But the time had also come to reacquaint himself with his Sword.


    He touched the handle gingerly with his fingertips. He wore grey fingerless gloves, and the exposed parts of his flesh felt eerily vulnerable. The Sword was sheathed in an old, faded grey but elegant scabbard, the silver embellishments partially worn away. He had taken the scabbard from the library of Grath Ardan, from the bones of a long-dead Angel sorcerer who had met a terrible end at the hands of Murons. Now it protected his own Sword.


    Or rather, he corrected himself, it protected everything ELSE from the Sword...


    But the hilt was still visible, and it was the glimpse of black embedded at the crosspiece that caused his hesitation.


    The trigonic dagger had settled itself snugly into its recess. So snugly that there was no visible gap around its lethal curved and jagged edge: it seemed to have melded with the silvertine of the Sword. There appeared to be no way of removing it, and neither he nor Arzath was inclined to try.


    Ferrian let a deep sigh out through his nose. The Sword of Mirrors frightened him. But it was his Sword, he had chosen to set the dagger into it, and so he must learn to live with the power he had created.


    The best he could do was use it responsibly.


    Leaving the Sword where it was for a moment, he walked over to the open shutter and peered out.


    Rain swept across the valley, back and forth in shimmering curtains. A line of white water plunged roaring from the high cliffs to his left, into a churning river. Lush green grass swayed with the rain along the riverbanks and bluffs.


    And directly opposite Ferrian, perched loftily against the eastern wall of the valley stood a grand castle.


    It was not white.


    It was not black.


    It was both.


    Striking and magnificent, its many towers and spires raced for the sky in contrasting and rebellious harmony, shadows and light built one upon the other; a challenge, a statement of defiant endurance to the great grey snowy peaks that surrounded it. To the north, a complicated network of scaffolding and pulley systems entombed the newest, black-stoned wing. Clustered around its base, tiny at this distance, like walking pebbles, were numerous lumbering forms.


    Griks.


    He and Arzath had enlisted a team of Griks to help with the reconstruction. They had been hired rather than coerced; although sometimes, when Arzath was in one of his happier moods, Ferrian found him threatening them.


    He supposed old habits died hard.


    They had carefully dismantled Arzath¡¯s ebony keep and reused the blocks to rebuild Requar¡¯s castle. The white castle had been severely damaged in a Dragon attack, but much of it was salvageable. They had left the Muron¡¯s eyrie untouched; the Griks refused to go near it, for some reason.


    Ferrian stared at the castle through the storm and allowed himself a small smile at their accomplishment.


    Castle Whiteshadow. The new School of Magical Studies. And it was almost completed.


    There were, however, as yet no students: apart from himself.


    His smile fading, Ferrian sighed again. Arzath¡¯s standards for entry were extremely high, perhaps to the point of ridiculousness. The sorcerer had so far turned every single person away at the door.


    Frowning, Ferrian turned away from the window. There was something wrong with Arzath. Well¡­ more wrong than usual. His master had become very reclusive, and yet obsessive about the building work and fastidious about getting every little detail the way he wanted it. Often, he wouldn¡¯t be seen for weeks at a time, only to suddenly appear and order the Griks to put down their tools, determined to carry out all the work himself, using his magic to split and haul blocks until he was exhausted.


    Then he would disappear again, into the depths of his black-walled private tower.


    He left most of the day-to-day running and organisation of the place to Ferrian. Occasionally, he deigned to teach Ferrian magic ¨C when he could be bothered, which was increasingly less often, and usually in the early hours of the morning, waking Ferrian from sleep. Or in the middle of lunch, or precisely when Ferrian was busting to use the lavatory. Some of it was deliberate, Ferrian was sure, but some was absent-minded. And lately, odd things had been happening: mysterious ¡®accidents¡¯ that had delayed the construction work to practically a standstill.


    Arzath had tried to blame the Griks, but Ferrian was suspicious. It almost seemed as though, bizarrely, Arzath didn¡¯t want the School to be completed...


    Ferrian stared around his master¡¯s old workroom, feeling worried. He was fairly sure he knew the reason for the strange, erratic behaviour, but was reluctant to talk to Arzath about it, fearing he would make matters worse.


    Requar had been gone a long time. But Arzath had been deeply affected by his brother¡¯s death, and had not found a way to deal with the loss.


    Pushing the dismal thoughts away, Ferrian busied himself gathering up as many dusty books as he could carry, stuffing them in a rucksack he had brought with him. He was scavenging the last of Arzath¡¯s things in the desperate hope of finding a scrap of knowledge that might help him find a cure for the wretched trigonic infection that was slowly killing his friends.


    Having loaded himself with books, Ferrian straightened, adjusting a stack of them under his left arm. Then he grabbed his Sword from the tripod and left the tower to the spiders.


    Dumping the books and his Sword in a heap on the floor in front of the hearth, Ferrian pulled off his dripping cloak and tossed it over a chair, threw another couple of logs onto the fire, then proceeded to unpack the rucksack. That done, he moved over to a nearby armchair and slumped into it.


    The books were damp, and some were mouldy. He needed to let them dry out before attempting to read them.


    He sat quietly, listening to the steady distant patter of rain, the crackle of the flames in the silence, and his own brooding thoughts, tapping his fingers idly on the upholstered arm of the chair. Little spots of frost bloomed briefly where his fingertips touched.


    He found himself quickly growing drowsy. Fire had that effect on him. Perhaps it was merely psychological, a lingering remnant of the time he had spent as a corpse, but he had developed a low tolerance for heat. Hot sunshine, too, made him feel slightly queasy.


    Despite the discomfort, his thoughts broke up and drifted, and his eyes closed¡­


    A loud banging sound scattered his dreams and startled him awake.


    His first thought was to wonder what nonsense Arzath was up to this time, but then the sound came again: a series of sharp, ringing knocks.


    Then he realised what it was.


    Someone was at the door!


    Surprised, Ferrian scrambled to his feet. As he did so, the knocks came again, more rapidly: urgent.


    Who could be at the door? he thought, perplexed, as he hurried from the dining room and across the pristine foyer. The Griks were forbidden from knocking lest their thick fists crack the wood, and certainly Arzath had never knocked on a door in his life, let alone the entrance to his own castle.


    But who would be visiting in such atrocious weather? More prospective students?


    Reaching the grand double entrance doors, Ferrian paused, frowning. He had explicit orders from Arzath not to let anyone in without his presence. But he could hardly let them stand out there in the storm.


    He glanced momentarily up at the stairs. Gods knew where Arzath was. Holed up in his tower or anywhere¡­


    Shaking his head, Ferrian took hold of the golden handle and pulled the heavy door open.


    He wasn¡¯t quite prepared for the sight of pure misery that confronted him.

 Chapter One Eleven

    Travellers from a city of night


    Following hope¡¯s blue, fragile light.


    They looked half-drowned and exhausted. One was a dark-haired young woman, maybe his age, barely on her feet, being supported by a similarly-youthful, worried-looking red Centaur. Their clothes were finely tailored beneath the mud. Water streamed from their hair into their eyes, even though they were under the porch.


    Ferrian stepped aside at once, gesturing them inside.


    They made no move, however, just stared at him. They looked afraid.


    Ferrian blinked, regarding them. Not wayward travellers, then, he surmised. They knew exactly what this place was: the Centaur especially. Their race could detect magic.


    Ferrian took a deep breath. ¡°Please,¡± he urged. ¡°Come in.¡±


    After a few more uncertain moments, the Centaur moved, reluctantly, ushering the girl through the entrance. Ferrian closed the door quietly behind them.


    The sound of the rain diminished, to be replaced by echoing silence. The three of them stood together with their reflections in the gleaming-new entry hall.


    Ferrian felt nervous and slightly awkward. He was no good at social formalities. Then again, neither was Arzath. His master¡¯s idea of introducing visitors was to fling open the door, glare at them for about ten seconds before declaring: ¡°Go away!¡± and slamming the door in their faces.


    He supposed anything other than that was an improvement.


    ¡°Um...¡± he said, scuffing at his still-damp blond hair. ¡°Welcome to Castle Whiteshadow, the School of Magical Studies. I hope. Um. I¡¯m...¡± he hesitated, then sighed and rolled his eyes. ¡°Well, Lord Arzath wants me to call myself a Lord, but that sounds stupid, so you can just call me Ferrian.¡±


    He offered his hand with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.


    The Centaur eyed it but did not take it. Neither did the girl. But the former gave him an apologetic look and bowed instead. ¡°Alon,¡± he greeted.


    Ferrian understood. ¡°Alon,¡± he replied with a small bow of his own.


    ¡°I am called Luca,¡± the Centaur said. ¡°This is Lady Araynia.¡±


    The girl met his eyes shyly and quickly looked away. ¡°My Lord,¡± she said softly, ignoring his request.


    Ferrian groaned inwardly. Great. Lord Ferrian.


    The girl hugged herself tightly, her hands buried in her drenched fur-trimmed cloak. Both of the strangers were shivering.


    ¡°I¡¯ll fetch some blankets,¡± Ferrian said. He waved a hand at the open dining room door. ¡°Go ahead and get warm.¡±


    He started across the hall, boots echoing on the marble, and hurried up the sweeping white staircase. This part of the castle had been reconstructed almost exactly as Requar had built it, though the foyer was enlarged somewhat and a contrasting black staircase had been added on the right-hand side. Other ebony stone features made their presence known here and there, as well. The colour scheme had been altered; the sunburst design on the foyer floor was red, blue and yellow, mirroring the great round window above the door, and matching velvet wall hangings lined the main rooms and passageways. There was a preponderance of gold trimmings.


    Ferrian wasn¡¯t convinced the new decor was entirely tasteful, but Arzath liked it and at least it gave the place some colour to brighten the gloomy corners¡­


    Retrieving a couple of woollen blankets from a never-used guest room, Ferrian returned to the foyer balcony to find the pair still standing exactly where he had left them, dripping quietly on the floor.


    Discreetly, he cast a Mind Sweep as he descended the stairs.


    The room dissolved into vague shapes and a multi-coloured glow appeared around the newcomers. It was gold, but wavered in various shades of blue and violet, wisps of light fading into the ether.


    They were unhappy and fearful, and weary beyond measure. Something bad had happened to them, and they had journeyed hard. But they were also relieved.


    Curiously, there was another glow as well, a pale blue one in the middle of the woman¡¯s silhouette, but by then Ferrian had reached them and had no time to examine them further.


    Blinking his magic away, he handed over the blankets and led them forwards, to the warmth and light.


    This time, they followed.


    ¡°Oh, uh¡­ sorry about the mess!¡± Feeling slightly embarrassed, Ferrian hurriedly snatched up his wet cloak, scooped up the rucksack and books and dumped everything behind his chair, relatively out of the way. ¡°Take a seat!¡± he said. The remainder of the loose books flew into his hands, one by one like heavy, musty paper birds.


    Lady Araynia stepped forward tentatively, clutching a blanket around her, and perched on the edge of the opposite armchair. Luca hung her sodden cloak on one of the dining chairs and came forward, then hesitated, looking at the ground, and took a step back.


    Ferrian dropped the books unceremoniously on the pile and then noticed why the Centaur was uneasy. Reaching out his arm, he summoned his Sword. It leapt off the floor into his grasp. He walked over and propped it up beside the kitchen door, safely away from anyone.


    Coming back, he hovered for a moment, uncertain. ¡°Tea?¡± he offered. ¡°Um. Wine? Some food?¡±


    At the mention of food, their eyes lit up, and Luca nodded quickly. Ferrian set the kettle over the fire to boil, then hastened into the kitchen to fetch some bread and cheese.


    He placed the food on the end of the dining table, then went back to see what else he could scrounge up. When he returned a few minutes later, the plate was completely cleared ¨C even the crumbs.


    Luca came forward and filled his hands with apples from the platter Ferrian carried. He took one over to Araynia. She began devouring it ravenously.


    Ferrian had never seen anyone eat so fast. They were starving.


    He realised for the first time that neither of them carried packs or provisions, or any kind of travelling gear. Luca carried a sword at his hip, but that was all.


    ¡°Where have you two come from?¡± Ferrian enquired, setting the platter of fruit and biscuits down on the table.


    They didn¡¯t respond at once, as their mouths were full of food. Finally, Araynia swallowed and said quietly: ¡°Crystaltina.¡±


    ¡°The Crystal City?¡± It wasn¡¯t that unusual. The few travellers that had been bold enough to seek out the School were all from wealthy backgrounds, no doubt eager to study sorcery for the power and prestige, or just for the thrill of it. That was largely why Arzath had turned them away. But it was a long way to come without any supplies.


    This pair didn¡¯t look like they had come here to learn. They looked rather like they didn¡¯t want to be here at all. Especially Luca.


    ¡°What¡¯s brought you here?¡± Ferrian asked.


    There was silence again, but this time they were not eating. Araynia stared down at her apple as though she was suddenly not hungry any more.


    Luca¡¯s brow was furrowed. He examined the fruit in his own hands as though he, too, had lost the desire to eat. He seemed to be searching for the right words to say.


    ¡°We¡­ barely escaped with our lives,¡± he answered finally. He shook his head, but said nothing more.


    Something dark took hold in the pit of Ferrian¡¯s stomach, and grew larger the longer the silence went on. It was punctuated with a deafening clatter of hail on the windows.


    Ferrian¡¯s neck prickled. ¡°Oh no,¡± he whispered, reading the unspoken words from their haunted expressions. He lowered himself into his chair. ¡°The demon-wraiths.¡±


    ¡°They¡­ they crept under the doors,¡± Araynia whispered, still staring at her apple, shivering again despite her blanket and the heat of the fire. ¡°And through windows. Silent. Like¡­ smoke...¡±


    Luca shook his head again. ¡°The Gold Watch was holding them off at the Palace,¡± he continued, ¡°with their silvertine swords.¡± He swallowed. ¡°The rest of the city...¡± He took a deep breath but left the sentence unfinished.


    Araynia finished it for him. ¡°Swallowed in darkness.¡± Her eyes were a deep blue colour, and filled with tears, glinting in the light of the fire. ¡°My family...¡±


    The wash of dread inside Ferrian tightened, squeezing his guts until he was slightly nauseous. The fire was suddenly far too hot. ¡°You came here for help,¡± he guessed, feeling dismal.


    Luca looked down at Araynia and placed a hand on her shoulder. ¡°Show him,¡± he told her gently.


    She looked up at the Centaur, then over at Ferrian. Wiping the tears away with the back of her apple-hand, she brought her right hand out from under the blanket.


    Shaking, she uncurled her fingers.


    A blue gemstone sat there, attached elegantly to a silver chain which lay crumpled on her palm. She had been clutching the stone so tightly that red marks scarred the inside of her fingers.


    ¡°He led me here,¡± she said.


    Ferrian frowned, not understanding. ¡°Who led you here?¡±


    ¡°Him,¡± she replied mysteriously.


    Still frowning, Ferrian reached out for the stone. Araynia pulled back, but Luca¡¯s hand tightened on her shoulder. He gave her a reassuring nod. Reluctantly, she held the stone out again.


    Ferrian took it, letting it sit flat on his own palm.


    It was a beautiful largish sapphire, deep blue, perfectly clear, about an inch long and cut in an oblong radiant shape. Firelight sent orange sparks dancing in its faceted depths.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    There was magic in it. Faint, but there; a peculiar but comforting kind of cool warmth brushing his palm.


    A sudden chill of recognition swept through him. He had seen gemstones like this before, though smaller, and set in the hilt of a Sword. And only one person used magic like this. It was unmistakable.


    He found that his breath had caught in his throat. It was a few moments before he could force any words out. ¡°Where¡­ where did you get this?¡±


    Araynia looked at him nervously, chewing her lip; her brown skin gone a few shades paler, as though fearing his reaction. She glanced up at Luca again. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯ve had it since I was a little girl,¡± she stammered. ¡°My¡­ my grandmother gave it to me.¡±


    Ferrian lifted his head and stared at her.


    The girl swallowed. ¡°She was a nurse,¡± she went on. ¡°She was blind since birth, but very good at her job. Twenty years ago, she worked for an esteemed healer. He had adopted an infant son but had no one to help him care for the baby. One day the healer left without warning, taking the boy away, leaving many of his possessions behind in his haste. My grandmother gathered them up for him, but he never returned to collect them. So she gave this pendant to me.¡±


    Araynia took a deep breath. ¡°She told me that this stone was magical and that it would protect me if I was in danger. She whispered when she said it. When I was little I believed her, until my mother found out what she¡¯d been saying and insisted it was just a fairytale, and that I shouldn¡¯t listen to such nonsense.¡±


    Her eyes glistened with tears again. ¡°I wore it all the time anyway, because it was pretty and I wanted to believe that the magic was real. I had it with me when Luca and I fled the house, when the demon-wraiths attacked...¡± She swallowed. ¡°In the darkness, it started glowing. I don¡¯t know why. I felt as though it was leading me somewhere; to help, to safety.¡±


    She looked up at Ferrian hopefully, meeting his gaze fully for the first time. ¡°The man who owned this stone. The healer. Do you know where he is?¡±


    Ferrian continued staring at her for a long moment. All the blood had drained out of him. He realised his own hand had clenched around the stone as the girl had been speaking. Slowly, he handed it back to her.


    Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath before replying. ¡°That boy was me. The man you speak of was¡­ my father. For awhile.¡±


    He opened his eyes to find them both looking at him. Hopeful. Fervent.


    He shook his head. ¡°But the man you¡¯re looking for is dead.¡±


    Araynia shook her head in confusion. ¡°No. No, he¡¯s not.¡± She looked down at the pendant and shook her head again, in denial. ¡°He is not!¡±


    Ferrian looked back at her sadly. ¡°Some kinds of spell don¡¯t require a life force to work,¡± he explained. ¡°They can persist long after their creator has died. For decades, or hundreds of years, or thousands, like the Aegis or Grath Ardan. The magic in that stone is just a remnant. Lord Requar used to live in this castle; the stone must have picked up on traces of similar magic, and that¡¯s why it led you here. Arzath and I found active spells still in the basement¨C¡±


    ¡°NO!¡±


    Her unexpected cry cut him off, startling both him and Luca. She looked angry, now, both hands clenched into fists, the apple core crushed in her slim fingers. ¡°You are just like my mother! You are wrong!¡±


    Ferrian felt anger rise in a sharp wave inside him, his magic stirring icily in response. He forced it back carefully, containing the frost to his clenched palms, and slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. ¡°He is dead,¡± he said, not bothering to temper the coldness in his voice. ¡°I was there. He gave up his own life to save mine, and I sat at his funeral and watched him burn!¡±


    He closed his eyes. I don¡¯t need these memories! he thought furiously. I don¡¯t need to remember this again right now¡­


    ¡°His brother scattered his ashes in the waterfall out there,¡± he pointed over Araynia¡¯s shoulder, glaring at her. ¡°Believe me, if Lord Requar were still alive, Arzath and I would know about it!¡±


    Silence fell like a hammer. Even the rain outside had quietened.


    Araynia¡¯s expression changed. The fierce look dissolved into mortified tears that leaked down her cheeks.


    Luca looked downcast as well. His shoulders slumped.


    Ferrian felt his own annoyance slip away. The two of them had journeyed far in search of help. That stone had been a beacon of hope for them, and the hope had been a lie.


    Sighing, he leaned forward, placing his head in his hand. ¡°You¡¯re not the only ones who need Requar¡¯s help,¡± he said gloomily. ¡°My friends are in danger too.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But he¡¯s gone. We have to figure things out on our own.¡±


    He looked up at the girl. She was staring into the fire, her eyes gone dull, her hands limp, all hope spilled from her as though Ferrian had stabbed her in the heart.


    I have to do something, he thought desperately.


    Getting up, he knelt in front of her. ¡°Look,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m not Lord Requar. I don¡¯t have the ability to heal anyone. But I have a Sword. I can banish the wraiths.¡± He held her gaze firmly. ¡°I¡¯ll come back to Crystaltina with you, and do what I can to help.¡±


    He knew as he said the words that it was a futile offer. Her family was in all likelihood long perished; they would have died instantly, the night she¡¯d fled, if the wraiths had touched them. By the time the three of them got back to the city, weeks would have passed. There was either no one left alive or the Watch had successfully extinguished the wraiths. And if they were infected, what then? He could add this girl¡¯s family to the list of people he was supposed to miraculously rescue from trigon¡­


    Ferrian felt as though a terrible burden had been dropped upon him, and was slowly crushing him.


    Is this how Requar felt? Ferrian wondered unhappily. How did he live with the responsibility?


    He didn¡¯t, he answered his own question morbidly. He was broken, and went mad with despair¡­


    Taking a deep breath, Ferrian stood, pushing the thoughts away. ¡°You can stay here,¡± he told them. ¡°We¡¯ll leave as soon as the storm clears up¨C¡±


    ¡°You will do no such thing.¡±


    The new voice caused them all to turn.


    A dark figure stood at the end of the dining hall, like an omen of doom. He was clad entirely in black, save for a white long-sleeved shirt beneath his tunic and swirls of white embroidery decorating his waistcoat. He looked imposing, as though one of the shadows of the castle had come to life.


    Emerald eyes flashed beneath his hood as he approached. What could be seen of his skin was too pale, his eyes glints in shadows deeper than the hood. He cast a contemptuous glance over the Centaur and the girl.


    ¡°What the hell are these disgusting creatures doing in here?¡± he declared. ¡°Have they been dredged up from the river?¡±


    Luca and Araynia were taken aback, but Ferrian was unfortunately used to this kind of rude announcement. ¡°They are our guests,¡± he replied calmly.


    Lord Arzath glared at him. ¡°I thought I ordered you not to let anyone in without my permission?¡±


    Ferrian stared back at him coolly. ¡°You did. But I ignored you.¡±


    He could see the fire rise behind the sorcerer¡¯s eyes. ¡°They are not stray kittens!¡± he snapped.


    ¡°No,¡± Ferrian retorted, ¡°they¡¯re people, and deserving of some compassion.¡± He folded his arms. ¡°Perhaps you ought to practice that one day...¡±


    Arzath¡¯s eyes narrowed. He turned sharply to the visitors. ¡°Get out,¡± he snarled.


    ¡°Arzath!¡±


    The sorcerer turned his glare back to Ferrian. ¡°Their petty problems are none of your concern!¡±


    ¡°Petty problems?¡± Ferrian strode forward, gesturing with his arm in disbelief. ¡°The Crystal City is overrun with wraiths!¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And there are too many of them for you to fight. Don¡¯t be foolish!¡±


    Ferrian returned the glare. ¡°I¡¯m going to help them.¡±


    ¡°You are not.¡±


    Ferrian let his breath out through his nose. He¡¯s in one of THOSE moods, he thought. Itching to burn something.


    ¡°Are you really going to try to stop me?¡± he demanded.


    Arzath folded his arms.


    Ferrian sighed loudly. ¡°This is ridiculous. What¡¯s the point of learning magic if I can¡¯t¨C¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    They all paused at Arzath¡¯s words. The sorcerer strode forward suddenly, gaze fixed intently on Araynia.


    ¡°What is that?¡±


    She tucked her hand away quickly.


    Arzath made a rapid gesture with his arm. The girl¡¯s arm flew out, twisted at the wrist and the blue stone tumbled to the floor. She cried out in pain.


    Arzath held out his hand and the pendant flew into it. He examined it, ignoring the girl¡¯s distress.


    ¡°Well done!¡± Ferrian exclaimed angrily as he passed Arzath, moving to Araynia¡¯s chair. There was a sharp hiss of steel as Luca drew his sword. Ferrian shook his head quickly. The Centaur, heeding his warning, backed warily around the armchair and took up a guarded position on the other side, close to the fire.


    Arzath was oblivious to all of them, absorbed in studying the stone. Suddenly his eyes widened. He looked up quickly. ¡°Where did you get this?¡±


    Ferrian saved Araynia another lengthy explanation. ¡°Apparently Requar left some things behind when he fled Sunsee twenty years ago,¡± he said. ¡°One of them was that pendant. Her grandmother acquired it and gave it to her.¡±


    Arzath stared at Araynia for a long moment. She quivered under his penetrating gaze. Ferrian put a hand on her good arm, reassuring her. He wouldn¡¯t let Arzath hurt her again.


    Finally, the black-cloaked sorcerer looked back at the stone. Briefly, something passed across his face ¨C a look of intense sadness, before darkening rapidly, like a storm cloud descending. His gloved hand clenched around the stone. ¡°Get out,¡± he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. ¡°All of you!¡±


    Not waiting for them to obey, he spun on his heel and swept from the room.


    Ferrian realised he¡¯d been holding his breath. He let it out. ¡°Show me your hand,¡± he said.


    Araynia let go of her injured wrist.


    Ferrian took it gently in his hands, and looked up into her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not a healer,¡± he told her. ¡°But I can take the pain away.¡±


    Summoning his magic, he felt it rise through him and course, cold and crackling, down his arms and into his hands. Frost spread from his fingertips and across the girl¡¯s skin; a gentle wash of cold, just enough to numb the pain.


    Setting her hand down carefully, he stood. ¡°Stay here for now,¡± he told them. ¡°Rest and eat something. Don¡¯t mind what Arzath says. I need to go and speak with him.¡±


    They looked uncertain, but nodded. Luca kept his sword drawn. Ferrian turned and hurried out of the dining room.


    ¡°Brilliant, Arzath!¡± Ferrian¡¯s voice echoed down the long black and white corridor. ¡°You injure our guests and steal from them. I thought we were supposed to be making a good impression!¡±


    Arzath didn¡¯t reply.


    He jogged to catch up with the sorcerer¡¯s swishing cloak. ¡°We¡¯re building a School!¡± he went on. ¡°And you don¡¯t want any students!¡±


    Still, Arzath said nothing.


    ¡°You know what I think?¡± he went on, furiously. ¡°I think you¡¯re afraid of completing the School, because you won¡¯t know what to do! You¡¯ll have nothing to occupy yourself with other than actually teaching, and you obviously can¡¯t stand that idea!¡±


    Arzath stopped dead in the corridor, his cloak settling around him. He spun as Ferrian approached.


    Ferrian stopped as well. Some instinct caused his magic to flare icily inside him. Arzath strode forward, coming so close to Ferrian that they almost touched.


    Ferrian tensed, his heart pounding a little faster. He knew how to defend himself ¨C Arzath had made sure of that ¨C but he didn¡¯t want to get into a serious fight with his master. He still had the burn scars from some of his ¡®lessons¡¯.


    ¡°What I feared has already come to pass!¡± Arzath hissed, his eyes burning. ¡°I fear nothing! I care about nothing!¡± His eyes bored magma-filled holes into Ferrian a moment more, then he whirled away.


    ¡°Then what the hell is all this for?¡± Ferrian called in exasperation.


    Arzath rounded a corner, into a darker part of the castle. Ferrian followed.


    ¡°I made a promise to my brother,¡± he said without turning around. ¡°I intend to honour it.¡±


    ¡°And then what?¡±


    Arzath laughed, but it was a cold, hopeless laugh, devoid of its usual fire. His voice echoed off the cold, black stone. ¡°Then this world shall be a place I no longer care to live in.¡±


    Ferrian¡¯s footsteps slowed to a stop as he watched the sorcerer disappear into the depths of the castle, his cloak becoming one with the shadows.


    Some while later, Ferrian wandered back down to the dining room to check on the visitors. Lady Araynia seemed okay; her wrist wasn¡¯t broken, only strained. The two of them seemed to have recovered a little. He gave them directions to the guest rooms that he had made up for them, assured them Arzath wouldn¡¯t bother them again, apologised for the theft of the pendant ¨C but they probably wouldn¡¯t see it again ¨C and left them to make themselves as comfortable as they could manage in the circumstances.


    Walking across the foyer, he opened the door and went out into the rain, through the mud and stopped in the long wet grass at the edge of the bluff, gazing out across the valley.


    The rain was cold and refreshing after the stifling heat of the fire. He let it pour over him. He hadn¡¯t bothered to bring a cloak.


    It could do nothing to wash away the pain inside him, however.


    Off to his left, there was movement: something enormous and pale. The ground trembled. A huge head, pearl-scaled and glistening, horned and magnificent appeared beside him.


    ¡°He¡¯s going to leave it all to me, Dragon,¡± Ferrian said, staring off at the waterfall cutting a white line through the mist in the distance. ¡°I¡¯m going to be the only sorcerer left.¡± He blinked at the tears that filled his eyes. He felt his soul leaking out into the rain. ¡°He was right: I can¡¯t kill all of the demon-wraiths. There are too many people to save. I can¡¯t do this alone.¡±


    The great White Dragon lifted her head and tilted it slightly, regarding him with one massive, mirrored eye. ¡°You are the Winter,¡± she said in her strange, musical voice. ¡°A thousand snowflakes fall at your beckoning.¡± The eye blinked, slowly. ¡°You have never been alone.¡±


    He looked up at her, at the water streaming over her long nose. She had lived inside his head for many years, since the day of his birth, in fact; a ghost of a Dragon, a memory, trapped in his body along with a powerful Winter spell. Then Lord Requar had used his Sword of Healing on Ferrian and brought her back to life: now she was a real, breathing creature.


    The Winter had fled, but the White Dragon had remained at his side.


    He was not alone, it was true. But he still felt helpless.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to do.¡±


    She bared ice-white teeth in what could have been a sneer or a grin; with Dragons, there was little difference. ¡°You deceive yourself,¡± she sang. ¡°You know.¡±


    Then she lifted off, stirring the rain into flurries, winging away over his head like an ice queen of the grey sky, around the black and white spires of Castle Whiteshadow, to whatever high den she had made in the snowy mountain tops.


    ¡°But I don¡¯t know, Dragon,¡± Ferrian sighed, staring after her. ¡°I don¡¯t.¡±

 Chapter One Twelve

    Encased in flesh and sun-white stone


    The darkness grows, and grows alone.


    Sunlight fell in thin, warm shafts across the cosily-appointed room. It brightened a section of maroon rug and ran across the face of a polished wooden dresser, glinting off a pale vase and simple platter of fruit. It sent dust motes floating towards the reddish drapes that softened the stone walls. In the cool shadows beyond the light, a comfortable bed stood, alongside a bookcase full of reading material. There was a tiny writing desk against another wall, chair tucked neatly beneath it.


    But despite its homely appearance, certain details about the room were¡­ wrong.


    The rose in the vase was dry and brown as old skin, its head hanging forlornly. The food on the platter was shrivelled rotten. The books quietly gathered dust in the corner, unread. The carpet and wall hangings were ragged and frayed in patches; the sheets on the bed were in disarray. The window was small and narrow, too high to look out of.


    And one entire wall of the room consisted of sturdy iron bars.


    There was a door in the bars. Ten locks were set into it; all different, all crafted by a master locksmith.


    No lock was unpickable.


    But patience was a virtue that the room¡¯s sole occupant had always lacked.


    In the centre of the cell, a woman sat. She was silent and still, straight-backed and cross-legged, her hands clasped in her lap.


    She wore a long, oversized military coat, a dusty beige colour with orange chevrons emblazoned on the sleeves and back. The coat was open at the front, revealing a glimpse at what lay beneath.


    Black armour, dark as the night, lustrous with a sinister, oily hue that caught the light and twisted it in odd ways. The armour was made up of smooth plates that fit her body perfectly, hugging her figure.


    But there was one thing particularly distinctive about the black armour:


    It couldn¡¯t be taken off.


    Hair as red as bright blood fell about her face, and eyes as grey as stone stared forward.


    On the rug beside her lay two rats. Their small furry bodies were not mutilated; there was no blood, no wounds of any kind. But they were dead.


    When she had first discovered that she could take the lives of living creatures with just a touch, she was repulsed to the point of vomiting. But their tiny, warm souls had briefly flooded her with a rush of vitality, made her feel she was still alive. And then the feeling had faded into cold, aching emptiness, dissolving a little of herself with it, and leaving her wondering if she was still Human.


    Some part of her quailed in horror, all while longing to touch that wave of brightness again.


    Carmine wasn¡¯t sure what she was. Concepts of life and death had become jumbled, their meaning lost. Often, her head was full of dark, whispering thoughts, and she did not know if they were hers or belonged to someone ¨C or something ¨C else¡­


    Some of her memories were still there, but they lined the back of her skull like paintings on a distant wall, created by a different person, someone long gone¡­


    But one memory was still very much alive. It was a red gash across all the others, a scar that would not stop bleeding, filled with the slow-burning magma fire of a red-hazed island. She had tried to seal it off, to bind the wound, to heal, but something black kept on ripping it open, demanding that she never forget. The pain of trying to forget made her scream, and tear at the carpet until her nails bled, or rip at her long red hair.


    She had gotten used to the pain now, had given up trying to suppress it. The pain was a hard wall onto which she built her anger.


    The anger was a decent substitute for a soul. It gave her warmth, sustained her.


    She remembered Devandar Hawk, vaguely; remembered that she had loved him. She didn¡¯t know what that meant, any more. She knew that others were trying to keep him alive; the other people who might have once been her friends.


    How dare they! Hawk was hers, and she ought to be the one to determine his fate!


    But they had locked her in this cell, like an exotic animal in a cage, hidden away in a private, depraved exhibition. The cell had been specially constructed for her when the Guard House had been rebuilt. Away from the other prisoners. Away from the Freeroamers and the townsfolk. Too dangerous to be allowed to roam free in the world.


    The Freeroamers, in their black and blue uniforms, brought her food and water and tried to make her life, such as it was, as comfortable as possible. But no one was allowed to approach her.


    One person made sure of that.


    Her grey eyes burned, both with fury and lack of sleep. He was always there, a shadow lurking around every corner. Even when he wasn¡¯t present, black feathers lingered in her thoughts, driving her to maddening restlessness.


    Mekka.


    She hated him.


    Sometimes he dropped in just to check on her; sometimes he sat on a stool against the far wall for awhile, observing her. He rarely spoke. Once, years ago, he had started to leave and hesitated, turning back, looking as though he wanted to say something. But then he had changed his mind and left.


    One day, she vowed, staring at the bars and past them, to their striped shadows on the whitewashed walls, I will get out of this cell.


    And then she would know what an Angel soul felt like, when she stole it from him.


    She wished she could dream of the possibilities.


    But she had no dreams.


    Only nightmares.


    * * *


    Everine Arva studied the face across from her anxiously, resisting the urge to drum her fingers. Bright sunlight fell between them, highlighting a mosaic of round beer-stains ¨C decades of them ¨C patterning the worn, scarred wood of the tabletop.


    The Angel gave away nothing; he ate as though carrying out the most serious task in the world, but he always looked like that.


    Is that good serious or bad serious? She couldn¡¯t deduce which.


    Finally, Mekka put down his fork and sat staring at the crumbs on his plate for an interminably long moment.


    Everine¡¯s nails started tapping of their own accord.


    Mekka got up.


    ¡°Well?¡± she asked.


    He folded his arms and frowned. ¡°Didn¡¯t like it,¡± he replied frankly. ¡°Awful. Far too sweet.¡± He turned, striding towards the stairs. ¡°Practically inedible.¡±


    ¡°What!¡± Everine got to her feet in surprise. ¡°But¡­ you ate all of it!¡±


    Mekka shrugged without turning around. ¡°I had to be sure.¡±


    She glared at his black boots ascending to the upper floor, before turning back to the table with a sigh. ¡°That¡¯s the third pie you¡¯ve had to be ¡®sure¡¯ of this week,¡± she muttered. Gathering up the plate and fork, she carried them past the bar and into the kitchen. There she plopped them into the soapy suds filling the sink.


    She put her hands on her hips and stared at the dishes resentfully, as though wishing they would wash themselves.


    Ben was right, she thought, her hands dropping to her sides in resignation. He isn¡¯t interested. He never will be, no matter how many pies I try to seduce him with.


    Grabbing the plate, she scrubbed at it in annoyance. I could probably stand butt-naked in front of him and he wouldn¡¯t even notice, she thought.


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    She paused for a moment, considering that idea, then went back to washing.


    She had tried her best to distract the Angel, but it was no use. He was obsessed with that madwoman up at the Guard House.


    Everine paused in her washing again. She had gone to visit Carmine once. Just once.


    It had been a mistake.


    One look at the other woman¡¯s face and Everine had felt all the blood drain out of her. She had left in a hurry, disturbed and sickened.


    Whatever that¡­ thing up there was, it was no longer her friend. It was not the happy, energetic girl she used to know. It was something cold and dark and barely Human.


    And those eyes: they were terrifying.


    Feeling suddenly chilly, Everine finished up the washing, dried her hands on a towel and leaned back against the sink, hugging herself. She stared out the open back door of the kitchen. It was a warm day, the first hint that summer was approaching. The smell of jasmine and roses drifted in on a faint breeze.


    For four years, she¡¯d had a knot in her stomach, a sense of impending doom that wouldn¡¯t go away. It had been there since she had helped Mekka bring Hawk and Carmine back from the Middle Isle, from the terrible battle they had fought with a crazed general turned into a wraith. Everine had never known that such horrifying things existed, until then. Her world had been turned around and so far upside down that she didn¡¯t know which way she was facing any more.


    She was still struggling to make sense of it all, even though Mekka had explained everything.


    She¡¯d returned to Sel Varence for a few weeks, on her own, leaving her young brother Ben here at the inn. She had an obligation to Duke Rufus. She had to check that he¡¯d received his cargo.


    To her immense relief, he had, and was so delighted with the quality of the counterfeit royals that he¡¯d decided to overlook the fact that they were weeks overdue. He even paid her: though less than half the amount they had agreed upon.


    Everine took the money without complaint. She¡¯d closed her little shop in the market square and fled Selvar, never to return.


    She had come back to Forthwhite instead, to the sun-drenched white town in the middle of the dusty Arlen Plains, to help Mekka and Ben look after Hawk.


    Valeran, the portly owner of the Hungry Deer Inn, hadn¡¯t been pleased with the arrangement, and was on the verge of kicking them all out on their backsides, until Everine had plonked Rufus¡¯ bag of grubles down on the counter in front of him.


    He let them stay, and only occasionally grumbled under his breath.


    But the tavern was losing customers. At first, after Ferrian had destroyed the Dragon-wraith that had laid claim to the town, people had returned, rebuilt and settled in to re-establish their lives. The trigon appeared to be gone, the townsfolk were optimistic, and business was good.


    But slowly, gradually, things changed. A tension crept into the air, a sense that all was not quite right. No one save the Freeroamers and the small group residing at the Inn knew about Hawk and Carmine¡¯s devastating condition ¨C and they were all careful to keep this from becoming public knowledge: Valeran in particular was sworn to strict secrecy ¨C but nevertheless, whispers started to spread. There was an odd feeling about the Inn, they said; it was always too cold in there. And there was something shifty about the new Freeroamers, too, as though they were hiding something¡­


    Trust in the Freeroamers frayed and finally disintegrated, paranoia took hold, and people began to pack up and leave.


    Now, the town was mostly deserted again. Only a couple of stubborn farming families remained.


    Everine gazed at the bright light outside the door, at the white speckle of flowers invading the trellised wall opposite. She wished that she could leave, as well. The heat baking off the dry land shrivelled her spirits. She wasn¡¯t meant for a life so far from the sea. She belonged with the brisk wind and the salt, the slap of water and the cries of seabirds, the gentle rolling of her ship, the Blueflower as it sailed toward an infinite blue horizon¡­


    She closed her eyes. She knew that Ben missed their old lifestyle as well, though he never complained.


    Hawk and Carmine weren¡¯t her problem, and neither was this increasingly lifeless tavern. She had no obligation to stay. Mekka had told her as much when they¡¯d first arrived, years ago. But Ben had become fast friends with him, and wanted to help. And Everine herself¡­


    Opening her blue eyes, she scowled down at the tea-towel in her hands. She hadn¡¯t meant to become attracted to the damned Angel! Why was she trying so hard to catch his attention? It was clearly a waste of time.


    But despite everything, despite the fact that the comatose man upstairs and especially his horrible creepy fianc¨¦e at the Guard House scared the living daylights out of her, she cared. Watching Mekka tend to his slowly dying friends while hoping impossibly for a cure was heartbreaking¡­


    A sudden jingling sound interrupted her thoughts, and Everine looked up.


    Someone had just entered the tavern through the front entrance. Judging by the continuous tinkle, a group of them.


    Customers? she wondered in mild surprise. Perhaps they were travellers?


    Tossing aside the towel and quickly removing her apron, Everine smoothed out her dress, fussed with her blond curls for a bit, then swished out to the bar.


    She stopped dead in the kitchen doorway.


    Four gleaming figures stood evenly positioned around the common room, resplendent in their silver and white armour, great pale wings curving elegantly at their backs. Short swords hung at their hips and long silvertine spears were gripped in their gauntleted fists. They were straight-backed and attentive as the bells jingled again, and a final Angel entered the inn.


    He paused for a moment in the doorway, letting his gaze travel around, then strode casually across the room, his long white coat whispering about his legs. Reaching the bar, he gracefully seated himself on a stool, removed his silver winged helmet and placed it carefully on the counter.


    ¡°Greetings,¡± he said to Everine with a smile. ¡°Warm day, is it not?¡±


    There was nothing warm about his smile, Everine thought, though the rest of him was extraordinarily good-looking, with sun-blond hair falling about his shoulders and intelligent aquamarine eyes. His wings, rising at his back, were a beautiful, pure white. He wore a matching snow-white coat emblazoned with a silver spread-winged design, and his silvertine armour, beneath it, was exquisite and elaborate.


    Their Commander? she guessed.


    It was possible they were just passing through. Arkanian laws had been relaxed recently with their new Governor to allow Angels to wander abroad. They were still a rare sight, but it was not impossible¡­


    Ignoring her thumping heart, Everine composed herself and sauntered to the bar. ¡°Can I help you?¡± she asked pleasantly, while returning the Angel¡¯s not-smile.


    In other circumstances, she might have flirted with him, tried to find out why he was here. But she had a terrible feeling she already knew.


    His expression didn¡¯t change. He held her gaze easily. ¡°Perhaps you can,¡± he replied. ¡°We are¡­ searching for someone.¡± He paused then, still holding her gaze. Everine folded her arms across her chest, hoping he hadn¡¯t noticed her heart leap straight up into her throat.


    ¡°You may have seen him,¡± the Angel Commander went on. ¡°He is very striking. Very¡­¡± he pretended to be searching for the right word, ¡°¡­ dark.¡±


    Everine blinked her lashes in faux ignorance. ¡°Well, we get a lot of travellers through here, sir,¡± she said. ¡°Many interesting folk. Dark or otherwise.¡±


    His smile remained in place. He could have cut someone¡¯s heart out with a smile like that, she thought. And enjoyed it.


    She had to remind herself that Angels didn¡¯t go for murder.


    She moved to the shelves of glassware. ¡°Would you like a drink?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the Angel replied, watching her. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure? Oh¨C¡± As Everine moved her hand away from the glasses, she allowed a finger to brush the stem of one. It toppled from the shelf and shattered loudly, scattering glittering pieces across the stone floor.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m so clumsy. I¡¯ll fetch a broom.¡± She started towards the kitchen, but one of the guards had moved silently, unnoticed, to block the doorway.


    The Angel Commander turned and made a hand gesture to two of the guards in the room. They headed at once for the stairs. Then he rose, gave her another smile and a small bow, and replaced his helmet. ¡°Thank you,¡± he told her. ¡°You have been most helpful.¡±


    Turning away, he nodded to the remaining guards. ¡°Watch her,¡± he ordered, and strode to the staircase.


    Dammit! Everine cursed.


    The room was sombre. As it was on the southern side of the inn, no sunlight reached through to banish the shadowy gloom that filled every corner.


    A black-winged Angel sat on a chair facing the bed, his arms resting on his knees. His wings were black arcs drooping slightly from slumped shoulders, feathers trailing on the floor.


    A man lay on the bed in front of him: a man who had not moved nor spoken in four years.


    His right arm lay on top of the covers, his left hidden beneath them. His chest was clad in a fine gilded breastplate; made of silvertine, it was the only thing slowing the advance of the black poison crawling through him.


    His head rested on a pillow, his scruffy hair in a mess around it. His brown eyes stared upwards at nothing. Inky black veins stood out from his neck and the whole left side of his face.


    His skin was pale as a ghost. By all appearances, he was dead, or ought to be. But his heart still beat and there was breath on his colourless lips.


    This was Devandar Hawk; once Sergeant Major in the Darorian Army, then Sergeant of the Freeroamers. And now¡­


    Mekka refused to believe that this was anything but Hawk, could not accept that his mind had been stolen by that accursed General Dreikan.


    Lord Requar had gone through a similar scenario: his mind had also been seemingly eradicated by trigon. But he was a sorcerer, and had the aid of his brother and a Sword of Healing.


    The Sword of Healing no longer existed. It was as dead as its owner.


    And it was the only thing known to dispel trigon from a body, without killing it.


    Mekka shook his head. Still, he had been patient. He had been determined to find another way. He would give his life to find another way, if he had to. Ferrian had returned to the Sorcerer¡¯s Valley with Arzath to study and regain his magic and his Winter. He had promised Mekka that he would do everything he could to find a solution.


    Had any progress been made? Mekka was sure that if Ferrian knew something he would have let him know, but he¡¯d not heard from the young sorcerer in a long while now: almost a year.


    It did not bode well.


    Mekka felt his resolve slipping. He¡¯d been tainted with trigon himself, once, with catastrophic consequences. The murders he had committed, the destruction he had caused¡­ These things had been difficult to reconcile himself with. Requar¡¯s healing magic had done much to ease his mental state ¨C as well as his once-ruined eye ¨C back to normality, but it was still a part of himself that could never be denied.


    And the most tragic result of it all lay before him now on the bed; Hawk¡¯s condition was his fault, he had slashed the Freeroamer with the trigonic dagger while attempting to kill him. The wraith that was General Dreikan had merely taken advantage of the infection.


    Mekka closed his eyes, bowing his head. Hawk could not die. He could not! But time was running out, hope trickled away, day by day, as the trigon grew stronger. If he had to put an end to Hawk then no amount of healing magic would make the rest of his life worth living. If that happened, he would likely be forced to kill Carmine as well: whatever was left of her tormented mind would not survive news of Hawk¡¯s death.


    He would lose both of them, and himself in the process.


    It was an unbearably dark future, one that he must not allow himself to dwell on. It¨C


    There was a tinkling crash from downstairs.


    Mekka went still, his thoughts pausing. Most likely, Everine had dropped something. But curiously, there was no accompanying loud expletives¡­


    He opened his eyes but did not move, listening.


    There was a creak on the stairs.


    The Hungry Deer Inn was old, and all of the floorboards creaked. They groaned if you so much as looked at them. But Mekka knew all of the sounds, had memorised them almost unconsciously, as he did with every place he stayed in. Floorboards had a unique language of their own, a language he had learned well, for it had often saved his life.


    This was the distinctive soft complaint of someone trying, very carefully, not to make the floorboards creak.

 Chapter One Thirteen

    Wings of snow and silver blade


    Murder¡¯s price must now be paid.


    Swiftly but silently, Mekka got to his feet and positioned himself beside the door. After a few moments, he looked down to see the door handle turn, slowly.


    He waited until the door was halfway open, then threw his shoulder into it, slamming it back onto the intruder. Without hesitation, he punched his right fist at the door.


    A two-foot long silver spike shot forth, puncturing the wood. He felt it glance off something metallic.


    And then, unexpectedly, someone grabbed the spike and yanked it violently forwards, smashing Mekka¡¯s face into the door. Slightly stunned, he retracted his spike at once and threw himself away just as the door crashed inwards.


    A gleaming feathered figure whirled in, lashing a spear at his head like a striking snake.


    Mekka dodged and parried the rapid jabs with his spike.


    A blow caught him on the side of the shoulder, throwing him awkwardly against the wall. He grunted.


    He was taken off guard: his attacker was far more skilled than he had anticipated.


    The spear swept at his head. Mekka ducked and struck out with his leg, trying to trip his opponent. But the Angel caught his leg with his own and twisted, throwing Mekka to the floor.


    Mekka drew his legs up and rolled, coming to his feet in one motion and threw himself over the bed, rolling over Hawk¡¯s prone form. He snatched up the chair on the other side and hurled it at a second attacker who spun through the doorway.


    His opponent blocked the chair with his spear and kicked it back at Mekka.


    The black-winged Angel ducked, then flattened himself against the wardrobe, avoiding the thrust of the other¡¯s weapon. It missed his chest by an inch, sliding through his wing feathers instead, sending a couple of black feathers flying.


    Who the hell are these men?? Mekka thought furiously as he fought them both, fending off spear strikes from two corners of the room. Silvertine flashed in the air over the bed, ringing off the walls.


    They were no mere guards; these men were highly trained, focused and fast; as skilled as he was. They countered all of his attacks, anticipated all his moves.


    They were his match.


    The Angel near the door thrust again, and this time Mekka caught his spear and yanked it out of his grip. He spun it and went for a counter-attack, but the other was quick, rolling low and slashing out with his short sword.


    Mekka leapt aside, rolling over the bed again and immediately engaging the Angel on the other side.


    A fierce spear duel ensued.


    After a minute of intense fighting and dodging, Mekka saw an opportunity, and took it. Lunging forward, slipping through the other Angel¡¯s guard, he struck him fair in the chest.


    The blow threw him back against the wall, winding him but did not pierce his impenetrable silver armour.


    Mekka moved forward to subdue him, but the Angel was not as stunned as he expected. Tossing aside his weapon, he slammed his fist into Mekka¡¯s stomach, disarmed him with a smooth movement and pinned him against the wall beside the window. One hand held his spike arm against his own black wing, the other arm pressed against his neck, and his legs were trapped neatly.


    Heavy breathing filled the silence that followed. Mekka fought to draw breath through the gauntlet crushing his throat. He could see beads of sweat on his attacker¡¯s face, beneath his silver helmet.


    Golden-brown eyes bored into his own, intense and bright with victory.


    A slow, metallic clapping sound rang through the room.


    ¡°Good show,¡± a voice said. ¡°A fine performance! You may release him, Tander.¡±


    The Angel restraining him did so, reluctantly, stepping back quickly and retrieving his weapon from the floor.


    Mekka rubbed at his throat with his left hand, but did not retract the spike attached to his right arm. He watched the Angels guardedly, especially the white-winged newcomer.


    ¡°Who... are you?¡± he panted.


    The white Angel smiled, placing a hand to his chest. ¡°I,¡± he replied, ¡°am Wing Commander Re¡¯Vier. We¨C¡± he indicated the others ¡°¨C are a special division of the Sky Legion.¡±


    Mekka coughed an incredulous laugh. ¡°The Sky Legion? You reformed the Legion just to apprehend me?¡±


    Re¡¯Vier looked amused. ¡°My, my. Such an ego. Of course not. The Sky Legion was reformed two decades ago, long before your disgraceful attempts to destroy our homeland.¡±


    Mekka blinked in disbelief. ¡°Twenty years?¡± he shook his head. ¡°Then why were you not around to protect Arkana when the Dragons attacked?¡±


    ¡°Simply,¡± the Commander replied, ¡°because we did not know about it.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t know about it? Where the hell have you been living? Under a rock??¡±


    ¡°On top of one, actually,¡± the Angel Commander replied, still smiling. ¡°At the ruins of Sundown Keep, in the Snowranges. But,¡± he waved a hand, ¡°that is of no consequence. We were hired by Governor Mon Merrill to track you down and bring you to justice.¡±


    Mekka stared at him. ¡°You¡¯re exiles?¡±


    ¡°By choice,¡± Re¡¯Vier replied. ¡°We have a purpose, a specific one, which required distancing ourselves from Angel society for awhile. Our goals do not revolve solely around you. But the Governor could not find anyone else suited to the task.¡±


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    I didn¡¯t even know the Legion still existed, Mekka thought, stunned.


    ¡°Well!¡± the Commander declared brightly, clapping his gauntleted hands together. ¡°Shall we continue this wonderful dance all afternoon, or would you like to come peacefully?¡±


    Mekka looked at them, feeling his heart drop into his stomach. They had him nicely cornered. There was no escape out the window: it was too small. There were three of them between him and the door, and they weren¡¯t easy to fight. Even if he did manage to get past them, what would it achieve? There were likely more of them downstairs, and they would simply hold Everine or Ben or Valeran or Hawk or indeed, the entire town hostage until he returned. They had come so far to find him, and they would not give up. He would never be rid of them, unless he killed them all, one by one.


    And that was too high a price to pay for his freedom.


    He closed his eyes. He had never been free.


    And he had known that this day was coming, had known it from the moment Ferrian had blasted the cold truth into him with his Winter: he had committed those murders and he had done so deliberately, out of anger and hate. For a while he had struggled even to blame the trigon, though he knew now that it had warped his mind to insanity, that it had destroyed his ability to reason.


    He didn¡¯t know if the Arkanians would accept that excuse. They believed that he was evil, simply because of his black wings, and he didn¡¯t think there was an Angel alive that could be convinced otherwise.


    His fate was sealed. There were no longer any choices left.


    But he feared for Hawk and Carmine. He could not leave them behind. Someone had to take care of them. Someone had to watch them, to be there when¡­


    ¡°Shall we stand around here all day pondering escape methods,¡± the Commander said, ¡°or shall I make it a little easier for you?¡±


    His short sword hissed out of its sheath.


    Mekka opened his eyes and tensed into a half-crouch, readying for another attack, but instead the white-winged Angel circled the bed on the opposite side of him and swept his sword in an arc at Hawk¡¯s neck.


    ¡°NO!¡± Mekka screamed.


    The sword halted a couple of inches from the comatose Freeroamer¡¯s black-veined throat.


    Re¡¯Vier regarded Mekka, his sea-green eyes curious. ¡°Interesting,¡± he murmured.


    Mekka pointed his spike at the Angel from across the bed. ¡°If you touch him, I will gut you!¡± he threatened. Anger and terror burned through him in equal measure. He clenched his fists, struggling to keep from trembling.


    Re¡¯Vier looked back at him coolly. ¡°Of course you will,¡± he said. ¡°I would expect nothing less. You are a murderer. You have no honour, nor reverence for life. You have committed the most heinous crimes in Angelican law, crimes so unimaginable there is no precedent for them.¡±


    The Angel looked down at the bed, tilting his head to one side. ¡°And you are keeping a corpse here for some reason,¡± he went on. ¡°How vile. Do you desire a pet demon-wraith of your own?¡±


    Mekka gritted his teeth. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect you to understand!¡± What do THEY know of reverence for life??


    A tense moment of silence fell as they stared at each other. Finally, the Commander moved his sword away. ¡°You truly hold out some hope for his survival,¡± he said contemplatively. ¡°How pitiful and na?ve.¡± He sheathed his sword. ¡°You will come with us. Now.¡±


    Mekka wanted to resist. He wanted to punch this man in the face. He wanted to punch all of them in their faces until they left him alone.


    He felt his thoughts sliding into familiar, disturbing territory and pushed them fearfully away. The last time he had felt like this¡­


    He looked down at his hands to see that they were, indeed, shaking.


    He swallowed.


    There are no longer any choices left¡­


    Shoulders slumping in defeat, he sighed. ¡°I submit,¡± he whispered. ¡°Please...¡± he gestured at the bed. ¡°Do not hurt Hawk or my friends. They have done nothing wrong.¡±


    The Commander gave a signal to the two other soldiers and they rounded the bed. They forced Mekka to his knees and forward onto the bed as they stripped off his jacket and detached the spike mechanism. They searched him thoroughly for other weapons and lockpicking instruments, discarding everything they discovered. His arms were pulled behind his back and Mekka felt the cool click of silvertine shackles around his wrists. Grabbing his hair, they bound his mouth and eyes with strips of white cloth.


    Then they pulled him to his feet and led him from the room.


    Legionnaire Tan¡¯Daran started towards the door, but Commander Re¡¯Vier placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. The other soldier and the prisoner went on ahead.


    Re¡¯Vier nodded at the bed when they were gone. ¡°Dispose of that¡­ thing,¡± he ordered quietly.


    Tander blinked. ¡°Commander?¡±


    Noticing his hesitation, Reeves¡¯ eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer. ¡°It is not a living man, Legionnaire,¡± he insisted. ¡°It is dead. There will be no place for such abominations in New Arvanor.¡±


    Tander swallowed. ¡°Sir,¡± he affirmed.


    The Commander nodded, then swept from the room.


    Tander hesitated for a moment more, then switched his spear to his left hand, drew his sword ¨C the sound a soft hiss in the silence ¨C and walked back over beside the bed.


    He stood for a moment, staring down at the body. It did appear to be a corpse. Its brown eyes were open and lifeless. Tander bent a little closer, studying them, searching for a spark of¡­ anything¡­


    He searched for a long moment.


    There was nothing.


    Dismayed, he pulled back, and looked at the gleaming sword in his hand.


    The black-winged Angel ¨C Mekk¡¯Ayan ¨C had seemed so distressed when Reeves had threatened to put an end to this thing. Why? Why was he keeping a trigon-riddled cadaver hidden away up here? Did he know something the rest of them didn¡¯t? Did he really believe¡­ could there indeed be a cure for trigonis?


    Tander shook the thoughts away. No. The black Angel was insane. He was delusional. Demon-wraiths could only be destroyed, not saved.


    He set the sword at the corpse¡¯s throat. The head needed to be removed. It was the only way of ensuring it died properly¡­


    But another thought made him pause.


    Commander Re¡¯Vier had ordered him to carry out this task, when he could easily have done it himself.


    Tander frowned.


    A soft scuffing sound made him look up.


    A boy stood in the doorway, looking in. A Human: a young teenager. He wore a red scarf around his head.


    He stared at Tander, looking solemn ¨C but not afraid.


    The Legionnaire looked back down at the body. Oddly, it was clad in a golden breastplate of Angel design, like those worn by Arkanian guards.


    Silvertine. An opposing force to trigon. Were they trying to slow the onslaught of the disease?


    They hoped that they could save this man¡­


    Slowly, Tander withdrew his blade. If this was still a life, he could not take it, no matter what Reeves commanded. It was against Angel law and honour. To be ridden with guilt was to forfeit one¡¯s place in Excelsior¡­


    Turning away from the bed, he walked quietly back to the door.


    The boy leaned against the wall to one side, in the hallway, arms folded across his chest, head bowed unhappily.


    Tander hesitated, then sheathed his sword and drew a slender knife from his belt. Flipping it, he offered it to the boy. ¡°You will need this,¡± he said, ¡°when the darkness comes.¡±


    The boy looked at the knife in surprise, but took it. Tander met his eyes. Then the Angel turned and headed for the stairs.


    Everine could do nothing but watch desolately as Mekka was escorted from the inn. They had all known that such a day would come, eventually, though they never spoke of it.


    They knew of Mekka¡¯s tragic crimes; he had hidden nothing from them. He had told them himself that he would face retribution one day.


    Everine blinked back tears. Why did it have to be today? she thought. Why, on such a bright and sunny morning¡­


    She wiped her face on a cleaning cloth and ventured around the counter, thinking them all gone, but one of the soldiers lagged behind. He came down the stairs slowly. His wings were pale brown, fading to white at the tips. He looked up at her as he passed, and there was an uncertain expression on his face, but he said nothing, merely left after the others.


    Everine hurried to the stairs to see Ben descending. She was relieved that he was all right.


    ¡°Hawk¡¯s okay,¡± he said, seeing her anxious expression. ¡°They left him alone. And that Angel gave me this!¡± he held out a beautiful silver knife.


    Everine took a deep breath and let it out again. Then she hitched up her blue skirt and ran up the stairs, her boots clomping loudly on the wood.


    Reaching Hawk¡¯s room, she hastened inside. ¡°Fetch the wheelchair and pack your things,¡± she told her brother, who had come after her.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Ben asked as she threw the covers off the comatose man.


    Everine flung open the wardrobe and gathered up some clothes. ¡°We¡¯re going after Mekka!¡±

 Chapter One Fourteen

    Far upon the plains of Grey


    A thing of dread is there to stay.


    The Sirinese Sergeant shifted uneasily. The indigo and gold pennant attached to his halberd flopped about now and then like a dying fish in erratic puffs of breeze. All around him and the eleven men and women that comprised his squad, in all directions as far as they could see, lay a dead land.


    The ground beneath their feet was cracked and covered in a fine layer of grey dust, like ancient pottery. Here and there, blackened stumps and broken logs dotted the flat landscape, along with occasional burnt trees stretching their stark limbs to the sky, like macabre memorials. At least, the Sergeant thought nervously, he thought they were trees; some of them, in the distance, appeared eerily Human-shaped in the haze of the sun.


    He knew it was just his knowledge of history playing tricks on him. These vast plains, known simply as The Grey, were the site of a horrifying massacre ¨C or noble sacrifice, depending on whom you talked to ¨C a thousand years ago; the war known as the Great Breath, the desperate battle in which six Dragons were lured into capture and their rampage of terror finally ended.


    And ten thousand brave souls were turned to dust.


    Sergeant Caskin didn¡¯t care to dwell on the morbid facts of the past, nor the solemnity of an ashen landscape shimmering under a brilliant blue sky, nor indeed the dust that clung now to his dark leather boots.


    What truly held his unwilling attention ¨C and that of his silent, grim-jawed squad ¨C was the strange, huge object looming in front of them.


    It hung suspended, impossibly, in the air above the parched surface of the plains, its shadow in the bright sunlight cutting across the ground like a massive black blade. Caskin estimated the width along the base of the thing to be around three hundred and fifty feet, at least.


    The upper half resembled a perfect pyramid, its four razor-sharp sides smooth and featureless and oily black, cutting a triangular-shaped hole in the sky. The pyramid¡¯s base nestled in a cluster of gigantic metal-like shards protruding in all directions, with the longest pointing downwards, as though the whole monstrous thing had thrust itself up from some deep, sinister forge within the dark underbelly of the world, though the land beneath its looming shadow showed no sign of disturbance.


    It was alien and incongruous and bizarre: a malignant mountain infecting the sky. No one knew what it was, or where it had come from. None of them had ever seen or heard of such a thing.


    Apparently, it had just appeared one day out of nowhere.


    Bandits roamed this wasteland, fond of hiding out in the bleak vastness where few sane folk were inclined to tread. They often struck out at the highway that skirted The Grey, ambushing travellers and merchants laden with expensive goods bound for major Darorian cities.


    It was one of these bandits that had first reported the object. Peculiarly, the ruffian had shown up at the gates of the Capital in a hysterical state and thrown himself at the Trystanian Guard, begging to be arrested.


    He was dutifully locked up, assumed to be mad, and no one paid any attention to his nonsensical ravings.


    Until all of the bandits disappeared.


    Merchants began congratulating the patrols on their fine work dealing with the criminal scum, thrilled that they could now travel the highway unaccosted. Baffled, the patrols ventured into The Grey to confirm for themselves that the bandits were indeed gone.


    They disappeared as well.


    At some point, the Guard began taking their lunatic prisoner more seriously, though they could glean little of use from him other than vague, whispered warnings about something unexplainably dangerous far out on the grim expanse of The Grey.


    Their Graces the Twin Emperors had ordered heavily armed squads be sent out to investigate.


    They did not return.


    Sergeant Caskin¡¯s team was the third to be sent out.


    Staring ahead at the looming pyramid, Caskin felt unnerved that the bandit madman had actually proved to be right. He had fully expected to encounter nothing but the wind on these blasted plains ¨C either that, or a carefully constructed trap¡­


    Is that what this is? he thought, frowning. Some kind of strange trap? Did the madman lure us here to see this? Why??


    Shifting his dark blue gaze away from the pyramid, he cast it sharply about the landscape again.


    Nothing moved.


    There was little to be seen. The Grey was situated in the very centre of Siriaza, hundreds of miles from the capital, Trystania. It had taken them a week¡¯s steady march to get here. Even the Snowranges and great Perpetual Peaks had dwindled into memory in the south; the Red Ranges invisible somewhere to the northwest.


    Death, grey and silent, sprawled out to every horizon. Not even a weed to be seen, or a beetle.


    Caskin¡¯s hand tightened around the shaft of his crescent-moon halberd. Whatever this odd pyramid was, there was no doubt in his mind now that it involved some form of foul, dark magic. That it had appeared here, the site of the most powerful spell ever cast, was surely no coincidence?


    And that was why they had brought the girl.


    She knelt on the hard, crumbling ground, a small, lone figure about halfway between his team and the alien object. Long, dark brown hair fell in tangled curls about her shoulders. Wings, dark for an Angel, were folded at her back ¨C mottled shades of brown and black ending in pure white tips that trailed in the dirt. Her clothing was a curious mixture of filthy rags and finery, as though unable to decide if she were a noblewoman or a tramp. Her hair was bound loosely with a pink silken scarf, the long ends trailing down her back, fluttering softly now and then in the breeze.


    Caskin suppressed a shiver as he watched her. This young woman was Rose Rex: it was the only name anyone knew her by. She insisted that she had not come from Arkana, and certainly didn¡¯t act as though she did. Most assumed that she was the child of an exiled Angel family. She had turned up in Trystania mysteriously a couple of years ago, and immediately caused a stir with her¡­ abilities.


    In Siriaza, magic was not outlawed in the same way it was in neighbouring Daroria and Arkana, nor was it treated with violent hostility. The Sirinese people considered themselves enlightened and tolerant. They were also highly opportunistic, reluctant to dismiss anything that could be beneficial to their society. As long as the study and use of magic did not present a significant threat to their way of life, then it was not forbidden, merely discouraged. Many scholars studied magical texts out of pure intellectual curiosity, without ever actually practising it.


    Hence when Rose Rex arrived with her unique talents, she was not immediately run out of town, arrested or murdered in the street. On the contrary ¨C there were many in the community who found her to be of very great use to them.


    Rose was completely blind; or perhaps more accurately, she didn¡¯t see quite the same way that others did. She saw... into things; she could determine the truth of someone, discern their deepest secrets, just by looking at them. She could tell who had owned an object or who had brushed by a wall, or walked down the street. She saw all the things that were hidden from normal folk, yet remained oblivious to the mundane, everyday world.


    There were people in Sirinese society, very rich people, who were willing to part with quite a lot of money to know the truth about things. There were others who paid even more to keep those secrets to themselves. Not surprisingly, the Angel girl did very well for herself. And yet¡­ Caskin shook his head. Rose refused to reside in a house, stubbornly choosing to live on the streets instead among the alley cats and flea-bitten mice, foraging for scraps and surviving on the food that people gladly gave her, sometimes in payment for her services. Caskin wondered what on Arvanor she did with all the money. Everyone in the city speculated that she had a stash somewhere, but no one had ever found it.


    Rose¡¯s abilities seemed to be innate. She could not read or write. She did not cast spells or mutter incantations. She just¡­ looked at things. Innate magic was extremely rare, but not unheard of, especially in an Angel. Angels had a higher degree of tolerance to magic than did Humans. Human children born with magic usually perished swiftly and horribly. Angel children were more likely to survive¡­ if sheltered, of course, from prejudice.


    There had been others, in the past, who had fled to Trystania for this very reason. Rose was merely the latest.


    The Twin Emperors had suspected, as Caskin had, that whatever was lurking out on The Grey may well be magical, and that if anyone could find out what it was, it was Rose.


    She is taking her goddamned time with it, Caskin thought irritably. His hair, beneath his helmet, was damp with sweat, as was his tunic under his gleaming breastplate.


    It was hot out here in the sun. Too hot.


    Yet, the inside of him was cold, and grew more deeply chilly the longer he looked at that pyramid.


    Is it made of trigon?


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    The damning thought crept through his mind, a forbidden horror that he had not allowed himself to acknowledge, until now. Four years ago, he hadn¡¯t even heard the word. Now, everyone from the rulers of countries to the lowliest street urchin paused in fear when it was spoken.


    Few yet understood exactly what trigon was, including Caskin. He knew only that it caused some kind of incurable disease, responsible for the plague of terrifying wraiths that had spread unstoppably throughout the Darorian Coastlands. So far, the black scourge had not reached his own country. So far, Siriaza had remained safe; its people watchful, fearful, but distant. But now¡­ now¡­ this had materialised¡­


    His squad were becoming restless, as though sharing his thoughts. Some of them kept looking over their shoulders, clearly contemplating fleeing. One man even took a step backwards¡­


    ¡°HOLD!¡± Caskin barked, causing half his squad to jump in startlement, their weapons clanking on their armour.


    The young soldier flushed, lowering his gaze to his boots guiltily.


    Caskin glared at them all. Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he gripped his halberd in both hands and prepared to go and fetch the girl. This had gone on long enough. She had been kneeling there for half an hour ¨C it felt like all day ¨C just staring!


    He took a step forward¡­ and Rose cried out.


    As one, his entire squad swung their weapons forward, crescent blades glittering, dark blue pennants swishing across the dirt. Caskin looked around in alarm.


    Nothing had changed.


    The black pyramid continued to look ominous.


    Ahead of them, the Angel girl got to her feet, turned, and started walking back towards them. She hugged herself as though freezing, though she was bathed in full sunshine.


    Caskin watched her come, tense. She dropped to her knees again at his feet.


    ¡°Well?¡± he snapped testily.


    Rose Rex did not respond at once, but continued to stare at the ground. The ends of her pink scarf twitched in the breeze. Finally, she lifted her head, slowly, her strange reddish-pink eyes piercing him, as though she could see all that he was and all that he ever would be ¨C every memory; every hidden thought.


    And then she smiled.


    ¡°Run,¡± she said softly, as though bestowing a kindness. ¡°Run, dears.¡±


    For a moment, Caskin just stared at her. Then he took a breath¡­


    And then the pyramid changed.


    It began to move, very slowly and in complete silence ¨C the entire mammoth thing rotating on its horizontal axis, still floating above the ground. Its sides shimmered with dim colours as the sunlight passed over them. The colours seemed to swim together, as though alive.


    As the southern face turned around into view, Caskin felt his heart drop into his feet.


    There was an eye there! Or something like an eye ¨C an enormous, glowing blue iris, with a pitch black ring-shaped pupil within it.


    The pyramid-mountain stopped with the eye facing them.


    Caskin¡¯s heart hammered in his ears. Vaguely, he was aware of a soft rush of feathers and shadow as Rose took to the sky. He knew he ought to heed her warning, but it floated somewhere outside of him, lost in the wind, abandoned in this desert of fear. He was transfixed by the alien thing, unable to take his eyes off it.


    For long, thudding heartbeats, nothing happened. The pyramid was silent and still.


    And then one of his men screamed.


    Caskin and the rest of his squad whirled.


    And the world broke into chaos.


    Black spikes, sharp-tipped as spears, erupted from the ground all through the group, piercing limbs, sending blood splattering across the parched dirt. The squad¡¯s defensive stance turned to panic, but no one could flee, every one of them neatly skewered¡­


    A spike shot up an inch from Caskin¡¯s face. Gasping, he stepped back.. and pain exploded through him.


    A scream of his own joined those from his squad. They were all still alive: cursing, wailing, bellowing in anger and slashing at the spikes which held them, with little effect. Through a red haze, Caskin looked down to see one of the spikes piercing his right foot, pinning him in place. Furiously, he smashed his own halberd into it, but it glanced off with a ring of steel and shower of sparks.


    It WAS a trap! He screamed a curse.


    The pyramid within its floating nest of giant scrap-metal stared down at them, cold, black and merciless. Intelligent, yet like no living thing imaginable.


    Caskin fought a wave of pain that threatened to send him tumbling to the ground. He dropped to one knee, his vision spinning. But a moment later, the agony subsided, replaced with a freezing numbness that spread up his leg, into his hip. He could feel it creeping through his veins like an icy poison.


    Desperately, he tried to think what to do, or at least make sense of his impending death. Why had the thing trapped them like this? The spikes were five feet high. It could have killed them all in an instant. Instead, it was watching them suffer.


    With an effort, Caskin lifted his head to look at the pyramid.


    The blue eye glowed brighter. Its sides seemed to have turned into liquid, swirling and roiling, contained within its sharp pyramid shape. Caskin retched involuntarily. Something about the movement twisted his stomach into knots.


    He was sure he had seen faces in there¡­


    Then something else gathered itself up off the ground before his blurry eyes. It was the dust, stirred into eddies by no breeze that he could feel, whispering across the dry land, forming into strange shapes. The shapes twisted and joined to become something more substantial¡­


    Caskin¡¯s mind froze in horror. The shapes were recognisable!


    Humans. Men. Women. Even children. All clad in dusty, decaying armour.


    They were the ancient fighters, dead for a millennium; those who had made a last, valiant stand against the raging Dragons. The army that had been obliterated by sorcery, unable to survive the entrapment spell used to transfer the Dragons to their long prison on the Middle Isle. The people whose bones and flesh had been reduced to ash which rained down across the length and breadth of these terrible plains, now known as The Grey¡­


    The ghastly dust abominations surrounded the group. There were thousands of them. There were no eyes in their heads; their skulls made of whirling particles of dirt. Skin or clothes hung in shifting, ethereal tatters. They were oddly deformed, as though not put properly back together ¨C some with too many limbs, or body parts that didn¡¯t belong to them.


    They moved in on the squad.


    Caskin struggled to his feet. He could no longer feel his right leg. Wildly, irrationally, he considered hacking it off to escape, but he never got the chance. The grey ghost closest to him was armed with a massive, two-handed greatsword, which swung silently at Caskin¡¯s head.


    Caskin brought his own halberd around with a scream.


    The Imperial Palace sat like an exotic, dark flower on the edge of high red cliffs overlooking the seemingly endless expanse of ocean known as the Sea of Forever. The building was huge yet delicate; an intricate array of wrought-iron archways supported a massive dome of tinted dark tiles changing gradually in colour through shades of violet and indigo to bright blue at the lower edges. Gleaming golden statues, all Angels or winged animals, lounged with idle, lofty grace beneath the improbably ornate dark fretwork.


    Where the Darorians preferred pragmatic simplicity in their architecture, and the Arkanians insisted on smooth elegance ¨C the Sirinese adored detail. The more, the better. Any eye lingering too long upon the Imperial Palace inevitably became lost, bewildered and awed by its complex beauty.


    In front of the domed building was a large circular plaza with a radiating pattern of tiles in blue, purple and white. Around its circumference stood carefully maintained topiaries in the shapes of birds, between gently tinkling fountains. Tall black gates on the western side led in broad steps down to the great city of Trystania ¨C the largest in all of Arvanor, and the easternmost brink of civilisation.


    Two majestic, sprawling jacaranda trees framed the entrance to the Palace, overflowing with bright blue blossoms that fell softly now and then to the polished floor. In the perfumed shade beneath them, two guards fought the laziness of the long, peaceful afternoon, slouching on their halberds. The western sky ahead of them glowed fiery pink, as though the rest of the world were on fire.


    They blinked to alertness, however, at the sight of a small dark figure approaching out of the glare.


    The Angel dropped onto the sunset-lit, flower-strewn steps in a crumpled heap, like a bird shot from the sky. Recognising her, the guards leaped at once to assist, but Rose hissed at them like a cat, and they hesitated. Panting with exhaustion, trembling, she picked herself up and stumbled up the steps into the Palace.


    The interior of the Palace appeared to Rose as a series of ghostly white shapes fading in and out of a deep pinkish mist. Great columns passed by, like the trunks of forest trees. Dark patches indicated doorways or passages to either side. Decorations and other objects came silently into view before disappearing once more into ethereality. Something vague moved high above: banners or drapery stirring in the draught.


    All of it was dull and uninteresting to her tired mind. These objects had no history, no soul, no importance.


    But the people ¨C the Palace guards and servants, moving across her vision, making way for her, keeping their distance ¨C ah, they were different!


    They blazed like multi-coloured, Human-shaped fires, their life-forces radiating out into the ether. Rose could read them at a glance, as easily as others understood words written in a book. Orange anxiety flickered in all of them, every one.


    Rose smiled a little, then scrunched up her nose in annoyance. They were too bright. They hurt her eyes. She squinted against the dazzling glare. She needed sleep.


    As she made her slow way forward, she considered simply collapsing in the middle of the floor. No one would dare disturb her, if she chose to do so.


    But one thing kept her feet moving steadily across the smooth floor.


    Fear.


    The black pyramid¡­


    She forced the panic back with an effort, made herself keep going until she was at last within the central chamber. The walls and ceiling were beyond her rose-tinted sight, but the echoes and slightly draughty, cool air told her she was inside a vast space. All of the guards and attendants had retreated; only two small, glowing figures sat before her now, on the floor amidst an array of soft, formless shapes that Rose deduced were cushions and rugs. The dim outline of a single throne rose in the background.


    Rose sank to her knees in front of them.


    Murmurs of twin displeasure accompanied a shifting of their auras to an agitated hue. Rose ignored them. She knew it was poor etiquette for an Angel to kneel before the Sirinese, especially the Emperors. But she couldn¡¯t stay on her feet any longer. Only a pressing sense of urgency and dread gripped her consciousness, keeping her from falling asleep. She had flown hard to get here.


    Yet still, she was reluctant to impart what she had discovered.


    Silly Humans, she thought instead, and their inferiority complex¡­


    She wished that she had settled in Daroria instead. Being treated with contempt there was much preferable to this insufferable, misguided Angel worship¡­


    ¡°What have you to report?¡± one of the Emperors asked anxiously. The boy.


    Rose took a long time to reply, staring down at the floor; so long that her silence became her answer.


    She heard a deep intake of breath from the other Emperor: the girl. Her aura rippled briefly with terror. ¡°Trigon?¡± the girl whispered. ¡°Then¡­ it is as we feared...¡±


    Rose lifted her head slowly to look at them. They were nothing more than faceless pale silhouettes in her vision, yet the colours and distinctive patterns of their life¡¯s scintillating essence told her everything she needed to know about them.


    They were rulers of a country, yet they were just children, not even into their teenage years. However well they had been bred into leadership, no matter their training or studies, that¡­ thing out on the plains was beyond their comprehension. It was beyond hers.


    And there was no one on Arvanor with the ability to stop it.


    The dark pyramid loomed large in Rose¡¯s mind. She had gazed upon it too long; mesmerised, awed, appalled, and now it had infected her thoughts. She could feel it trying to wrest control of them, attempting to twist her words, make her lie, urging her to say that everything was fine¡­


    Shuddering, Rose clutched her hands to her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to drown the pyramid thing in darkness, but it was darker than dark. Its blue eye glowed through the black.


    She banished her thoughts, quieted them, became as nothing. The eye would lose interest in her if she was just a mindless thing. The fear continued to bound freely through her, seeking to destroy her, to set her ablaze with panic. But it found nothing to latch onto, and so gradually faded¡­


    A small voice floated through the emptiness, calling her name. The sound of it reminded her that she was still alive.


    Blinking her eyes open, Rose let her hands fall from her face, brushing her golden earrings, which tinkled slightly in the silence of the hall. When she lifted her head again, she was deathly calm, her expression smooth.


    ¡°Trigon,¡± she affirmed softly. ¡°Yes. But more.¡± Her eyes widened as she stared into the Twin Emperor¡¯s glowing souls. ¡°Old ones. Ancient ones. The Eaters of magic. The Devourers of life.


    ¡°They have returned!¡±

 Chapter One Fifteen

    The Legion flies to judgement¡¯s Spire


    And faith is tested beside the fire.


    The moon hung as a sickle blade in the sky, surrounded by the glittering seeds of stars scattered across an infinitely huge, dark field, like destinies freshly sown. Its radiant light fell upon a dense stretch of pine trees, solemn and tall, boughs interlocked in an impenetrable mass. Beyond them, a line of sharp-edged peaks, black in the night, gaped against the clear horizon: the edge of the Barlakk Mountains.


    Deep within the close-knit pines, another light flickered, indiscernible from the outside through the thick green needles. But the pensive atmosphere of the Outlands was kept at bay by its fierce, victorious blaze.


    Eight Angels were gathered around the campfire; six of them laughing, joking and drinking wine. One, his wings black as pitch, lay unmoving on the ground beside the flames, within the circle made by the others. He was unconscious: hands bound behind his back, bruises and scratches standing out livid against the pale skin of his face and exposed torso. Someone had produced a pungent concoction of herbs shortly after they had arrived and shoved it into their captive¡¯s face, pitching him into a deep slumber, and ensuring they could all relax for the night.


    One Angel sat quietly on a log, his cup of wine untouched in his hand, staring at the prisoner. The voices of his companions rang out merrily into the trees. They were in a celebratory mood.


    Tander did not share their elation.


    The way their captive had been treated made him uncomfortable. After initial resistance at the Inn, Mekka had come willingly, with ¨C so far ¨C no attempt to escape. It could be a ruse, of course; it was possible the black-winged Angel was biding his time, waiting for a chance. Planning their deaths in that silent dark head of his. But Tander didn¡¯t think that was the case.


    It was something about his demeanour. An air of quiet resignation, of regret. He had made his choice, and accepted it.


    They had forced him to fly across the Arlen Plains with his hands tied. As the sun set behind the mountains, they proceeded on foot into the pine forest to find a place to camp¡­ and that was when the abuse had started.


    Accidental ¡®trippings¡¯ and shoves in the back, followed by so-called ¡®punishment.¡¯ Now and then a vicious jab to the gut or head with the butts of their spears. Eventually, Reeves had noticed what was going on and put a stop to it. But his admonishment was lazy.


    They all hated Mekk¡¯Ayan. Tander, too, felt a deep, burning anger at the monstrous crimes he had committed. Though all in the Legion had distanced themselves from their homeland some time ago, they could not abide such an affront to their race and their society. And destroying a Seraph! There was no precedent for that!


    Justice would be done. The Tower would seal his fate forever. Anything else was crude.


    They were Angels, holy children of the Goddess, not barbarians. And frankly, Mekka had shown more restraint and dignity than any of them, so far¡­


    Someone shoved him in the shoulder, causing Tander to slop his full cup of wine across his knees.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± his companion whispered in a slurred voice. ¡°Do you s¡­ suppose his feathers really are made out of trigon?¡±


    Tander looked at him in irritation. Nix¡¯s face was flushed, his eyes bright. Intoxicated.


    ¡°Mmm,¡± he murmured non-committally, examining his stained greaves in dismay. He had heard the rumours, but didn¡¯t particularly care either way.


    Nix looked at Mekka, then around at the group. Everyone else was involved in their own conversations. He suddenly grabbed Tander¡¯s upper arm, grinning. ¡°What do you say we find out?¡±


    Tander frowned. ¡°What do you¨C?¡±


    Before he could finish, the other Angel stood. Taking a couple of unsteady steps forward, he leaned down and plucked out one of the black feathers.


    The black-winged Angel did not stir.


    Nix stared down at the unconscious man for a moment, waiting. When nothing happened, he grinned again, raised the feather and twirled it between his fingers.


    ¡°I¡¯ll wager,¡± he drawled aloud, ¡°one gr¡­ gruble that this black-winged scum is a demon!¡±


    The circle fell silent: all eyes turned towards Nix.


    The others exchanged awkward glances. Commander Re¡¯Vier raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely leaned back against a tree and folded his arms, smiling slightly.


    Tander watched uneasily.


    Finally, the Angel opposite him reached for his pouch and produced a coin, flicking it into the air. It landed in his hand with a glint of gold. He nodded to Nix.


    Nix held the black feather out over the flames, pausing for dramatic effect, savouring the attention.


    Despite himself, Tander found his eyes, along with everyone else¡¯s, transfixed on it and the licking fire beneath, crackling with hunger. What was going to happen? What if Nix was right?


    A breathless silence fell.


    Finally, Nix released the feather.


    The flames caught it at once, devouring it in a bright, illuminating flare. There was a brief smell like burnt hair that wafted on a thin line of smoke.


    Sighs and disappointed exclamations passed around the group. The Angel who had agreed to the wager cursed.


    Nix¡¯s face flushed deeper, his expression darkening. His slender hands balled into fists.


    ¡°Trickery!¡± he spat. Then, to everyone¡¯s surprise, he snatched a glowing branch out of the fire and swung it over the prone form of Mekka in a shower of sparks.


    ¡°He is NOT one of us!¡± he shouted. ¡°I¡¯ll prove it¨C¡±


    ¡°ENOUGH!¡±


    Reeves¡¯ voice rang sharply through the clearing, like a drawn sword. He was on his feet, his blue-green eyes filled with cold anger. ¡°Do not be an idiot, Nix! Do you wish to end up in the Pit alongside him?¡±


    Nix did not reply, but in his drunkenness dared to glare back at his Commander.


    Reeves stalked into the middle of the clearing. ¡°The First Law is sacred!¡± he went on. ¡°Any man who breaks it may no longer call himself an Angel, let alone a part of this Legion!¡±


    Ironic, Tander thought darkly. You wanted ME to take the life of something not yet dead¡­


    ¡°We will deliver the criminal to Caer Sync for judgement, as per our orders from the Governor. Henceforth, no one is to touch him unless I permit you to, or unless he tries to escape. Is that clear?¡±


    They all gave their assent at once. All, that is, except Nix.


    The Angel remained where he was, flaming branch outstretched, only inches from Mekka¡¯s dark feathers. Some burning pieces of wood dropped down, scorching them.


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    Tander tensed, ready to spring if Nix tried anything foolish. Don¡¯t do it, he prayed.


    The air between Reeves and Nix was so icy it seemed to extinguish all heat from the campfire. Finally, however, Nix tossed the branch back onto the flames.


    The Commander swept his piercing gaze around the group. ¡°Get to sleep, all of you,¡± he ordered. ¡°Nix, Tander, take the first watch.¡± He spun away with a sigh of disgust. ¡°And in future do try not to act like a pack of common Humans!¡±


    He leaped upwards into the nearest pine, climbing nimbly through the web of branches to find a perch. The others did likewise.


    Nix turned away as well. Stepping over the log beside Tander, he picked up his spear and stalked to the edge of the clearing, where he stood staring out into the shadowed trees. His wings were turned towards Tander: half-white with iridescent blue-green and purple tips. He had heard others call Nix a peacock behind his back. Sometimes, he surely acted like one.


    The feathers quivered now, though; out of anger, embarrassment or fear, it was hard to tell.


    Tander looked away, glancing down at Mekka again. Their prisoner remained oblivious still, lying on the needle-strewn ground.


    Staring back at his almost-empty wine cup, Tander drank the rest of it in a single gulp.


    * * *


    The room was chill when Lady Araynia opened her eyes. For a moment she was confused, not recognising where she was. The walls were of white stone, grey shadows hanging in the corners like old drapes. A golden candelabra stood on a dresser to one side, unlit, oddly gaudy in the otherwise austere room. To her right was a small, round window and a fireplace, the hearth cold. The ceiling was high, much higher than the rooms in her own house¡­


    The memories crashed into her all at once, with a force that made her start. She and Luca had made it to the castle, after a long and arduous journey. They had met the masters of Whiteshadow: Lord Ferrian, who had been kind, and Lord Arzath, who had injured her and stolen her pendant.


    But she had not found what she had come here to find.


    She was sure that Ferrian was sincere in his offer to help, but¡­


    She closed her eyes as sadness wrapped its cold, heavy arms around her. By the time they got back to Crystaltina, it would be far too late to save her family or anyone else. Their fates had been decided on the night she fled.


    She didn¡¯t know why she had thought she could save them. It had been a foolish journey: a childish hope.


    Araynia had never been close to her mother or two older sisters; there had always existed an insurmountable gulf between them. Her grandmother she had loved dearly; mercifully the old woman had passed away years ago, long before the Aegis had fallen and a company of rogue black-armoured soldiers had transformed into the plague of demon-wraiths that had eventually infested her city. Her father had died when she was too young to remember him.


    But no matter her feelings about her family, they were still her family. And the thought that they were dead now, along with all the house servants, and all her friends, turned into ghastly wraiths, was horrific.


    Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, despite her best efforts to stop them. Pulling the blankets over her head in a futile effort to ward off the deep cold that had lodged inside her, she silently wept.


    Sleep must have overtaken her again, for she awoke some time later at a knock on her door, and Luca¡¯s anxious voice. She hid herself under the covers once more, not wanting to talk to him, not wanting to see anyone. She wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear into the warm material of the bed. The horrors of the world were too close; the blankets would ward them away, bury her in blissful, oblivious sleep.


    But she had slept too long already, and wakefulness imposed itself on her with all its painful truth, no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes closed.


    Eventually, Luca left; she heard his hoofsteps retreat down the hall. The Centaur was too polite to intrude on a Lady¡¯s chamber.


    A few minutes later, her stomach voiced an opinion, followed closely by her bladder. She tried to ignore them too, but they were insistent.


    Sighing, she threw off the blankets.


    After making use of the garderobe, thus solving least one of her problems, she went over to the dresser and stared at herself in the mirror.


    She was a mess.


    Fresh tears welled up at the sight of herself. So pitiful. So useless. Such a failure¡­


    There was a basin of water provided. She washed her face, then spent a few minutes sobbing into the towel until she had regained control of herself.


    Drying her face carefully, she untied her braid and raked her fingers through her long dark hair, painstakingly removing all the tangles. When that was done, she re-braided it neatly. Still in her nightgown and bare feet, she moved over to the door and peered reluctantly out.


    The white-walled hallway beyond was deserted, save for a tray of food on the floor.


    Picking it up, she returned to her room.


    She hadn¡¯t realised how famished she was until she started eating. The food was cold now, but she didn¡¯t care, finishing it all. Afterwards, she felt better; a little stronger, her thoughts a little clearer, though her heart still weighed heavy in her chest.


    Instinctively, she reached for her pendant, then remembered with a pang that it was gone. Arzath had taken it.


    She sighed. The stone had always provided her with comfort when she was sick or sad. It was soothing, somehow. It was a gift from her grandmother.


    Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. She supposed that Arzath had a right to take it, if it had belonged to his brother.


    Putting aside the tray, she got up and dressed in the clean clothes that had been left out for her on a chair: nondescript grey robes and a cloak, and soft slippers. Wearing them felt a bit strange, but they were comfortable and warm.


    For a moment she closed her eyes, steadying herself. Then she ventured out.


    The hallway was long and silent, chilly and white. A couple of other doors lined the wall, all closed. At one end, off to her left, the hallway disappeared into a stairwell. To her right, it turned a corner, and facing the bend was a tall, narrow window, spilling a haze of dim white light into the passage.


    Araynia made her way towards it.


    Stopping at the corner, she peered around it. The passage continued into shadow, swallowed up by a much darker part of the castle.


    Hugging herself, she turned and looked out the window.


    The walls of the castle rose on either side in striking alabaster and ebony stone. Ahead of her was a mess of scaffolding ¨C part of Castle Whiteshadow was still under construction. Further beyond, grey cliffs towered over it all, until they were lost in mist.


    Her view of the valley was blocked by the walls and scaffolding, so there was not much to be seen save the steady gentle fall of rain and drifting fog.


    Then something caught her eye, high up above the black section of the keep.


    Something huge and pale, and moving.


    She leaned closer to the glass, craning her neck to see. Was it an illusion of the shifting clouds? A trick of the light? No ¨C there was the definite shape of a vast, feathered wing¡­!


    ¡°Fascinating view, I presume?¡±


    Araynia jumped so hard that she gasped and grabbed the windowsill for support. She whirled, her eyes going wide.


    Lord Arzath stood right behind her, barely four feet away. He was wrapped in a pitch-black cloak, the hood raised, but the light from the window revealed his face starkly.


    She hadn¡¯t gotten a proper look at the sorcerer the previous evening, when he had barged into the dining room and almost broken her wrist. But now she was much closer to him than she cared to be.


    Luca and Ferrian were nowhere to be seen.


    He just stood there, regarding her.


    Araynia couldn¡¯t move, even though she wanted nothing more than to flee for the stairs. Instead, she stared back at him in fear.


    His features and stature were those of a youngish person, elegantly handsome and arrogant, but in some way also inexplicably old. His eyes were so intensely green they were almost inhuman. But they were tired as well, shadowed, like a predator that had lost the will to kill.


    He lifted an arm suddenly, and she flinched¡­ but it was only the pendant, held forth in his black-gloved fingers.


    It glittered between them, cool and clear and blue.


    ¡°Do you know what this is?¡± Arzath demanded.


    Araynia thought she did, but was terrified of saying the wrong thing, so shook her head mutely instead.


    Arzath¡¯s eyes narrowed, as though he suspected her of lying. ¡°It is an Empathy Stone,¡± he went on. ¡°Its purpose is to form a bond between two people, so that they may locate each other or communicate wherever they may be, at any time. No doubt my brother created it with the intention of giving it to young Ferrian at some point, when he was old enough to understand what it meant.¡±


    His eyes held her frozen in place. ¡°He never got the chance, obviously. Instead, your grandmother found it, and gave it to you. Is that correct?¡±


    Araynia nodded.


    ¡°And you have kept this with you since childhood?¡±


    She nodded again, uncertainly.


    Arzath continued to scrutinise her for an indeterminately long moment. Araynia¡¯s heart leaped around in her chest like a panicked creature trying to escape. Then, to her horror, his eyes changed from green to a bright purple colour, flooding with light.


    She tried to back away, but the window ledge stopped her.


    The glare lasted for only a minute, however, before the sorcerer¡¯s eyes returned to normal, now fixed on the pendant instead. He turned the blue gemstone around in his fingers, watching the light glint off its beautiful, mysterious facets.


    Then his fingers curled around it, and without warning, he thrust it out to her, the stone resting on his open palm.


    ¡°Take it,¡± he ordered.


    Araynia hesitated.


    ¡°TAKE IT!¡±


    She snatched it from him so fast that she almost dropped it, then clutched the pendant to her chest as he took a step forward.


    ¡°The stone brought you here,¡± he murmured in a low, cold voice. ¡°You followed a dim remnant of Requar¡¯s magic, a ghostly trail, expecting to find him. Hoping that he could help you: the only person who could.¡± His smile was bitter. ¡°He is dead. His obsession with helping people destroyed him, and I could do nothing to stop it!¡± Arzath¡¯s eyes glittered a little. ¡°Instead, you found Ferrian, who nobly pledged his support to you, swayed by your tears.¡±


    He took yet another step towards her, frighteningly close, and his voice lowered even further, to a snakelike hiss. ¡°Ferrian and I are the only remaining living sorcerers in Arvanor, the sole custodians of millennia of magical heritage. We have the power to save this pathetic world or allow it to fall into ruin, as we see fit.¡±


    Araynia¡¯s throat constricted. His gaze felt as though it was strangling her.


    ¡°If Ferrian is killed on a stupid quest to save your miserable family, then let the future of Arvanor be on your head and yours alone!¡±


    With that, he whirled and swept away down the corridor, lost within moments in the black-walled shadows.


    Araynia watched him go, face pale.

 Chapter One Sixteen

    A journey begins, fraught with doubt


    What turn of events will come about?


    Ferrian and Luca waited in the entrance foyer of the castle. Packs, camping equipment and food sat in orderly piles on the gleaming floor. Ferrian watched the young Centaur go meticulously through their supplies, double-checking everything, putting things away neatly. Ferrian¡¯s own pack lay ready at his feet, his Sword slung on his back, over his grey cloak.


    Luca wore a handsome scarlet doublet with gold buttons, freshly laundered without a trace of mud. His fine red hair fell about his shoulders, long and loose, the sides tied back in braids and dark beads below a short-brimmed black velvet cap. His physique was slender, almost delicate, somewhat like a deer; his brown eyes sharp and wary. He was quite unlike Cairan and Raemint, the only other Centaurs that Ferrian had met.


    Luca finished what he was doing and got to his feet. Picking up the sword that lay across his pack, he unsheathed it, examining the blade, peering along its length. It looked quite dull compared to Ferrian¡¯s Sword; made of ordinary steel.


    Ferrian hated to sound patronising, but still¡­ ¡°You, er, realise that steel won¡¯t work against demon-wraiths, right?¡±


    Luca looked across at him quickly, and nodded. ¡°I am aware,¡± he replied. He lowered the sword with a sigh, and shook his head. ¡°Truth be told, I do not feel comfortable carrying a weapon.¡± He stared down at it in dismay, and shrugged. ¡°But I¡­ thought it was¡­ expected of me.¡±


    He blushed a little in embarrassment, but continued. ¡°Our journey here was fraught with peril. Not only demon-wraiths but bandits, thieves. I felt that it may be necessary at some point to defend ourselves, or at least deter those who would do us harm. I¡­ decided that I would take that responsibility.¡±


    He looked up at Ferrian seriously. ¡°It is not that I feel my Lady is incapable. She is much stronger than she believes herself to be. She led us all the way here with nothing to guide us but dim magic and intuition. But¡­ I have a little training, and she does not.¡±


    He sheathed the sword carefully. ¡°I am not a fighter,¡± he admitted quietly. ¡°I do not possess the instincts for hunting or combat that are typical of my race. I left my home in the Great Southwood because of this, to live and work in a Human household instead. There, I was mainly responsible for preparing the meals.¡±


    Ferrian blinked at him in surprise. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ a cook?¡±


    Luca smiled slightly. ¡°I am.¡±


    Ferrian grinned. ¡°So that¡¯s why you¡¯ve insisted on preparing all the food while you¡¯ve been here!¡±


    Luca set the sword down and folded his arms, making a disdainful face. ¡°Your pantry¡­ I do not even want to mention it.¡± He sniffed, his tail twitching. ¡°And your herb garden is full of weeds.¡±


    Herb garden? Ferrian vaguely recalled Requar having a neatly tended one, but he assumed it had been destroyed. He guessed some plants had survived all the fire and reconstruction work.


    Luca picked up the sword again ruefully. ¡°I¡­ suppose I have no need of this,¡± he said. Then he shrugged, and belted it onto his waist anyway. ¡°Perhaps it will come in useful for chopping vegetables. I left my good knives behind...¡±


    Ferrian laughed.


    An hour and a half later, Ferrian was pacing from one end of the hall to the other, his boots echoing loudly, cloak swishing through the beams of multicoloured light now flooding the room.


    It was past midday, and Lady Araynia had yet to make an appearance.


    Ferrian was worried. He had barely seen his guest since she had arrived, bedraggled at the castle three days previously. Luca had assured him that she was shy and preferred to keep to herself, but Ferrian couldn¡¯t help but feel that something was wrong.


    Had Arzath traumatised her so much that she feared to leave her room? Was she having difficulty dealing with the loss of her family and the horrifying events she had left behind in Crystaltina?


    None of them knew. Even Luca hadn¡¯t been allowed into her chamber, though the trays had come back clean of food. That was a good sign, Ferrian supposed¡­


    The sunlight was making him feel itchy and irritable, his patience wearing thin. It was a glorious spring day outside, full of blue sky and new grass and sunlight, and chirping birds. It made for good travelling conditions, but it also meant, disappointingly, that his Winter had not returned as he had hoped. The gloomy weather of the past couple of weeks had merely been normal mountain precipitation.


    What am I doing? he thought unhappily as he stalked the hall. Why did I agree to go on this journey? He had not yet regained all of his power, and had no idea what he was going to do when they arrived at the royal city. It was not something he was looking forward to.


    But he felt strangely restless. He was tired of this castle, tired of the books and studying. Weary of the painful magical practice. And Arzath¡¯s miserable attitude was weighing him down, like a set of iron chains clamped tight about his chest.


    Ferrian shook his head in despair. Arzath. His master worried him more than anyone else. Ferrian was haunted by the awful certainty that the dark sorcerer would not be here when he returned.


    There was a good chance that Castle Whiteshadow wouldn¡¯t be here, either.


    Ferrian had dismissed all of the Griks, just in case. The castle was near enough to completion, bar a few finishing touches. If it was going to end up as a smoking crater in the wake of a Fatalis, he didn¡¯t want any casualties going with it.


    He stopped at one end of the foyer, rubbing his face with his hands in frustration. What was more important: stopping a scourge of demon-wraiths, or staying here and protecting a morbidly depressed sorcerer from himself?


    Why was everything so complicated?!


    ¡°You are regretting your offer to help us,¡± Luca remarked frankly, causing Ferrian to look up. Shaking his head, he walked over to the Centaur. ¡°It¡¯s just that¡­¡± he waved his hands hopelessly, ¡°everyone expects me to do¡­ well, everything!¡± He sighed. ¡°I¡¯m not a king! I¡¯m not a ruler of anything! I don¡¯t know how to make decisions that will almost certainly result in somebody dying!¡±


    Luca looked at him sympathetically. ¡°I do not envy you,¡± he said quietly. ¡°But you are not obliged to return with us. It is not too late to change your mind.¡±


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Ferrian stared at one of the staircases bleakly. He didn¡¯t really have a choice at all, he realised. He had decided to come here and regain his power in order to find a cure for trigon. He could have stayed in Forthwhite and lived a normal life, free of magic, just as he had always longed for. Requar had given him that opportunity. Requar had given him all that he had ever wanted.


    But he had abandoned that gift, instead making a deliberate decision to follow in his adoptive father¡¯s footsteps. And found that he was encountering all of the same problems, all over again.


    Requar would have been horrified. It was the very thing he had feared the most, the thing he had tried so hard to protect Ferrian from.


    Ferrian closed his eyes. But he could not simply refuse to help fight the demon-wraiths. To do so would be to turn his back on everything he had worked so hard to achieve. He desperately did not want his friends to die, Arzath included, nor anyone else to end up like poor Hawk and Carmine.


    He remembered the encounter with the old Dragons, on the Arlen Plains four years ago, just before the fight with the black monster over Forthwhite. They had insisted that Ferrian destroy it: that he was the only one who could. He had railed against them, tried to walk away, but the White Dragon had forced him to confront it.


    Now, he had to force himself to confront his fears. He was the only person alive with the power to truly stop the wraiths.


    And he had learned not to walk away. Not ever again.


    My Winter has been replaced with a different kind of curse, he thought sardonically.


    The curse of being a hero¡­


    Opening his eyes, he turned to Luca and held the other¡¯s gaze. ¡°I hold to my word.¡±


    The Centaur nodded, and smiled gratefully.


    There was sudden movement on the balcony above, and they both looked up as Lady Araynia appeared.


    She descended the white staircase slowly, dressed in the fine clothes she had arrived in: a dark blue, wide-sleeved tunic embroidered with flowers, high, dark boots, and a thick, fur-trimmed cloak.


    Her hand ran along the bannister as she went, head bowed as though something troubled her.


    ¡°Good afternoon, my Lady,¡± Luca greeted as she finally reached them. ¡°Are you feeling well?¡±


    Araynia blinked as though she had only just noticed him. ¡°Oh,¡± she replied. ¡°Yes. Fine. Thank you.¡±


    Ferrian frowned. ¡°Are you sure? We have a long journey ahead. If you need more time...¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine!¡± she insisted. She swept past them to pick up her knapsack.


    And that was when Ferrian noticed something glitter as it fell free from her tunic.


    ¡°Your pendant!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°You got it back?¡±


    A look of fear flashed across her face. She clutched the pendant and turned away quickly.


    Ferrian moved to stand in front of her. ¡°Arzath gave it back to you?¡±


    She said nothing for a moment, stuffing the blue stone back inside her blouse. Then she took a deep breath. ¡°I¡­ made a mistake in coming here,¡± she said without looking at him. ¡°I should not have involved you in our problems...¡±


    Ferrian put his hands on his hips. ¡°I involved myself,¡± he replied.


    ¡°Please,¡± she looked up at him, blue eyes imploring. ¡°You need not come with us. You should stay here. You have¡­ other responsibilities.¡± Her eyes glimmered a little.


    Ferrian met her gaze flatly. ¡°He threatened you, didn¡¯t he?¡± Anger began to rise within him in a slow, icy wave. ¡°Did he hurt you again?!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± She shook her head quickly.


    ¡°But he gave the pendant back to you in exchange for convincing me not to go, is that it?¡±


    She looked down at her hands unhappily.


    Damn you, Arzath!


    Spinning on his heel, Ferrian strode determinedly forward and snatched up his pack. ¡°We¡¯re leaving,¡± he declared. ¡°Now.¡± He slung his bag over his shoulder in one movement, continuing towards the main doors.


    A sharp double knock froze all of them in their tracks, the sound echoing throughout the hall.


    Ferrian stared, dumbfounded, at the doors. Visitors? Again? Now?!


    As the knocking repeated a second time, he walked quickly to the entrance. He was preparing to send whoever it was away; he didn¡¯t have time for them, but as he opened the door, the words died on his lips in shock.


    ¡°Everine!¡± he gasped. ¡°Ben!¡± He blinked. ¡°Hawk!¡±


    They looked exhausted. Everine leaned on the wheelchair as though she had run all the way there, her face deeply flushed, her hair and clothing soaked in sweat. Ben rested wearily on the wall beside the doors.


    Ferrian had no idea how they had manoeuvred a wheelchair up the steep, rocky mountain path, and it didn¡¯t look like it had faired well, either: the wood was chipped and broken in places, and one metal wheel was warped.


    Its occupant, cloaked and hooded though he was, looked much the same as he had the last time Ferrian had seen him, about a year ago. The sight of Hawk again made his stomach drop and a prickly feeling run through him. He took a deep breath to steady himself.


    Without another word, he flung the doors open wide to let them through.


    Luca and Araynia retreated several steps in horror as Hawk was wheeled into the foyer amid a bright shaft of sunlight and long shadows. Ferrian glanced at his guests momentarily, but decided that the complicated explanations could wait.


    ¡°What¡¯s happened?¡± he asked his friends at once.


    Everine took a deep breath. ¡°Mekka,¡± she answered. ¡°He¡¯s been arrested.¡±


    ¡°Arrested? By whom?¡±


    ¡°A bunch of Angels calling themselves the Sky Legion,¡± Ben replied. ¡°I overheard them talking in Hawk¡¯s room, after they beat up Mekka.¡±


    Ferrian stared at him in disbelief. ¡°They beat up Mekka?!¡±


    Ben nodded sombrely.


    Ferrian shook his head, running his hand through his pale blond hair. He started pacing in front of them. ¡°After all this time?! Why now?¡±


    Everine looked at him gloomily. ¡°He is guilty, Ferrian.¡±


    He whirled, anger flaring in a small patch of frost that spread across the tiles. ¡°No!¡± He swiped his hand through the air. ¡°No, he is not! The trigonic dagger made him do all those terrible things! And I¡¯m the one who gave it to him in the first place!¡±


    Ferrian¡¯s hands clenched and unclenched. It wasn¡¯t fair! Mekka wasn¡¯t a bad person; he had been corrupted by something infinitely evil that he could not control. As had Requar. And Hawk. And Carmine. And General Dreikan, and all the black soldiers that had transformed into wraiths and overrun the Coastlands.


    The Angels didn¡¯t care. They wouldn¡¯t give him a fair trial, if they bothered with one at all. They would take him to Caer Sync and throw him into the Pit.


    And Mekka would damned well let them do it!


    ¡°It¡¯s not going to happen,¡± he said furiously. ¡°Mekka is not going to die like this! Not after everything he¡¯s been through!¡±


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± Ben asked.


    Ferrian folded his arms, his silver eyes fierce. ¡°Bust into that Tower with a Dragon, if I have to!¡±


    Ben gave a whoop. ¡°Can I come?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Ferrian and Everine said at once. ¡°That goes for you too, Everine,¡± Ferrian added. He shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re all going to stay here. I¡¯ll have the best chance of rescuing Mekka if I do it alone.¡±


    They didn¡¯t bother to argue. Ben looked disappointed. Everine merely smiled thinly and nodded wearily.


    ¡°Go inside and sit down, get some rest and something to eat,¡± he told them, gesturing at the dining room.


    They did so, wheeling Hawk with them.


    Ferrian turned to Luca and Araynia, who were standing quietly off to one side, looking anxious.


    ¡°You must go and help your friend,¡± Araynia said softly as he reached them. ¡°We can manage.¡±


    Ferrian shook his head. ¡°You two should stay here as well. It¡¯s too dangerous to return to Crystaltina.¡±


    Despite his words, he felt conflicted. Asking anyone to stay at the castle with Arzath was a bad idea, but he was left with no other option. Still, they should be warned¡­


    ¡°Staying here is not completely safe, either,¡± he admitted. ¡°Lord Arzath is¡­ mentally unstable. You should keep as far away from him as possible. But you¡¯ll be okay if you don¡¯t provoke him and definitely don¡¯t believe anything he tries to tell you. He is fond of half-truths, and scaring people is basically what he does.¡±


    He carefully refrained from mentioning that the sorcerer could blow up the entire castle and everyone in it at any time, if he wanted to. They were spooked enough as it was.


    All that Ferrian could do was pray inwardly that Arzath would not completely lose his mind before he returned¡­


    The Centaur and the Lady looked uncertain. Araynia cast an uneasy glance across the hall.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about Hawk,¡± Ferrian assured her, with more confidence than he felt. ¡°I know he¡­ he looks like a monster, but his silvertine armour is preventing him from transforming into a wraith. Otherwise, he¡¯d be dead by now.¡± He gazed at the dining room door. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ trying to find a way to save him.¡±


    He took a deep breath. ¡°I¡­ need to go and talk to my Dragon,¡± he told them. ¡°I can¡¯t force you to stay here if you don¡¯t want to, but at least¡­ give it some thought.¡± He hesitated, about to turn away, then turned back. ¡°Oh. In case you need to leave this place in a hurry, there¡¯s a secret passage in the eastern stairwell, near the kitchens. It¡¯s pretty well hidden, but you¡¯ll find it if you search carefully.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t have time to show you. But if anything weird happens, or you feel threatened, don¡¯t hesitate to get out of here.¡±


    They were quiet for a moment, thinking over everything he had said. ¡°Thank you, Lord Ferrian, for your hospitality and help,¡± Luca said gratefully.


    Ferrian nodded, wincing at the honorific. Then he bid them both an awkward goodbye and left the hall.


    They watched him go in silence.

 Chapter One Seventeen

    In cell of white there lives the night


    In fury, dark consumes the light.


    The room was dark. Only the dimmest glow of starshine ventured reluctantly through the horizontal, barred opening that served as the only window to the outside world, and even then it was smothered by the ragged clouds moving restlessly across the night sky. The breeze had gathered itself into a strong wind as it raced across the plains, buffeting the Guard House compound with waves of dust from every direction, as though seeking a way through the strong white walls, as though searching for something¡­


    Deep within the shadows of the cell, an even darker figure paced in agitation, from wall to wall, like a caged animal stirred by the sound of the wind and shifting shades of gloom. She was far beyond sleep: her thoughts roiled in turmoil.


    Mekka had not come to see her this week.


    The black-winged Angel had never failed to visit her; not once in the entire four years of her imprisonment. Once a week, every week, he had come ¨C as regular as the sun rising and darkness falling. There was no apparent reason for his visits ¨C he rarely spoke to her; mostly just standing there outside the bars or sitting on a stool in the corner, watching her.


    She hadn¡¯t bothered speaking to him either, instead staring back with equal intensity. It had become a kind of game: who would lose their composure first, break the unbearable silence between them in irritation, anger, boredom or fear?


    Carmine¡¯s black-gauntleted hands clenched and unclenched as she strode, her long coat sweeping the room. But now, he had broken the rules of the game.


    He had caused her to crack.


    She had felt the moment when she had finally snapped, when the fragile bridge between her rational, calm self and the growing monstrosity inside her had failed. Rage had flooded into her with the force of a dam breaking, sweeping away the last vestiges of the person she had been, the woman who had fought futilely against the blackness that wore her, and was consuming her.


    She gave in to it. The trigon had seized her body: now it had her mind.


    Completely.


    Anger and despair coiled off her like dark mist, surging through her in waves of burning hot and icy cold, throwing her emotions into wild disarray.


    How DARE Mekka abandon her, leave her alone in this dark, stinking hole? How dare he take away the only thing she looked forward to amongst the endless, dreary, tortured days, the hours spent suffocating inside these white walls?!


    Her grey eyes burned in the darkness. Had he given up on her? Decided that she wasn¡¯t worth the effort any longer? Without him, no one else would bother to come and see her. The Freeroamer guards had stopped bringing her trays of food a long time ago; she never touched them. She would be forgotten about, left down here to rot and die, to turn into a wraith¡­


    Tears streamed down her face, though her jaws were clenched in fury. Whirling suddenly, she backhanded everything off the dresser beside her. Then she stormed across the room and tore all of the books out of the bookcase, ripping their pages into pieces. She threw the covers off her bed and kicked at the furniture, destroying everything she could lay her hands on. When she had thoroughly trashed her room, she screamed, her fury still not sated.


    In her madness, she spun and slammed her fist into the solid stone wall.


    Pain exploded through her arm.


    Reeling, she clutched at her arm, momentarily breathless. But the pain only seemed to fuel her fury, not douse it.


    With another scream, she smashed her hand into the wall once more.


    Something cracked. More pain, ripping through her arm and body, sending a throbbing red mist over her vision. She thought her fingers might be broken, but wasn¡¯t sure. The trigonic gauntlets were indestructible, but the bones of her hand within them were not. If there were bones there still. She no longer knew where the trigon ended and her flesh and blood began.


    If there was any difference¡­


    Sobbing with agony, she leaned on the wall, resting her temple on the cold stone, her fury momentarily subsided to a quiver in her gut. And that was when she noticed something.


    A momentary glow of starlight revealed it; faint, almost indistinguishable on the pale stone.


    It was a jagged line.


    A slender fissure that hadn¡¯t been there before.


    Reaching out, she touched it gingerly with trembling, injured fingers, her hand like a sleek black spider on the wall.


    The snapping sound had not been her bones.


    It was the stone!


    Pushing herself away from the wall, she stood staring at the spot for a long moment, listening to the wind moan expectantly through the watchtowers outside. The starlight disappeared again, plunging the cell into deepest darkness.


    Carmine lifted her aching hand, balled it into a fist once more, and punched the wall. This time, she ignored the wave of agony, and punched it again. Something broke free and rattled onto the floor.


    She punched it again.


    And again.


    And again.


    The Guard House hunkered quietly beneath the gusting night wind. Whirlwinds of dust danced gleefully across the training ground; horses in their stable stirred uneasily, ears pricked; guards clad in black and blue remained alert on the watchtowers, patrolling the walls with small crossbows. The main gates, made of thick, hardened oak reinforced with iron, were firmly closed and locked with heavy bolts, torches either side flickering wildly.


    Gone was the rickety, ancient mansion that had once served as the headquarters of the Outland law enforcement group known as the Freeroamers. It had burnt to the ground, along with most of the hilltop, four years ago when first a Dragon, then something far worse than a Dragon had laid claim to the town, and briefly made Forthwhite its despicable lair.


    The summit of the hill had been cleared of the ruins and all vegetation, and a proper, fortified structure built in its place. The main house had been reconstructed similarly to the old mansion, with wide verandahs and a belltower, and the prison cells in the cellar; though it was far more sturdy, and joined by a large barracks wing to the east and stables to the west. The whole complex was surrounded by a twenty foot high white stone wall topped with iron spikes, with a watchtower at each corner. Two huge harpoon guns sat on the walls in the event of an attack by Dragons, though they had never been used.


    The huge winged creatures had all but vanished after escaping their thousand-year imprisonment on the Middle Isle. One had resettled in Ashen Cove, causing a great deal of chaos and trading difficulties with Sel Varence, but the others had not been seen since.


    The Freeroamers¡¯ old adversaries the Bladeshifters had also not made a reappearance, seemingly disbanded after their leader was slain.


    All in all, a strange sort of peace had settled over the Outlands; but it was an uneasy peace, shadowed with dread.


    Terrible things stalked the land on the other side of the Barlakk Mountains, wraiths that no ordinary weapons could strike down, creatures that could snatch a person¡¯s soul away with a mere touch.


    But the Freeroamers were prepared for those, too: the bolts set in each of the guards¡¯ weapons gleamed with unusual brightness in the dark.


    Silvertine. The Angelic substance had cost the Freeroamers dearly to acquire, but it had been necessary: the safety of their town and the nature of the prisoner they held depended on it.


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    The alarm bell, when it finally rang, was seized by the wind and the sound scattered in all directions, so that it was not immediately heard by all in the compound. The first couple of tolls went unheard, until a guard on the walls paused and looked up.


    Seeing the great bell swinging in its tower, hearing its ominous boom roll over her, she leaped down the stairs and raced across the courtyard. She was met by a second guard, and after a hasty exchange of words, the first watchwoman sprinted for the main house.


    Behind her, the warning was taken up by her fellow Freeroamers.


    Commander Cairan woke instinctively before the sound of the alarm bell or the urgent knocking on his chamber door reached him. In the space of a double heartbeat he was on his feet, snatching up a huge longbow and quiver from beside his mattress. His partner Raemint rose almost in the same instant, throwing on a sleeveless shirt in the dark and grabbing her spear, right on his heels as he burst out into the shadowed corridor.


    The young guardswoman was breathless. ¡°The prisoner,¡± she gasped.


    Cairan needed no further information. They only had one prisoner. Without a word, he galloped down the hallway, Raemint close behind him, their hooves clattering loudly on the dusty wooden floorboards. Charging around a corner and through the entrance lobby and main doors, they leapt the stairs down to the courtyard in a single bound, coming to a halt in the middle of the yard in a cloud of dust.


    Freeroamers ran about every which way, torches and lanterns blazing in every corner, shadows and shouts scattered frantically around the yard, the bell still tolling above the wind.


    A Constable ran over to the two Centaurs. ¡°Carmine has escaped, Sir!¡±


    ¡°How?¡± Cairan demanded.


    ¡°Right through the wall of her cell, Sir!¡±


    Cairan stared at him in disbelief. ¡°The wall? It is three feet of solid stone!¡±


    The Constable shook his head. ¡°Not any more, Sir!¡±


    Cairan cursed in his native tongue.


    An older Freeroamer Sergeant rushed up to them. ¡°We¡¯ve found two dead, Sir,¡± he reported grimly.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Kitt the gaoler, and old Granchy by the gatehouse.¡±


    ¡°Open the gates!¡± Cairan ordered. He shook his head, the long braids of his hair tussled by the wind. ¡°She will not be here still. If she wished us dead, she could have slain us all as we slept. She has gone over the wall!¡±


    He grabbed the Sergeant as the man turned away. ¡°Assemble the crossbow team,¡± he added. ¡°You know what to do. You have trained for this. And fetch¨C¡± he paused. ¡°Never mind.¡±


    ¡°¡­ the bloody hell is goin¡¯ on?! Wakin¡¯ everyone up in the middle o¡¯ the night!¡±


    A stocky figure, clearly in a grumpy mood, approached from across the courtyard, attempting to hold a large floppy hat on his head. He stopped as he caught sight of Cairan¡¯s dark expression, bare, muscular, black-skinned chest and the great longbow gripped in his hand.


    The blood seemed to drain out of the man¡¯s face. ¡°Oh, bloody hell,¡± he muttered.


    Cairan placed a hand on Flint¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I hoped it would not come to this,¡± he sighed unhappily.


    Flint did not reply, just stood watching as the gates opened. Cairan turned to Raemint and exchanged a brief nod. Taking a torch from the Constable, she gripped her spear firmly and charged out into the night, quickly disappearing into the clouds of dust.


    Six Freeroamers, cloaked, hooded and armed with small crossbows followed on foot at a more wary pace, their weapons raised, until they too were obscured in the darkness.


    Wordlessly, Starshadow Flint unhitched his own weapon from his back, hefting it around in a great, gleaming sweep in front of him.


    It was a crossbow, but unlike any other. It was massive: more like a small ballista.


    And it was made completely of silvertine, shining in the starlight like a glorious siege weapon of the Gods.


    With a sigh of regret, Flint pulled his hat firmly down on his head, took up the Eliminator, and started after the others.


    The coins clinked as they were stacked into neat little piles; triangular jade javens, silver trevens, and round golden grubles. They glittered in the candlelight.


    Valeran, the innkeeper of the Hungry Deer Inn, pursed his lips as he finished counting them. It was a pity there were no royals, but there was certainly enough money here to start up a new business somewhere else.


    Anywhere but Forthwhite.


    He found himself wishing ruefully that he had moved to settle in Skywater, along with his old friend, the former Commander of the Freeroamers, Grisket Trice, and his ex-competitor Middry. He supposed it would be difficult to compete with the Grik brewery, but perhaps he could try his hand at a different profession. Fishing, maybe. Anything, frankly.


    With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak loudly in protest under his considerable weight. Outside the kitchen windows, the wind howled eerily, like a lost animal, and trees thrashed blossom-heavy branches against the diamond-shaped panes, plastering petals to the glass. Inside the inn, however, was emptiness, stillness and silence.


    And him.


    Nothing moved save a few flickering lanterns in the common room and kitchen. They were all gone. His customers, friends, workers, and guests. And thankfully, that abomination they¡¯d been hiding upstairs.


    But it was too late. Forthwhite was abandoned, the community broken, trust in the Freeroamers shattered. They were keeping something up at the Guard House, too, most likely another monster. Valeran had no idea why. Look at what it had cost them! The whole town had left!


    He scowled down at the money on the table. Everine had paid him well to keep his mouth shut, and he had, dutifully. But enough was enough. There was no point staying in this godsforsaken town any longer.


    He rubbed at this tired eyes, glancing blearily at the piece of paper sitting on the table beside the empty money pouch. Everine, her brother, the Angel, and that horrific freak they were protecting had all up and left without warning. Valeran had returned from visiting his elderly mother in a hamlet to the south, to find his inn completely deserted, the doors unlocked even! And one of the upstairs rooms slashed to pieces, as though a fight had taken place in there! Everine had been vague about their reasons for leaving, saying only that they had gone to seek the help of Ferrian in the Sorcerer¡¯s Valley to the north.


    Good, Valeran thought bitterly, grabbing a bunch of coins and stuffing them back in the sack. Let that blasted silver-eyed boy be burdened with wraiths and horrors and whatnot!


    He was still chagrined that Grisket had lied to him all those years ago; assuring him the kid was not a sorcerer when in fact, he was; or at least, he certainly was now. There were rumours that the Winter kid was rebuilding the School of Magical Studies in the mountains. Valeran found the idea preposterous. He despised magic: it had been outlawed for good reason! He would gladly move somewhere as far away as possible ¨C even wet, swampy Enopina a thousand miles across the ocean ¨C if sorcerers started wandering the land again¡­


    A couple of coins escaped his grasp, bouncing onto the floor with a clatter. Muttering irritably, the portly innkeeper pushed himself away from the kitchen table and got down on his knees, reaching under the table to fetch the runaway money.


    And that was when he saw the legs.


    They were clad in black armour of a sort he had never seen before; sleek and evil-looking. The orange-trimmed hem of a long coat brushed the ankles.


    Valeran froze. For a couple of seconds, he seriously considered staying where he was, holding his breath, hoping that the intruder hadn¡¯t seen him. But a moment later, he realised how unlikely that was, and how vulnerable he was if they decided to attack him.


    Perhaps they will just take the money and go? he thought desperately, breaking out into a sweat.


    Very slowly, heart pounding, he crept out from under the table and rose to his feet.


    Standing before him, at the end of the table was a woman. Red hair, bright as blood, fell about her shoulders, framing a pale face that would have been beautiful save for the deathly pallor and steel grey eyes pinning him in place. She was clad in armour so black it stood out from everything else in the room, drawing his eyes to it. Light reflected off it here and there in odd ways that were inconsistent with the candle¡¯s warm, dancing flame. Over the armour, she wore a long beige and orange army coat that was slightly too big for her.


    But most horrifying of all was the place where the armour met her neck; the black metal did not stop there but travelled seamlessly up her throat, tapering into dark veins that climbed the sides of her face.


    Valeran could do nothing but stare. He did not dare to move, to breathe, or even blink.


    ¡°Where are they?¡± she asked quietly. Her voice sounded relatively normal, at odds with her frightening visage.


    Valeran couldn¡¯t make his own vocal chords work.


    ¡°Mekka,¡± she demanded, eyes hardening. ¡°Hawk. Where. Are. They?¡±


    Valeran¡¯s gaze flickered involuntarily to the letter on the table. The woman noticed. She reached down and picked it up.


    She stood for a long moment, reading it.


    With her attention away from him, Valeran took the opportunity to back away, slowly, carefully.


    The woman ¨C or whatever she was ¨C continued staring at the letter.


    He made it to the open doorway to the common room, not taking his eyes off her. She seemed to have lost interest in him. He rounded the corner, setting his back against the wall, chest heaving as he struggled to keep his breathing under control. Sweat trickled down his face and neck. He was still clutching the coins he¡¯d picked up from the floor: he stuffed them as quietly as possible into his pockets.


    Desperately, he looked around the common room. There was no way out from here apart from the main entrance, opposite him. Several tables and a multitude of chairs and benches stood between him and the door.


    He weighed his chances of making it there. He was not exactly fast on his feet. But the obstacles might slow her down, as well¡­


    He paused for a moment, listening. There was no sound from within the kitchen behind him.


    No sound at all.


    The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.


    Feeling panic building, he pushed himself off the wall and ran madly for the door, knocking chairs aside in his haste. Reaching it, he threw himself on the handle.


    It was locked.


    He swore. He had forgotten that he always locked the inn at night.


    He spun to look behind him, and his eyes widened in terror.


    The kitchen was black. Completely black, as though the whole room beyond the doorway had been swallowed up in a void.


    Turning back to the door, he rummaged in his pockets frantically, searching for the keyring. He threw out the coins, a handkerchief, a match tin¡­


    He risked a glance over his shoulder. The blackness was spreading into the common room, now, creeping along the walls, engulfing the bar, like a vast flood of ink. The lanterns went out, one by one.


    Trembling violently, he wrenched the keys out of his pocket and fumbled with them, trying to find the correct one.


    I¡¯m going to die! he thought.


    He slammed the key into the lock and turned it, then yanked at the door¡­


    ¡­ just as a strong gust of wind caught it, flinging it inwards with great force, causing Valeran to stumble backwards¡­


    A hand on his back caught him.


    A hand on his back!


    Darkness overtook him, mingling with the inrushing night. He tried to fling himself away from the hand, but found he couldn¡¯t move.


    Suddenly, he was paralysed, icy coldness washing through him, seizing his limbs, his lungs, his heart. He tried to scream, but had no voice.


    And then came the pain, an awful wrenching agony that felt as though every part of him was being torn out at once. Briefly, he felt dislocated, loose, as though his mind floated free of his body¡­ and then¡­


    Then the night flowed freely through the Hungry Deer Inn, the common room deserted, front door banging mournfully on its hinges.

 Chapter One Eighteen

    The hunt begins for red-haired ghost


    While grief scars deep the castle¡¯s host.


    The torch blazed in the darkness, the bright flame twisting and turning in the restless wind, sparks streaming off into the night. Behind it, illuminated by fire was a dark, determined face, eyes sharp, black hide sleek, hooves loud on the cobblestones. Lieutenant-Commander Raemint strode boldly in the centre of the steeply-sloping road, spear in hand, a fearless challenge to anything that lurked in the shadows of her town.


    Beside her walked Starshadow Flint ¨C once Bladeshifter, now Freeroamer ¨C large hat flapping in the wind, mighty crossbow loaded and glinting like militarised starlight.


    It was an impressive weapon, for sure, but Flint had never fired the Eliminator ¨C it was made for a very specific purpose:


    To kill demon-wraiths.


    Actually, he had designed it ¨C reluctantly but pragmatically ¨C to put an end to one demon-wraith, in particular.


    Flint didn¡¯t expect to use it this night, however. The chances of finding Carmine Vandaris in the darkness and wind were next to nothing. She was trained in stealth and half a wraith, and clad in pitch-black armour to boot. Likely, the woman had fled as far as she could and was long gone by now.


    But none of them were taking any chances.


    The rest of the crossbow team had spread out through the town, dark shadows amongst the pale stone buildings. Bone-white houses rose up all around them, their windows dark; the ghosts of dead homes, with weed-filled gardens and carts left to rust beside the road. Here and there a few chickens roosted beneath the bushes, and feral cats watched warily from rooftops and alleys, their eyes tiny round coins in the light of Raemint¡¯s torch. One or two gardens were still maintained, buildings that remained inhabited ¨C those fiercely loyal to the Freeroamers, or just too stubborn to leave.


    This town ain¡¯t done for yet, Flint thought determinedly.


    They reached the bottom of the hill without incident, or encountering any more corpses.


    The Hungry Deer Inn sat on the very edge of the town, the last building before the plains, alone in a shady grove of ancient oaks and flowering cherry trees. Not far away was a huge, scarred patch of ground upon which nothing would grow, the dirt charred permanently black.


    It was the spot where Lord Requar had died.


    The mark was caused by his failed Fatalis spell. But the sorcerer had ultimately succeeded in taking his own life in order to save Ferrian.


    Flint didn¡¯t like looking at that spot. He had spent a long time trying to come to terms with what had happened here, and the events leading up to it. After all, it had been one of Flint¡¯s crossbow bolts, inscribed with Requar¡¯s name, that had caused the sorcerer to lose his mind. In an instant, he had undone Arzath¡¯s carefully constructed lie, the falsehood that had kept Requar sane and alive ¨C for a short while, at least.


    That ruined patch of ground would not allow Flint to forget.


    Fortunately, it was now invisible in the dust and darkness.


    Raemint paused, keen eyes watching for anything that moved in the night. After a moment, she leaned down and extinguished her torch on the road. Then she moved to the right, a sleek dark equine shape heading for the looming bulk of the inn. Furtive figures moved into position amongst the bushes surrounding the large, two-storey building.


    Flint followed the Centaur cautiously.


    It was dark at the back of the inn, almost impossible to see anything, or hear anything either in the rush of wind. Somehow, Raemint made her way forward stealthily; Flint was forced to grope his way with unbearable slowness along a row of empty beer barrels, trying ¨C largely unsuccessfully ¨C not to bump his oversized crossbow on every single unseen obstacle in his path. He gritted his teeth. He hated creeping around in the dark, it made him nervous. He preferred a target he could see clearly. Demon-wraiths made his skin crawl and his stomach twist into knots, and that was just the thought of them. If he didn¡¯t have his wits about him, he could be dead before he even realised what had happened.


    They arrived at the dim oblong shape of the back door and stood still for a few moments, listening.


    There was little to be heard save a distant banging, like a shutter or door being jostled by the wind. Somehow, that sound punctuated the silence, making them uneasy.


    If there¡¯s any chance Carmine¡¯s still hangin¡¯ around town, Flint thought darkly, it¡¯ll be here.


    There was a clink as Raemint took an outside lantern off its hook, and a bright flare as she lit it. Then she took hold of the door handle and tried it.


    The door swung inwards silently.


    They both stood peering in. Nothing appeared to be in disarray in the shadowy kitchen. Pots and utensils hung gleaming dully from hooks; herbs and cured meat from the rafters. Dishes were stacked neatly near the sink. No lights or ovens were lit. A few coins glinted on a large wooden table in the centre of the room, spilling out of a sizable money sack. One of the chairs was pulled out from the table, as though someone had been sitting there recently, probably counting the money.


    Raemint went inside, leading with her silvertine spear.


    They passed quietly through the kitchen, entering the common room. The source of the banging sound became apparent ¨C the front door was wide open, creaking slightly on its hinges. A strong, cold draught blew through the room. Some of the furniture here had been overturned, but there was no one to be seen.


    Raemint continued forward, winding about the tables. Flint moved away to the left, first checking behind the bar, then fixing his eyes and weapon upon the staircase at the far side of the room.


    ¡°Flint!¡± Raemint hissed suddenly, her voice low and urgent.


    He turned at once to see her kneeling beside something on the floor, in front of the main entrance. He moved quickly, giant crossbow still trained on the stairs, until he could see what she was looking at.


    A body lay face down on the floor.


    Valeran, the innkeeper.


    ¡°Deceased,¡± Raemint whispered. ¡°No wounds. No blood...¡±


    Strong-willed though she was, Flint saw the Centaur shudder involuntarily and take a step back. She had mentioned before that she could not track trigon the same way she could follow a trail of magic ¨C the foul black substance was essentially invisible to her senses unless in close proximity.


    But, Flint thought morbidly, he supposed they didn¡¯t need to be able to sense trigon in order to locate Carmine Vandaris.


    They could just follow the trail of corpses¡­


    With that gruesome thought in mind, Flint turned his attention back to the staircase. He didn¡¯t want to know what was lying in wait for him up there¡­ but he had to find out.


    Walking over to the stairs, he started up, wincing as the floorboards creaked. The Eliminator filled the entirety of the narrow stairwell, so that he had to angle it awkwardly to proceed. He focused it squarely on the upstairs landing.


    If anything leapt out of the shadows at him, it was getting a silvertine bolt in the face¡­


    At the top of the stairs, he paused for a rapid heartbeat, then surged into the corridor, sweeping his crossbow down the hallway.


    Nothing.


    He checked all of the upstairs rooms, kicking in the doors.


    All dark. All empty.


    Mekka and the others had escaped¡­ or were gone before Carmine arrived.


    Feeling some of the tension ease out of him in relief, Flint headed back down the stairs. He joined Raemint out the front of the inn, staring at the hidden plains beyond, the trees around them whispering to each other like witnesses in the darkness.


    They both shared the same dismal, unspoken thought.


    Carmine had escaped.


    And they had no idea where she had gone.


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    * * *


    The long dining table gleamed in the warm light of a fire blazing in the huge hearth at the end of the hall. Around it, colourful hanging drapes and banners softened the white walls, many bearing the rising sun emblem of Castle Whiteshadow. The tall windows along one wall were dark, speckled with glittering droplets from a returning mass of rainclouds.


    Upon the table lay the remains of a hearty meal, but only two people sat there.


    Lady Araynia picked at her food, even though Luca¡¯s cooking was delicious. Opposite her, the boy Ben devoured his with enthusiasm: he was on his third helping already. The comatose¡­ man the strangers had brought with them sat limply and creepily in his battered wheelchair off to one side, near the windows. Over by the kitchen, Everine slouched against the door frame, a glass of red wine in hand, pretty blue eyes on Luca, who was preparing dessert for them out of view.


    Araynia turned her attention back to her neglected meal in irritation. Everything about the blonde woman annoyed her ¨C from her blunt manner of speech, to her inappropriate clothing, to the way she had just barged into the castle and sent Ferrian running off to do her bidding¡­


    She sighed. She knew the last accusation was a bit selfish ¨C if one of Ferrian¡¯s friends was in trouble, of course he should go and help, but¡­ Everine just rubbed her the wrong way. The woman had barely said two words to her since arriving, other than her own name and a curt hello. She had spent the whole time instead chatting up Luca.


    Noticing her expression, Ben glanced over to his sister, then back at her, rolling his eyes. ¡°She flirts with practically every guy she meets,¡± he said, shrugging. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡±


    When Araynia¡¯s look didn¡¯t change, he finished chewing and set down his fork. ¡°She¡¯s worried about Mekka,¡± he told her quietly. ¡°This is her way of distracting herself.¡±


    By hitting on my servant? Araynia thought in annoyance, stabbing her fork into a finely braised root vegetable.


    She was starting to regret her decision to stay at the castle. Ferrian was right, of course; it was foolish to return to Crystaltina, and there was nothing she could hope to accomplish there other than finding out if anyone was still alive.


    But they could have chosen to stay somewhere else: one of the Outland towns, perhaps?


    She leaned her head on her hand, pushing her uneaten food about her plate, feeling miserable.


    Ferrian had left already, soaring away over the valley on a magnificent white Dragon. It was the most astonishing thing that Araynia had ever seen. She had never imagined that Dragons could be tamed or have an affinity with Humans, let alone allow themselves to be ridden, but this one seemed to have formed a bond with the young sorcerer. Araynia had always believed that Dragons were nothing more than deadly, angry, fire-breathing beasts penned up on an island because they had come close to destroying civilisation.


    She had never seen anything so beautiful.


    Tears rose in her eyes, and she blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of strangers. Ferrian and the Dragon made her feel small and insignificant, childish for seeking help at this castle. The sorcerers here were burdened with worries and responsibilities far greater than her own. She was merely a stupid and ignorant girl, spending all of her days in sheltered luxury at her family¡¯s crystal-walled mansion, never travelling further than neighbouring Sunsee until she was forced to flee for her life¡­


    Her despair must have shown on her face, for Ben was staring at her.


    ¡°Are you and Luca¡­ together?¡± he asked honestly.


    Taken aback by the unexpected question, she felt her face grow immediately hot. ¡°What? Oh¡­ no!¡± She shook her head quickly. ¡°No. He is my servant. It would¡­ not be appropriate¡­¡±


    Ben shrugged. ¡°Why not?¡±


    She opened her mouth to reply, then realised she had no answer to that. She looked over at Everine again. The woman was at least ten years older than she was, more attractive, more knowledgeable about¡­ everything¡­


    Her blush deepened. Am I just jealous?


    Taking a deep breath, she changed the subject. ¡°She doesn¡¯t like me,¡± she stated flatly.


    Ben reached across to the fruit bowl, plucking out an apple. ¡°You¡¯re noble born,¡± he pointed out, as though that explained everything.


    Great, Araynia thought, slumping back in her chair.


    Ben gazed down at the apple in his hand, turning it around in his fingers. Then he placed it down carefully on the table top, his young expression becoming serious. ¡°My sister hasn¡¯t exactly had great experiences with nobility,¡± he explained softly. ¡°After our parents died, she had to look after me all by herself. We didn¡¯t have any money, only our little ship, the Blueflower, that father had given her, and she refused to sell that. So we left Enopina and sailed across the ocean to Daroria, where she took up work for a while in wealthy households, as a servant.


    ¡°Eventually, she managed to save enough money to start up her own shop in Selvar, and quit being a servant. She became a merchant and sea-trader instead.


    ¡°It was great, for awhile; we were pretty happy and doing well. But Everine earned a lot of prestige and respect amongst the nobility, and they started asking her to do illegal stuff for them, like smuggling.¡±


    Ben shook his head. ¡°She couldn¡¯t really say no. Duke Rufus isn¡¯t the kind of guy you say no to if you want your head to stay on your shoulders. She didn¡¯t need the money any more, but she was worried about me and did what the nobles asked.¡±


    Ben played with the apple, looking troubled. ¡°We almost got caught a few times, and Everine got on the wrong side of some bad people ¨C criminals who don¡¯t like competition. Once, we were nearly boarded by pirates, but we got away. I¡¯m pretty sure some of them are still looking for her; that¡¯s why we decided to lay low in the Outlands for awhile.¡± He shrugged again, and smiled slightly. ¡°Well, that, and she has a thing for Mekka.¡± He sighed. ¡°We both miss the sea, though.¡±


    He fell silent, and Araynia bit her lip, glancing at the other woman with new understanding. She couldn¡¯t imagine living a life filled with such danger and hardship.


    She looked down at her own hands; smooth and brown and dainty, feeling oddly guilty. She had always had everything she needed simply given to her whenever she asked¡­ except, that is, what she actually wanted¡­


    She swallowed. ¡°I always wished to be a nurse,¡± she admitted quietly. ¡°Like my grandmother.¡± She stared up at the windows, watching the rain patter and streak across the glass, blown by the wind. ¡°But my mother didn¡¯t approve. She considered it a peasant¡¯s vocation, dirty and common. There is nothing glamorous about caring for ill people.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°She wanted me to behave more like my older sisters; spending time courting rich suitors and gaining favours from those in power.¡± She closed her eyes. ¡°I have no interest in such things. I wish to be useful to society, to make a difference ¨C not float around in lovely dresses going to dinner parties and balls.¡±


    She brushed away a stray tear. ¡°The night I fled my home, I stayed up late in the parlour, reading an old medical book that had belonged to my grandmother. I dared only read it once everyone else had gone to bed, or else my mother would have confiscated it. Luca was the only other person awake, baking bread for next morning in the kitchen.¡±


    She took a deep, shaky breath. ¡°Then, all of a sudden, he came bounding into the room, grabbing me out of my seat, telling me that we had to go, now. He threw my cloak over me and made me put my boots on right then.


    ¡°I did not know what was happening, too frightened to think of doing anything but letting him pull me through the house and out the front door.


    ¡°As we ran out into the yard, I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of something¡­ black filling the whole house. Darkness deeper than the night sky. And¡­¡± she wavered, but went on, ¡°something else lurked in the shadows. Something grey and flowing, like smoke. It poured over the furniture and around corners and underneath the doors. Shapes formed in it ¨C Human limbs and¡­ faces¡­¡±


    She stopped, shuddering. ¡°I¡­ felt as though I would be sick, but Luca kept me from collapsing.


    ¡°And then¡­ we were running frantically through the streets.


    ¡°We kept encountering walls of black darkness, turning us aside, forcing us to find another way. We were desperate. There were wraiths all around us, consuming the houses, filling the roads and alleyways and even the sky¡­¡±


    She paused, pulling the pendant out of her shirt. ¡°But¡­ then I noticed that my pendant was glowing bright blue, and somehow, we managed to find a way through the patches of darkness. We made it out of the city.¡± She stared at the clear blue stone forlornly. ¡°I assumed that the pendant was protecting us, in some way guiding us to safety. I do not know why the magic suddenly came to life, at that time and place, as we feared for our lives. And¨C¡± she hesitated. ¡°Afterwards, as we were travelling through the countryside, I had strange dreams. Dreams of a tall, pale man with long hair flowing like mist. He did not speak, and I could not make him out very well. He was hazy, like a ghost, hardly even there. But still, I felt that the man was guiding me, somehow. When I woke, I¡­ just knew the direction we needed to go to reach this castle.¡±


    She looked up at Ben. ¡°That was why I thought that Lord Requar was still alive. But I was mistaken. They were nothing but dreams, born of imagination and wishful thinking and fading magic, and our escape from the city merely luck.¡±


    She fell silent, closing her eyes once more.


    In the sombre hush that followed, Everine gave a tinkling laugh. Ben shot her a fierce glare.


    The blonde-haired woman caught her brother¡¯s look, and her smile faded. With a huff, she flounced over to the chair beside the fire, plonking herself down and sipping her wine.


    A minute later, Luca emerged from the kitchen bearing a steaming dish of rice pudding.


    It was so good that for awhile at least, it commanded everyone¡¯s attention, and all disheartening thoughts slunk from the room.


    In a distant part of the castle, at the top of one of the new black towers, Lord Arzath stood at his chamber window. His room was richly appointed in crimson and gold, but the colours were muted now in darkness. No candles or lanterns were lit; the hearth was lifeless.


    A deep chill filled the room; a penetrating coldness that no amount of velvet drapery could soften.


    There was nothing to be seen before his eyes, either: the view was hidden in all-encompassing shadow. Heavy clouds smothered the feeble light of stars, and the moon was new ¨C that dark phase in which the everlasting orb was reduced to a mere sliver of its usual self.


    Though he could not see the valley, he knew it so well that it was visible in his mind¡¯s eye as clearly as if he beheld it in broad daylight. The bluff directly opposite him, on the western side of the valley, had once held his own magnificent, multi-spired ebony keep. Now, almost nothing remained of it save a few weed-choked blocks and the Muron¡¯s eerie, abandoned tower. The mountain rock beneath the ruin was a labyrinth of dungeons and secret passageways, but he no longer had any use for them.


    It was all part of another world, a distant era, built by a version of himself that had ceased to exist.


    He didn¡¯t know who he was any more.


    Once, he had been a mighty sorcerer, filled with fire and burning energy, basking in the bright hatred that had sustained him over nearly two centuries of life. His single-minded obsession with destroying his brother had formed the blazing foundation upon which his entire character was built. Now, his fury had spent itself, dwindled into damp ashes that he could not, no matter how hard he tried, reignite.


    He was hollowed out, a Human-shaped shell of a creature. But the cavern inside him was not empty.


    It was filled with pain, a constant ache that neither lessened nor grew, but remained with him throughout the long, lonely days and nights. He felt ill with it, exhausted from the effort of simply moving around ¨C much as he had when he had been infected with trigon.


    But grief, it seemed, was an even more difficult ailment to cure.


    He gritted his teeth bitterly. Ferrian had mourned Requar¡¯s passing as well, but the boy had recovered, had picked himself up and moved on with his life.


    Why could he not do the same??


    Requar¡¯s death had ripped the world out from under him¡­ and he had been falling ever since.


    Finding a flickering remnant of the old anger, Arzath seized it, slamming his fist against the window. But he could not hold onto it, the rage slipping away like the rain trickling down the glass.


    Leaning forward, he rested his forehead on his closed fist, his long fingers biting hard into his palm, and tears spilt down his face, dripping off his chin onto the obsidian stone of the window sill.


    ¡°I have fulfilled my promise,¡± he whispered aloud. ¡°It is done.¡±


    Slowly, he lifted his head and moved back from the window, melting into the darkness as he walked towards the door of his chamber.


    He didn¡¯t bother to close it behind him.

 Chapter One Nineteen

    Cryptic dreams, a haunted call


    Deathly near a second downfall.


    The dream started the same way it had on several previous occasions. Araynia woke from a series of fitful, disturbing visions to find herself floating suddenly in the middle of a lake.


    The lake was vast, and silvery-blue, stretching out in every direction as far as she could see. Small waves lapped at her, rippling across the surface from a gentle breeze that washed over her skin; a cool, reassuring touch. She felt calm and serene, her thoughts soothed and focused on the pleasant sensations. Memories and worries were distant, forgotten.


    Light sparkled across the surface of the water, but from what source she could not tell. There was no sun. Above her was an expanse of soft blue, slightly hazy with mist. But it did not appear to be the sky ¨C there was a shifting pattern of light up there, like water reflecting off a high ceiling.


    She gazed up at it, mildly curious, but not concerned. This place was wonderful. She wished that she could float here forever.


    After awhile, she became aware that she was not alone.


    She floated a few moments more, then sat up, on the surface of the water. Except that it was no longer water, but had become a smooth silver floor, reflective like a mirror. She ran her hand over it, looking down at her own image. Whoever it was that shared this place with her was approaching, she knew. She had seen him before, and he was not dangerous.


    She waited, patiently.


    He appeared soundlessly, as a thickening of the mist in one direction which resolved itself gradually into the form of a tall man. He walked towards her with ghostly footsteps that made no noise or reflection on the silver floor. She could make out no definite details other than his elegant limbs, vague suggestion of clothing and long, waist-length hair that flowed out from him like tendrils of mist. He glowed faintly, like sunlight through fog, and the only features of his face were his eyes, which were like blue holes¡­


    His eyes!


    Apprehension fluttered through her. She had not seen his eyes before, and something about them scared her, caused the calm atmosphere to waver¡­


    Getting to her feet, she took a step backwards.


    He stopped and stared at her with those blank eyes, like chips of sky.


    Something is different, she thought. This dream is not like the others¡­


    She had believed he meant her no harm, but now was beginning to doubt. This place was so quiet and peaceful that she could not imagine anything bad happening here, and yet¡­ she sensed something dark pressing on the edge of her consciousness, a kind of urgency¡­


    She looked around quickly, but no shadows penetrated the smooth floor or blue ceiling. No one was here save herself and the ethereal man.


    Then she heard a sound ¨C a peculiar echoing whisper. It came from all around her, and she thought she could almost make out words, but couldn¡¯t understand them.


    The ghost in front of her shook his head slowly, the movement blurry, and he lowered his head, seemingly in sadness. The strange sound faded into silence. Then, after a few moments, he half-turned away from her, lifting one graceful arm and pointing.


    Araynia looked in that direction, but saw nothing: only the silver floor disappearing into blue mist.


    She shook her head in confusion. I don¡¯t understand!


    The ghost looked back at her, still with his arm raised, and the echoing sound came again. She realised suddenly that he was trying to speak to her. Desperately, she concentrated on the noise, attempting to discern any kind of meaning from it, but the words slipped away before she could quite catch them.


    I don¡¯t know what you are trying to tell me, she said hopelessly.


    The insubstantial figure stared at her for a long moment, and finally lowered his arm. The sound retreated again, echoes of echoes dying away into nothing.


    His eyes glowed bright blue.


    They unnerved her. Was he angry? She backed away further, suddenly not wishing to be in this place any longer¡­


    And then, without warning, everything went black.


    Araynia woke with a jerk, sitting up at once, gasping. For a few panicked seconds she thought the demon-wraiths were invading again, before realising, with a thundering heart, that she was neither dreaming or in any immediate danger.


    She was sitting in her bed, in her room at Castle Whiteshadow.


    Her nightclothes were drenched in sweat, causing her to shiver. She took deep breaths to compose herself. The dream had been stranger and more intense than usual. Almost¡­ real.


    Closing her eyes, she could see once again the silver-floored room and the spectral, cerulean-eyed man ¨C clearly, sharply, as though he stood in front of her still. Shivering again, she opened her eyes quickly, feeling anxious and confused.


    It was just a silly dream, she scolded herself. That apparition could not actually be the ghost of Lord Requar, attempting to communicate with her¡­


    Then she noticed that her room was not completely dark. It was illuminated by a mysterious blue glow, coming from the dresser to her left.


    She had set her pendant there before she went to bed. It was now shining with a strong blue radiance, more vivid than she had ever seen before. It cast faint coruscating patterns on the walls, very similar to the reflective light in her dream.


    Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at it. What was going on? What did this mean?


    She had assumed that the stone had guided her here to this castle. Both Ferrian and Arzath had told her it had simply picked up a lingering trace of Requar¡¯s magic and meant nothing.


    But¡­


    In her dream, the ghostly figure had turned and pointed at something. Frowning, she tried to picture the layout of the castle. She had not explored much of it, mostly only the hallways and stairs between her room and the dining hall, as she was afraid of getting lost ¨C or worse, running into Lord Arzath again.


    If she visualised the ghost standing in front of her right here, in her room, he was pointing north-west. Her door was in that direction, but beyond it¡­ if she kept going, she would end up outside the walls of the castle.


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    She shook her head, baffled. It didn¡¯t make any sense! Was there something out there, in the valley, that he wanted her to see?


    What am I saying?? she said to herself. It was just a dream!


    But her pendant was clearly glowing, and that was definitely not her imagination. Luca had witnessed it during their journey as well, and the Centaur could physically sense magic.


    Regardless of the reality of her dreams, the stone¡¯s magic was real enough, and was reacting to something.


    Something nearby.


    Throwing off the bed covers, she got up and picked up the pendant. The light intensified at her touch, blazing as bright as a candle. She blinked as it dazzled her eyes. Putting it around her neck, she grabbed her clothes and dressed quickly.


    She had no idea what she was doing, going out in the middle of the night, when it was still raining, but she was doing it anyway¡­


    Pushing out the door of her room before she could think better of it, she hurried down the corridor. She hesitated for a moment outside Luca¡¯s room, but decided against telling him what she was doing. He might think she was crazy, or sleepwalking, and she could not be entirely sure that she wasn¡¯t being led into terrible danger. It was magic, after all.


    The thought that she was being lured into a trap slid briefly through her mind and was gone. Somehow she knew that she was not being guided to her death. The stone had led her out of peril. It had brought her here for a reason, an important purpose, meant only for her¡­


    Hastening down the stairwell, she emerged a minute later in the entrance foyer.


    It was shrouded in chilly dark shadows and silence. The night was deep and quiet: everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago.


    The stairs swept grandly from the balcony before her, a wide, pale path bordered by ornate white balustrades tinged luminous blue by her pendant. She followed them down to the hall. Her boots echoed as she crossed, the light of her stone gleaming brilliantly on the polished marble floor. At the main doors she paused again, glancing behind her.


    Then she raised her furry hood and slipped out into the drizzly night.


    The waterfall surged out of its crevice in the mountain rock, given life and energy by the snow melting from the peaks above, pale and roaring in the darkness as it leapt two hundred feet to the river below. It was crowned with a green, grassy, flat-topped knoll, set against the sheer cliffs that made up the northernmost wall of the Sorcerer¡¯s Valley. A single tree grew on the knoll; an ancient, twisted pine with clumps of green needles stubbornly clinging to the ends of its gnarled limbs. The branches leaned to one side in a kind of arch, and it was before this arch that a black figure knelt.


    He did not face the mist-shrouded valley, nor Castle Whiteshadow, deep in slumber on the eastern side, but inwards, towards the water-streaked rocks. Here, sheltered beneath the outreaching arms of the pine tree was a beautiful gleaming sword hilt, rising from the ground like a cross. Two snakes, one black, the other white, twined around the base of the blade, their heads facing the ground.


    This sword had belonged to his brother: it was the Sword of Healing.


    Once, it had contained the power to renew and repair damage to any living thing ¨C it had even banished trigon.


    Even, as its final act, reversed Ferrian¡¯s death.


    It was one of the most potent artefacts of sorcery to have ever been created. It could have achieved many more wondrous things¡­ if its wielder had not perished.


    Requar certainly had changed the world, but not for the better. Arzath was now convinced that the heinous acts his brother had committed ¨C including accidentally killing their mother and deliberately destroying the original School of Magical Studies ¨C had been a result of his exposure to trigon. Requar hadn¡¯t believed that; he had blamed himself, of course, and spent the rest of his life trying to make amends. A rift had formed in his personality, one that he hadn¡¯t been able to reconcile. Arzath had tried desperately to repair it, but had failed.


    Even if Ferrian hadn¡¯t died and Requar had not felt it necessary to give up his own life to save the boy, he would have killed himself anyway. He had made at least two prior attempts before he succeeded.


    Arzath stared at the cold, dark sapphires embedded in the hilt. Rain washed over him, soaking his hair, streaming off his black cloak. He clutched at the sodden grass in front of the Sword.


    ¡°Why?¡± he whispered. ¡°Why am I not dead?¡±


    The Sword did not reply.


    ¡°WHY AM I STILL HERE?!¡±


    He screamed the words. They bounced off the cliffs and fled into the rain.


    ¡°YOU LEFT ME HERE WITH NOTHING!¡±


    The sound of the rain was his only response.


    Letting out a broken sob, he pushed himself to his feet. ¡°I am finished!¡± he snarled bitterly, swiping a hand through the watery air. ¡°The castle is completed! I owe you nothing! There is no longer any reason¡­ for¡­ my¡­ existence¡­¡±


    Struggling to contain the wracking sobs that shuddered through his body, he spun away, aware that he was crying again, but he didn¡¯t care. He could not feel the tears through the rain streaming over his face.


    He stepped over to the edge of the knoll, beside the waterfall.


    Once, on a sunny day, he and Requar had fought on this clifftop, and his brother had pushed him ¨C accidentally or otherwise ¨C from this very spot. He couldn¡¯t remember how it had happened, only that he had woken up in bed in his castle with servants attending to him, having lost his memory and his magic. An extremely rare chance event had occurred ¨C known as a Phoenix Effect, in which he had suffered a loss of magic instead of his life force.


    He stared down into the darkness. Rain fell on either side of him, unseen in the gloom. The waterfall was deafening in his ears, he could feel it thundering through the rock beneath his feet.


    I should have died that day, he thought bleakly. Everything that had happened after that moment had simply been one horror after another. All of the struggles, all of the anguish¡­ what had been the point of it all?


    You won, Requar. You have destroyed me.


    It didn¡¯t matter, any more. There was only one thing left to be done:


    To finish what his brother had started.


    He moved forward.


    Araynia struggled her way up through the rocks, treading carefully on the steep, slick, gravelly trail. She was already soaked through; her cloak had become a waterlogged weight dragging at her steps. She was freezing and tired, panting with the effort. But still, some strong inner compulsion led her onwards, would not allow her to turn back no matter how mad her quest seemed.


    The blue light from her pendant brightened the way.


    Finally, she reached the summit of the path, and paused for a moment to catch her breath.


    It leaped from her throat in a startled cry.


    It was difficult to tell who was more shocked in that moment: the drenched young noblewoman or the black and white clad sorcerer standing perilously close to the cliff¡¯s edge.


    They both leaped backwards at the same time.


    Arzath¡¯s arm whipped out like a striking snake, and a blinding purple flash of lightning seared across her vision, smashing into the rocks mere feet away. Instinctively, Araynia threw herself to one side, against a large boulder bordering the path, the bolt missing her by inches. She felt the heat of it as it crackled past.


    ¡°HOW DARE YOU COME HERE!¡± Arzath screamed, his voice high and tremulous, wavering on the edge of sanity. ¡°THIS PLACE IS FORBIDDEN!¡±


    Araynia cowered in terror.


    ¡°LEAVE!¡± he shrieked. ¡°NOW!¡±


    She wished that she could do just that, wished that she was back in her warm, safe bed instead of out here on a windswept mountain, assaulted by the elements and a crazed sorcerer. But her will and her courage were being guided somehow, and she had not come all this way to turn back now.


    Slowly, shakily, she rose to her feet. Wind blew droplets of icy rain into her face as she stepped out of her cover and walked bravely across the grass in front of the enraged sorcerer.


    Time seemed to slow, the rain became long glistening streaks disappearing into the night around her, her footsteps gracefully treading the sodden grass, each heartbeat and breath taking an age. She was sure that behind her, Arzath was lifting his arm again, deadly purple magic ablaze in his hand, aiming it right at her back.


    But she kept going, fear swimming somewhere in the background, unable to seize her¡­


    The light of her pendant revealed a silver gleam in the darkness, off to her right. She turned to it as though in a trance, moved towards it, sank to her knees in front of it.


    A sword was impaled blade downwards in the rocky soil, solemn and exquisite. Lifting her pendant from around her neck, she placed it carefully over the hilt, so that the blue stone sat gently amongst the others of its kind embedded there.


    The sapphires in the hilt ignited, all at once, with cerulean fire. A cool glow bloomed over the knoll.


    She stared at the sword, mesmerised by its heartbreaking beauty. She reached out a hand and touched it¡­


    Arzath slammed into her from the side, grabbing her, attempting to pull her away. ¡°NO!¡± he cried. ¡°Do not touch it!¡±


    But it was too late: her fingers had already closed around the handle. She let out a cry of pain as Arzath wrenched at her. ¡°Stop! My arm!¡±


    ¡°LET¡­ GO!¡±


    She couldn¡¯t. Her hand seemed to have seized up, fastened tightly around the handle. It was stuck there.


    ¡°I CAN¡¯T!¡± she screamed.


    She clutched the hilt with her other hand, trying to ease the pressure on the arm that Arzath was trying to tear in half. The Sword quivered beneath her grip, as though coming to life, a tremor passing up through the long silver blade, through the hilt and into her arms. A bright flash of pain came with it, making her gasp.


    She began to sob, fear closing in around her now. Her vision became strange and blurry, everything tinged with rainbow colours. Arzath was desperately trying to prise her fingers away from the hilt¡­


    And then, without warning, the blue light of the sapphires exploded into a dazzling white flare that engulfed them both.

 Chapter One Twenty

    A silver Sword regains its spark


    Angelic city leaves its mark.


    When the white light faded, Araynia found herself in a familiar place.


    The silver floor stretched out around her; light played a silent, complex dance across the blue expanse of an infinite ceiling, the whole space bathed in a serene aqueous glow bordered by gentle mist. But she did not feel relaxed, nor floating blissfully in a sea of carelessness.


    She was still kneeling on the ground, clutching the Sword, which was stuck downwards through the mirrored floor. To her horror, her hands remained clamped tightly around the handle ¨C she could not force them open no matter how hard she tried.


    Giving up, she looked around in despair.


    Emptiness. Silence.


    There was no sign of Arzath. Nothing moved in the mist; no ghostly figure appeared.


    She looked down at the magnificent Sword in her hands, hoping the answer might lie there. The sapphires flickered with glimmering light: the magic was alive.


    What am I supposed to do? she thought, slumping hopelessly, feeling as though something was expected of her, but she had no idea what it was. Why had the stone brought her all the way up a mountainside, only to trap her in this strange place with a sword?


    And that was when she heard the footsteps.


    They approached slowly, one by one, from somewhere behind her. They echoed, as though in a vast cavern.


    She went still, her heart pounding, not daring to look over her shoulder, afraid of what she might see. Am I going to die after all? she thought fearfully. I have been lured here by some trick of sorcery!


    The footsteps came closer¡­ and stopped.


    Araynia held her breath.


    There was movement to one side, and she looked up, her eyes going wide.


    He was not a ghost, but looked as real as a living man. With careful strides he circled around her, his boots beautifully decorated, a sky blue cloak sweeping out behind him. He wore long loose robes over exquisite clothing, and his hair, white as starlight, fell down his back and around his noble face.


    He came to a halt facing her. Then he bowed deeply, as though she were an honoured guest.


    My Lady Araynia, he greeted. You have come.


    For a long moment, she could do nothing but stare in mingled awe, terror and bewilderment. He was astonishingly handsome, so much so that her heart fluttered.


    His blue eyes regarded her, almost in amusement. Do not be afraid. I did not bring you here to hurt you.


    She swallowed, managing to find her voice, though her throat was dry. I¡­ I was told that you were dead, my Lord, she whispered.


    Requar took a step forward and lowered himself to one knee, his face becoming serious. I am quite dead, he told her.


    The words wrenched at her, caused the pit of her stomach to fall out. She had hoped, had believed that it wasn¡¯t so, even after everything she had been told.


    Do not be sad, he said softly. Please.


    She shook her head in denial, fighting back tears. Then how can it be that I am talking to you, my Lord? she insisted, before realisation overwhelmed her. Oh, she sighed unhappily. This is a dream.


    This is a dream, he agreed. He gestured at the Sword. But the Sword you hold is real. It is the Sword of Healing: it belonged to me.


    Lifting his pale, elegant hands, he placed them over hers. Now, it belongs to you.


    Staring into his blue eyes, she shook her head in horror. No! N-no, I cannot¡­ I do not want it! I do not wish to be sorcerer!


    He smiled. But you wish to be a healer.


    The words pained her, for she could not deny them. W¨C why me? she replied in a small voice, feeling like a child being asked to do something she did not understand.


    Araynia. Reaching out, he lifted her chin gently, causing tears to spill from her eyes. The pendant you carry was created by me. You have worn it since you were a little girl, keeping it close to you at all times. The magic contained within it found its way into you, becoming a part of your body and mind, little by little, over many years. You would not have noticed it happening.


    This is how one becomes a sorcerer; by acquiring small amounts of magic that build gradually, over time, into great power.


    He held her gaze. My Sword recognises you because your magic originates from me. No one else may be bonded with it. Only you.


    She stared back at him, feeling overwhelmed.


    He leaned back, closing his eyes. This Sword is capable of great things, he said softly. It can save lives. It is¡­ needed.


    But it is also a burden. Being responsible for the Sword of Healing means accepting the decisions that go along with it. You will be faced with choices. Difficult ones. Some lives cannot ¨C and perhaps should not ¨C be saved. Some wounds do not heal, or only temporarily. You will learn these things, in time.


    When he looked up at her again, his expression was weary. You are far more worthy of wielding it than I ever was. He rose slowly to his feet. Ultimately, it is your choice. If you wish to walk away from the Sword, nothing will prevent you from doing so.


    He fell silent. Araynia looked down at the hilt, and to her relief found that she could move her fingers again. They came away from the Sword without effort.


    Farewell, my Lady. He nodded to her. I have intruded upon your thoughts long enough, and I shall not distress you with further dreams. Your life is your own.


    He turned to walk away.


    Wait! Araynia got quickly to her feet. Lord Requar!


    He paused with his back to her.


    She hesitated a moment, taking a deep breath before saying: You are not just a dream, are you?


    Slowly, he looked over his shoulder, a sad, enigmatic half-smile on his handsome face. Then he turned away again, walked forward and abruptly vanished.


    Arzath pushed himself up. The rain had stopped, but a cold wind still gusted through the peaks, making the old pine tree rattle and creak.


    Beside him, the girl lay unconscious.


    Getting to his feet, he leaned against the tree. ¡°Why,¡± he said through gritted teeth, ¡°does no one ever listen to me?!¡±


    The Sword gleamed coolly in the grey gloom of approaching dawn. Its magic was extinguished, the sapphires gone dark.


    He looked down at the girl, hatefully.


    That she possessed magic was something he already knew, of course. He had suspected when he first realised what the pendant was, and confirmed it when he had Mind Swept her in the corridor. He had chosen not to tell her, finding her pathetically meek and ignorant. Either she was intelligent enough to discover the truth herself, or she was not ¨C in either case, Arzath did not care to train her.


    But he had not expected¡­ this.


    Some measure of fury returned to him, warming up his chilled insides beneath his wet clothes, realigning his shattered thoughts. He was incensed that the girl had dared lay a hand on his brother¡¯s Sword, and he cursed himself for underestimating her, for being so preoccupied with his own self-annihilation that he had neglected to keep an eye on her.


    His hands balled into fists. As his withering glare bore down on her, he considered simply burning her where she lay and throwing her corpse off the edge of the cliff.


    The wind swept over them both, scattering droplets and pine needles with it.


    She had walked out in front of him, ridiculously, with no way of defending herself. He could have killed her then, but¡­ he hadn¡¯t. He had hesitated, stunned by her unexpected self-assurance, as though she somehow knew that he would not harm her. Or that her desire to reach the Sword was so great she was willing to die for it¡­


    Arzath was troubled. He understood why the Sword had reacted to her touch ¨C she had obviously inherited Requar¡¯s magic through the pendant, and the blade recognised that. It was extremely rare for a Sword to be re-bonded after the death of its master, but this was an exceptional circumstance. And more than that¡­ Arzath recognised something within Araynia that he was loath to admit. Beneath the piteous naivety and woefully fragile emotion was a hidden strength, a secret core of courage that the girl herself was not aware of.


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    She lacked belief in herself and yet, at the same time possessed a wretched determination to carry out her goal, through pain and fear, no matter the cost or consequences¡­


    Feeling irritated, Arzath stayed his hand. Instead, he stepped over her prone form and yanked the Sword of Healing out of the ground. It came free easily; rocks, soil and grass sliding off it, leaving the long blade pure and clean and brilliant in the dim light.


    For a few moments he stood staring at it, turning it around carefully in his hand, watching reflections glide along its length. Potential or not, he thought coldly, that little scrap of a girl will NEVER replace my brother!


    He didn¡¯t care if the Sword of Healing had been re-bonded. It was Requar¡¯s Sword, and he was damned if he was going to allow anyone else to use it!


    Whirling with a sweep of his cloak, he strode across the knoll towards the head of the trail, taking the Sword with him.


    The girl lay abandoned in the wet grass behind him.


    Dawn gilded the snowy tips of the mountains bright gold, the rainclouds having broken up into ragged shreds of grey moving to the west. The valley below remained wrapped in sleepy shadow save for a flock of small birds chirping in the bushes.


    The castle¡¯s kitchen had come awake along with them. Luca bustled around, humming softly to himself. A loaf of bread sat steaming on the counter, freshly removed from the oven.


    Luca enjoyed early mornings; it was peaceful, a time for himself while everyone else was still in bed. He liked listening to the cheerful chorus of birdsong while preparing breakfast and watching the sun rise.


    Not many people appreciated a good sunrise, he reflected. For some, it was simply an indication of the end of sleep and the beginning of a hard day¡¯s work. Others slept too late to witness it at all. But Luca had always thought there was something magical about the first rays of a new day; it was a secret time, before the day had quite begun ¨C like a gift yet to be opened. It was when he was at his most creative, and felt most alive.


    This morning, he had decided to make omelets with some thrush eggs he had discovered while foraging around the valley. He had found a good amount of wild herbs and plants as well. The castle¡¯s pantry was depressingly sparse; the sorcerers ate very little and very simply, it seemed. He was forced to improvise quite a lot with their meals without access to the exotic spices and other ingredients he was used to, but so far no one had complained.


    Ben had helped him to gather food. The boy was good at fishing and had brought some wonderful trout up from the river. He seemed reasonably knowledgeable about wild things ¨C more so than Luca ¨C and had set up some rabbit snares as well. Apparently, the Angel Mekka had taught him how to hunt and track, and he was eager to put his skills to use.


    Luca gazed down at the sizzling omelet, wondering about Mekka, and what sort of person he was. He seemed the type to be constantly finding himself in terrible peril, the way Ben talked about him.


    And then there was Everine.


    Luca sighed. The woman wouldn¡¯t leave him alone! He was beginning to tire of hearing about her amazing seafaring adventures, of which she seemed to have an endless supply, and the way she paid undue attention to him when he was cooking. He had tried to offer advice about the preparation of food, but she didn¡¯t listen.


    She made him feel rather awkward and self-conscious.


    He was thinking about how best to avoid her that day, in the politest way possible, when he heard the door to the dining room open.


    Cautiously, he walked over to the kitchen doorway and peered out.


    It was Lady Araynia. She looked as though she had been drowned.


    With a gasp, Luca sprang out of the kitchen and around the long table. ¡°My Lady! What has happened? What were you doing outside?!¡±


    She did not reply. Quickly, Luca removed her sodden cloak, hanging it on the nearest chair. He helped her over to the fire. Grabbing blankets off the armchairs, he bundled her in them and sat her down in front of the hearth. Then he lowered himself to the floor, looking at her worriedly. ¡°Lady?¡±


    She stared into the fire for a long moment. Finally, she whispered: ¡°I have magic, Luca.¡±


    He regarded her quizzically. ¡°Yes, my Lady. Your pendant.¡±


    She looked up at him, her face haunted, and shook her head. ¡°No. Not the pendant.¡± Opening her hand, she gazed down at the blue gemstone lying in her palm, its fine silver chain spilling over her fingers.


    ¡°I¡­ do not understand,¡± Luca replied, confused.


    She sighed, closing her eyes. A violent shiver shook her body. She was silent for a long moment more before answering strangely: ¡°Arzath took the Sword. I¡­ I have to get it back. It is¡­ important¡­¡±


    Luca was baffled. ¡°What Sword, Lady? What do you mean?¡± He frowned anxiously. What had that sorcerer done to her?


    When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed with tears. She shook her head. ¡°Please, do not hate me!¡±


    Luca took her small, cold hand in his own. Peculiar sensations rippled across his skin, making his hairs prickle, but he steadfastly ignored them. ¡°I would never hate you, my Lady!¡± he assured her. ¡°If you need anything from me, you only have to ask.¡±


    Her face was lovely in the firelight, sad though it was, with dark hair plastered over her forehead. He swallowed. It pained him to see her distressed, especially when he did not understand the reason for it. But he supposed she would explain when she was ready to.


    She rubbed at her nose and sniffed, looking up. ¡°Something is burning.¡±


    Luca looked up as well. With a sudden gasp of realisation, he leapt to his feet, dashing towards the kitchen in a vain hope of saving their breakfast.


    * * *


    Far to the north and west, the same rising light reached out to the elegant white towers and spires of a sky-bound city. Beneath the cluster of floating, majestic buildings rose a great forest, mysterious and dark, the top of the canopy painted gold. Beyond both forest and city, slightly hazy in the morning mist, an immense tower bore upwards as far as the eye could see, straight as a spear, disappearing into the retreating night of the sky. Patches of green and gold geometric design wound up the length of the spire, catching the light.


    The Sky Legion alighted on the wide, circular plaza that formed the centre of the Angel city of Fleetfleer. Around them rose various government buildings, an entertainment hall, inns and the Gaol. The middle of the plaza displayed an ornate fountain depicting gilded Angel children.


    Commander Re¡¯Vier paused for a moment, regarding it all. In actual fact, this was only the second time he had visited Fleetfleer: he had been born outside Arkana, in the Goldenwood below the Snowranges of Siriaza. Hence, he had not been here four years ago, when a Dragon had attacked the city, destroying many of the buildings. It had all been rebuilt, with no evidence of the winged beast¡¯s wrath scarring the perfect, delicate architecture. Gazing up at the lofty spires, the slender arches and ivy and rose-strewn walls, he had to admit; it was a beautiful place.


    He allowed himself a small smile. One day, it would be grander still. One day, when it became the true capital of all Arvanor¡­


    Turning sharply, he waved to his men to move forward with the prisoner.


    They marched across the plaza, through patches of shadow and light, the air cool and clear. There was almost no one else around, the open space quiet and empty, save for a flock of white doves.


    They will know soon enough, Reeves thought in satisfaction. They will ALL know!


    It was going to be the grandest, most gratifying Judgement in history. The black-winged Angel, finally put to the Tower; the prophecy definitively ended.


    And the honour of escorting the infamous murderer there would be his¡­


    They started up the broad stone steps to the Council House. Reaching the top, Reeves glanced over his shoulder. He stopped in annoyance. All of his men were standing at the base of the stairs, their spears pointed at Mekka.


    The dark Angel stood resolutely in place, refusing to ascend.


    Reeves leaned on his spear. ¡°It has been a long journey,¡± he called down. ¡°I¡¯d quite like a bath! And a glass of wine!¡± He waved a hand. ¡°Could we hurry things along a bit?¡±


    Mekka did not move.


    Reeves stared at him, then shrugged. ¡°Oh, very well.¡± He nodded to his men. ¡°Bring him up the hard way.¡±


    They closed in on Mekka.


    To Reeves¡¯ astonishment, the black Angel fought back. A violent scuffle broke out as they sought to restrain him.


    ¡°Good grief,¡± Reeves muttered, rolling his eyes. He had decided to resist now?


    He rubbed his forehead as the fight went on below him. Two Legionnaires went sprawling. The others pounced on Mekka¡¯s back, flattening him to the ground. They smacked him around the head a couple of times, then grabbed him and hauled him forcibly up the white stone stairs.


    Reeves turned away, resting his spear on his shoulder, sauntering towards the large, pillar-fronted building ahead of him, smiling. He was pleased with his captive¡¯s reaction. The journey had been altogether too boring up until now, although he did wonder what had finally set Mekka off. Was he not looking forward to the Governor¡¯s hospitality?


    Pushing through the entrance without bothering to acknowledge the town guards who stood either side, he strode across the polished hall, his white coat swishing, to a second set of large wooden doors, which were closed. Slouching against them, he preened his pure white feathers with his silver-clad fingers as he waited for his men to drag the prisoner inside. They dumped him on the floor, pinning him there with their silvertine boots, spears at his neck.


    Reeves rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.


    Almost immediately, the right hand side opened and a neatly groomed young woman peered out ¨C the Governor¡¯s aide.


    ¡°The Governor is not currently scheduled for any meetings,¡± she told him. ¡°Would you like to make an appoint¨C¡±


    The Commander shoved through the doors, swinging into the chamber before she could finish her sentence.


    Governor Mon Merrill sat at her desk in the middle of an overly long hall that stretched off to either side, a row of tall windows looming behind her. She looked somewhat small in the high-backed chair, but could hardly be called fragile. She was lean and sharp as a whip, and old for an Angel, with short silver hair carefully styled, and grey wings.


    She completely ignored Re¡¯Vier¡¯s intrusion, deeply absorbed in writing something with a quill pen on a piece of parchment. The sound of it scratching was loud in the quiet hush of the office.


    Writing, Reeves thought in distaste. He did not trust anyone who could read and write; they tended to be too knowledgeable by far, and kept too many secrets, despite the existence of Grath Ardan recording every word.


    He especially did not trust Mon Merrill; she was orders of magnitude more intelligent than the previous Governor, who had gained his position through popularity. Merrill had achieved office by being devastatingly efficient, practical and actually diplomatic. She had overturned quite a few established laws and ruffled more than a few feathers in the process; her decision to allow foreign trade once more had, he had heard, almost caused a riot: until people¡¯s pockets started filling up with money. She had also effectively ransomed the sale of silvertine ¨C the outbreak of demon-wraiths in Daroria had created a huge demand for weapons and armour that could withstand the shadowy menace. Arkana had suddenly found itself in a position of immense power.


    Commander Re¡¯Vier did not like Merrill. But he could not deny that her methods were to be admired.


    Coming to a halt, he gave a bow, and flourished a hand towards the open doors. ¡°As per your request, Governor,¡± he announced. ¡°The black-winged fugitive, name of Mekk¡¯Ayan, most wanted murderer and enemy of Arkana.¡±


    Despite his grand declaration, Merrill took time finishing her sentence, then carefully set the quill down and looked up, first at Reeves and then at the group of armoured Angels outside her door. Saying nothing, she removed her half-moon spectacles, folded them neatly and placed them on her desk. Then she got to her feet, smoothed out the grey, tightly buttoned jacket she wore over austere robes, and walked around the desk and over to the doors.


    Hands clasped behind her back, she stared down at the captive.


    Mekka moved his head, staring daggers at her from the floor. He was quivering slightly, his face beneath his dark hair deathly pale.


    After a long moment of silence, Merrill said: ¡°I will arrange your reward.¡±


    Then she turned and walked back to her desk. Seating herself, she replaced her glasses, picked up her pen and began writing again where she had left off.


    Reeves gritted his teeth. Not so much as a thanks??


    He strode over to stand right in front of her. As she reached for a new piece of paper and set it before her, he slammed his hand down on it.


    ¡°Do you have what you promised me?¡± he hissed.


    The Governor looked up at him, unfazed. Her face could have been carved from fine stone, every wrinkle deliberately placed, her slate-coloured eyes calculating as they regarded him. ¡°I have the information you requested, Commander Re¡¯Vier,¡± she stated flatly. ¡°My assistant will present it to you later. Where are you staying?¡±


    ¡°The inn across the plaza,¡± he replied.


    ¡°Good.¡± She gestured at the paper. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind?¡±


    Reeves removed his hand from the desk and stepped back. He watched the Governor for a moment more, but, unable to discern if he was being played for a fool or not, turned and stalked from the room, eyeing the young assistant as he went.


    ¡°Scrape this piece of scum off the floor,¡± he snapped at his men as he passed, ¡°and take him to the Gaol.¡± He headed for the entrance doors. ¡°I need a goddamned drink.¡±

 Chapter One Twenty One

    The hush that falls as Judgement nears


    The past has passed beyond all tears.


    The cell was lavish; luxurious even, by Human standards. Far from a damp, dingy basement hole, the Gaol of Fleetfleer was spotlessly clean, bright and airy, resembling nothing so much as a modest palace. The bars of the cells lining a large, central, circular room were gilded with gold, with lovely murals painted on the walls. A marble fountain tinkled beneath a huge, green-glassed dome. Small round windows in every cell let in the sunlight, and they were furnished with carpets, comfortable beds and water closets. Ample food, water and scented flowers were provided. The beautiful surroundings were designed to inspire redemptive thoughts in their occupants and provide peace to those awaiting immortal Judgement in the Tower.


    Each cell was also equipped with a little writing desk and stool, stocked with parchment and charcoal so that prisoners may write their confessions.


    It was an antiquated tradition; most Angels these days were not literate. Writing a confession was a grave matter, as the words would be sealed forever in Grath Ardan; even if the original paper were destroyed, one could not take them back.


    Mekka had already written his: the scroll was neatly tied with twine and rested on the table. He knew that the words echoed far beneath his feet in the silent heart of the underground library, committed to history.


    As he himself soon would be.


    He sat on the floor of his cell with his back to the wall, his arms resting on his knees. A beam of sunlight fell over him, shining on the bright shackles around his wrists. They were connected to the wall by a silvertine chain, long enough to allow him free movement about his enclosure. The lock on it ¨C and the door ¨C could have been easily picked, with one of his own feathers if he chose to. But he didn¡¯t bother, for the same reason he had allowed the Sky Legion to bring him here.


    He closed his eyes. Because there was no point running away from his past any longer. He would have returned to Arkana to face his fate years ago if not for the need to protect Carmine and Hawk.


    Their lives were no longer in his hands. He had done what little he could for his trigon-stricken friends, and now only Ferrian could help them.


    He listened to the silence, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. He expected no forgiveness from the people of Fleetfleer, or any Gods or Goddesses that may exist, or the remaining Seraphim. Caer Sync alone would decide whether he was cast upwards, to Excelsior, or downwards, to the Eternal Pit. To some extent, emotions could influence the direction ¨C those who were tasked with collecting raw, liquid silvertine from the heights of the Tower were trained to focus on melancholic thoughts in order to lessen the upwards pull and enable them to return safely.


    Many of them didn¡¯t, however.


    And no one collected trigon. There was no possible use for the evil substance, it simply corrupted and destroyed anything it came into contact with.


    Angels had no real concept of death, Mekka thought. To them, the end of life was simply a transition to another kind of existence. The majority of them committed themselves to the Tower while they were still young, healthy and happy, so as to ensure passage to Excelsior. Likewise, if one were incurably ill or stricken with sadness, the Tower offered a painless and acceptable escape. There were no chronically sick, disabled or elderly Angels for this reason, unless they were exiled. It was a celebratory occasion.


    Mekka wondered how many of them knew that their bodies simply melted into a gleaming morass formed from countless thousands of Angels that had gone before them. He supposed there was some honour in having one¡¯s essence crafted into indestructible weapons or armour that could be used to save someone¡¯s life, but trigon¡­


    Mekka was one of the wretched ones, doomed to add his misery to the sickening, swirling dark pool of ancient hate and anguish. Perhaps the tragedy of his life would some day infect someone else, causing more suffering, and so the curse of trigon would continue.


    It was a horrifying and gruesome destiny, but he could see no way of avoiding it.


    The sound of approaching footsteps in the quiet Gaol brought him out of his black, brooding thoughts. He lifted his head to see one of the Legionnaires standing outside his cell.


    It was not Commander Re¡¯Vier, but one of the others: a brown and white-winged Angel by the name of Tander.


    ¡°I wanted to apologise for the way you have been treated,¡± the man said. ¡°That is not how I expected the Legion to behave.¡±


    Mekka just stared up at him wordlessly.


    The other Angel shifted uncomfortably, staring at the floor. ¡°You have shown dignity, honour and loyalty to your friends, which is more than I can say of my companions.¡± He hesitated, taking a deep breath. ¡°May the Goddess favour you in the Tower.¡± He gave Mekka a nod, then turned away.


    ¡°Did you do it properly?¡±


    Tander stopped and turned back, frowning. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    Mekka stared at him intently. ¡°Your Commander left you behind at the inn, to finish Hawk. Did you make sure he was dead?¡±


    Tander was silent for a very long moment. ¡°No,¡± he replied finally, not looking at Mekka. ¡°No, I did not.¡± He turned abruptly and left the Gaol.


    Mekka watched him go. He kept staring long after the Angel had disappeared.


    The wine was a deep, clear golden colour, like the glow of late afternoon sun captured in a glass. Reeves held it up to the light streaming through his open balcony doors, watching it shimmer and sparkle. It reminded him of faraway lost days of his childhood: of flickering amber leaves in secluded Sirinese forest groves. But with it came a haunted memory of one particular summer evening when he was very young, far on a distant ridge, when the sky was exactly this hue and peaks rose in endless jagged rows behind him, like massive teeth waiting to swallow him whole.


    It had been his idea to play in the mountains with Taria, a small girl from Perl Maraya: a large village in one of the deep, misty river valleys beyond the Goldenwood. Back then, he had little notion of racial prejudice, other than the fact that his parents did not like it when he played with Humans. Reeves did not fully understand why; he had no siblings and the only other children he had met, accompanying travellers and merchants, were Human. He had an inherent sense that he was better than them ¨C reinforced by his parents ¨C because he could fly and they could not, and so unthinkingly acted as though he was superior. But for some reason, Taria liked him anyway.


    She came to see him sometimes when her peddling father was visiting hamlets in the area. One day, they had snuck off when no one was looking to play on the cliffs. Reeves hadn¡¯t considered it in any way dangerous, only annoying that it took his stupid wingless friend so long to climb up. He made fun of her for it. But Taria just ignored his mean comments, and they played some games, and threw stones off the cliff, and talked about things. And then she started naming all the different plants and insects, and even the types of rocks. Reeves was secretly impressed and jealous of her incredible understanding of nature, wondering how she had come to know such things.


    He had only turned around for a moment ¨C just a moment, to pick up an unusual red-coloured pebble, convinced that she didn¡¯t know what this one was¡­


    But she was gone.


    He looked all over the clifftops for her, calling out her name; first irritated, thinking she was tricking him, hiding behind the boulders. She wasn¡¯t. He became worried.


    He searched for hours.


    Finally, just as the sun was setting, he found her body, sprawled like a little doll in the rocks and bushes at the base of the cliff. Flying down to her side, he had tried to get her to wake up, but she wouldn¡¯t, and her eyes were open, and there was blood on her head.


    It was the first time he truly understood what death was.


    The adults had lied to him. They told him that death was honourable and planned, and even if you could not make your way to the Holy Tower, all your family would gather around you in celebration. It was meant to be beautiful and wonderful and you went to meet the Goddess in a world full of light.


    It was not supposed to happen on a lonely mountainside in the chill of dusk, with no one else around and the distant voices of your parents calling you for supper in the forest below¡­


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    He had flown away then, mortally afraid. It had never occurred to him that it was not safe for Humans to be in high places, that they could not save themselves from a fall. He had forgotten that Taria was fundamentally different from him.


    He had never seen his family or hers again.


    For weeks, he had lost himself in the Snowranges, and would have starved to death if not rescued by a Sky Legion patrol. Reeves had refused to say where he had come from, so they had taken him in, to a ruined castle high up in the peaks. He had hidden himself in their ranks, vanishing if anyone started asking questions, committing himself to hard discipline and training with them, and so through the years worked his way up to Wing Commander.


    All that time, he developed a loathing for Humans that ran deeper than the casual arrogance of the rest of his kind.


    Staring at his wine, Reeves drained the rest of his glass in a gulp. The world had changed for him, irrevocably, that day as a child.


    He would see to it that it changed for everyone else, as well.


    There had been stories, in the taverns of Trystania and amongst the Legion. Most of them were tall tales, but one, in particular, had set his imagination on fire and steadied into a quietly burning obsession. He believed that there was an element of truth to it, and had dedicated his life to finding out.


    The Sky Legion was in service to the Twin Emperors, and he had openly declared his agenda to them. They had approved wholeheartedly, because it fit their belief system and did not involve war or bloodshed. Indeed, if such a fabulous legend were true, it was a means to world peace. They had supplied him with all the resources he required, access to the best scholars, but it had not been enough ¨C their histories and research were limited.


    Reeves had needed Grath Ardan. He had been left with little choice but to approach the Governor of Arkana.


    Merrill had reacted with scepticism and disapproval. Of course she had. She was perfectly comfortable in her new position of power and Reeves could be a significant threat if he achieved his extraordinary goal. She had tried to dissuade him and told him it was a childish request. Reeves was pleased. She would not have spoken in such a way if she believed the legend to be mere fantasy.


    He had no doubt that the Governor was, at this very moment plotting ways to thwart him.


    But they had made an agreement: he would capture the black-winged Angel and deliver him to her in exchange for some particular research from Grath Ardan.


    Merely information. Reeves considered it a fair deal.


    Pushing himself up off the pastel, silken cushions he was lounging on, he staggered over to a nearby side-table where the carafe of golden wine sat. The table tilted disconcertingly. Reeves shook his head. It was strong wine: very strong. He had only had one glass.


    He reached for the carafe to pour himself another, but found that his arm was peculiarly weak ¨C he could barely lift it. His vision blurred and began to close in around the edges, and a stab of nausea clenched his stomach. He clutched the table as a cold sweat broke out on his skin.


    What¡­ is this? he thought in confusion. Something is¡­ wrong¡­


    Suddenly, his legs could no longer support him and he collapsed, the room spinning into blackness.


    Reeves awoke slowly, to the cool shadow of late afternoon. A fresh breeze blew over him, stirring the gauzy curtains into twisting, flowing forms, as though pale ghosts had arrived on the balcony. Light glowed on the buildings beyond; the sun had moved to the other side of the inn.


    Pushing himself gingerly off the floor, he winced as pain thundered through his head. Waiting for another wave of dizziness to pass, he got unsteadily to his feet.


    He clutched his head. Someone spiked my damned drink! he thought furiously. He peered around groggily, surprised that he wasn¡¯t naked and tied to a tree in the forest. Nothing appeared to be out of place: his weapons and armour still rested against the wall where he had left them.


    Then he looked down at the small table beside him. The carafe of golden wine, and the glasses, were gone.


    In their place sat a book.


    It was a small, old book, with a dusty grey leather cover and ugly yellowed pages. It was a vile piece of dead animal and wood, filled with indecipherable scrawlings.


    Reeves didn¡¯t even bother to open it. This could be any book for all he knew, plucked at random from out of the library. But he was fairly sure that Merrill had kept her word ¨C she had delivered what he had asked for.


    But both he and the Governor were perfectly aware that he could not read it.


    He placed a hand either side of the book and leaned on the table, seething. So, Governor, he thought. You like to play games.


    Suddenly, he smashed his fist down onto the book, as though trying to crush it into the table like an annoying insect. So be it.


    His blue-green eyes narrowed. But the next move is mine.


    The sun hid itself furtively behind the curiously-shaped peaks of the Tentaryl Ranges, casting long, weird shadows over the barren mountain rock. High above, against a golden-tinged blue sky, a glittering white form was a twin to the dark serpentine shape that rippled over the ridges and valleys below. Huge, feather-tipped wings flapped once, and the White Dragon began a gradual, graceful descent.


    The Dragon landed a few minutes later on a steeply sloping grassy meadow hidden within the grey walls of the cliffs. A stand of dark, sombre pines clustered at one end, their trunks and branches oddly twisted and deformed. Ferrian slid off his perch on the Dragon¡¯s neck, stretching, stiff with the long flight. He looked around.


    They were right on the border of Arkana. In the distance, he could just make out the pale line of Caer Sync, dividing the sky in two. In front of him, the ridgeline lowered so that he could see beyond what looked like a vast, dark sea: it was in fact the mighty forest that covered the whole of the Angel nation.


    Ferrian remembered his last journey through that forest; a harrowing expedition to the ancient library of Grath Ardan, where he was captured by Murons and almost eaten by scavenging plants.


    Suppressing a shiver, he sat down in the soft grass, which was speckled with tiny white and purple flowers. Beside him, the Dragon turned and leapt with a great beat of her wings up onto the cliffs, where she circled around like a giant white cat before finally settling down with her huge horned head on her paws.


    Angel guards patrolled the sky over these mountains, and Ferrian doubted that he and the Dragon had managed to arrive here unseen. It would be impossible not to spot something as massive as the White Dragon from miles away. Unfortunately, he was nowhere near as skilled as Requar had been at camouflage; such spells required a certain type of elemental light magic that he was not attuned to. Nevertheless, he had tried to improvise, creating a kind of mist around them in the hope that they would appear as a fast moving cloud, or at the very least, diffuse the sunlight reflecting off the Dragon¡¯s brilliant scales.


    So far, however, they had not been approached or seen any obvious signs of alarm. But he had no idea what to do once they reached Fleetfleer. Stealth was not exactly an option when accompanied by a Dragon, so he supposed they would have to go for the direct approach, and hope that things didn¡¯t get too ugly. Perhaps the Dragon could create a diversion while he tried to find out where Mekka was being held¡­


    Ferrian didn¡¯t know what procedures the Angels followed or whether there would be a trial. If there was, it would be a short one: Mekka would confess his guilt and the Angels would gleefully allow him to throw himself into the Pit. There was no one to speak up in his defence, and even if Ferrian were to arrive and show them the damned dagger (now wedged relatively safely in his Sword), he doubted it would make a difference. Mekka was part of a centuries-old prophecy that had proved true; to them, he was practically the embodiment of evil.


    He sighed dismally. He knew that he was breaking Angel laws and disrespecting their culture and Mekka would probably resist, but he didn¡¯t care. Mekka was his friend and he did not deserve such a fate; he had suffered enough already!


    Ferrian had precious few friends left: he couldn¡¯t bear to lose another.


    He just hoped that he wasn¡¯t too late.


    Setting his Sword and pack on the grass beside him, he rummaged in the latter for some food. He wasn¡¯t particularly hungry, especially with worry gnawing at his stomach, but he had to remind himself to eat occasionally.


    Becoming a fully-fledged sorcerer and actively using magic had led to some fundamental changes in his physiology. One of those was a diminished appetite. Arzath had explained that once his body had absorbed a certain amount of magical power, it began to rely on that power to sustain itself. That was why, when Arzath had lost his magic after falling off the cliff, his body had gone into shock and started to fail ¨C he was dependant on magic to live. He would probably have died if Requar hadn¡¯t restored his power with the Sword of Healing.


    There were other side effects, too. The ageing process had slowed, almost stopped; his hair and fingernails ceasing to grow. His lifespan would now be measured in centuries rather than decades. But the price of an exceptionally long life was infertility. He would likely never be able to have children.


    Ferrian chewed slowly on his piece of bread. He wasn¡¯t sure what he thought about that; it wasn¡¯t something he had ever really considered. But he wondered if later in life, he might have regrets.


    Requar had wanted children, apparently. Or perhaps he hadn¡¯t realised he wanted them until Ferrian had dropped unexpectedly into his life.


    He tossed the crust of his bread down the slope, watching as a two-headed crow swooped from the pines, poked at the bread, fought with itself, then made off with it. He had always felt as though he was alone, separate from other people, different. Friends came and went, like bright sparks from a fire ¨C there one moment, only to disappear without a trace in an instant.


    Despite the fact that he had slain a Dragon-wraith and carried the most powerful weapon in the world around on his back, Ferrian had so far failed dismally to save those he cared about. Aari. Sirannor. Requar. Hawk. Perhaps now Mekka. He had somehow been absent from their deaths, unable to prevent what had happened, and left feeling helpless and anguished afterwards. His Winter had killed innocents, too, unintentionally.


    He stared determinedly at the distant Tower. Not this time. This time, he would change the course of events.


    He had to.


    He glanced up at the White Dragon, curled up in the rocks. She had done much to fill the emptiness inside him. Having been freed at last from his mind and her body restored, he assumed that she would once again seek out her icy lair in the Snowranges. But she had chosen to come with him to the Sorcerer¡¯s Valley instead. He had no idea why, but didn¡¯t feel the need to ask.


    The Dragon was just¡­ there. She had always been there, from the moment of his birth, and he guessed she would remain with him until he truly died. She was a strange and enigmatic companion.


    But he was grateful.


    Rubbing at his eyes, he yawned, tired from the long journey through the bright sky. The sun had vanished below the peaks, leaving the little meadow valley in soft gloom. Ferrian laid back on the grass with his hands behind his head, staring up at the first tentative stars peering into view. His eyelids closed.


    I¡¯ll just rest for a few minutes, he thought sleepily. Then we¡¯ll continue on¡­


    He was asleep in moments.


    An hour later, when darkness and glittering stars had arrived in all their glory, something black appeared high above the mountains, as though one of the peaks had detached itself and floated free ¨C a ragged triangular shape in the sky.


    Shortly after, far to the north above the line of Caer Sync, came a flash of silver light that lingered for several seconds before fading into the night.


    Ferrian and the White Dragon slept on, oblivious.

 Chapter One Twenty Two

    A dawn of strange and stormy skies


    Of history sealed when fate decides.


    Dawn arrived: slowly, majestically and ominously. Overnight, clouds had quietly gathered, crowding out the sky, save for a small hole in the east through which red light spilled, like a glorious, dignified wound.


    The air had a strange, clammy feel to it, a chill on the skin, a breeze that stirred the soul uneasily and whispered vague portents as it passed.


    Caer Sync rose through the morning gloom, its upper reaches lost in swirling clouds, its spiralling designs fading into the fog. Ascending from the forest canopy, a series of rounded platforms protruded from the trunk of the great white Tower like huge fungi. Situated on the largest and uppermost of these platforms was a pair of grand golden doors, flanked by two much smaller ornate gilded gates.


    The entirety of the platform before the three portals was crowded with hundreds of winged people.


    Angels. Spectators and witnesses to one of the most important events in their history.


    Commander Re¡¯Vier regarded them with idle contempt. The masses were fickle; to them, a notorious villain was no different to a beloved hero. He wondered how many of them had come to truly see justice being served, or simply to be part of a famous moment. There was no anger, no cold hatred on the faces of the crowd, but excitement, curiosity and anticipation. Gossip and whispered rumours hovered over the platform like bees.


    To them, the black-winged Angel was a legend: a folk figure more than a real person. Something from a centuries-old prophecy passed down through generations as a bedtime story. Though the damage he had inflicted on their fine city was very real, and the lives he had taken were an horrific tragedy, to most common people it all seemed somehow mystical. Whether he was good or evil, it didn¡¯t really matter.


    They just wanted to see him with their own eyes.


    Indeed, Reeves and his men had battled a scrum outside of the Gaolhouse just to get their prisoner into the sky. People had rushed forward trying to touch him, a few attempting to pluck black feathers out as souvenirs.


    Reeves was disgusted. Their race was supposed to be the most enlightened and noble in all of Arvanor, and yet they acted no better than Human rabble!


    The Wing Commander stood a little straighter, looking down his nose at them. Still, he was a part of this event too, and fierce pride buzzed within him. His Sky Legion were already making a name for themselves, turning heads in the street, creating their own storm of stories. He glanced sidelong at his men, smiling. And this was only the beginning¡­


    Reeves stood at one end of the semi-circle formed by the seven men of the Sky Legion in the centre of the platform. To either side, members of Fleetfleer¡¯s City Guard were arrayed, keeping the more exuberant members of the throng in check. Ahead of him was a white stone podium upon which stood the current Syncwarden; a young, reluctant-looking man dressed in ceremonial golden robes ¨C the son of one of the Councillors: apparently no one else volunteered for the once-esteemed position after the murder of the previous Warden Tek¡¯Hari. To the right of the podium stood six Councillors, haughty in their rich green and golden vestments, the oldest and most venerable of Angel society. To the left of the podium, standing alone with her assistant, in her own austere garb and usual inscrutable expression was the Governor.


    She¡¯s keeping a close eye on me, Reeves noticed. He gave her a half-smile and a wink in return, then chose to ignore her, turning his attention instead to the reason for all this pomp and ceremony.


    Barefoot, clad in a simple white loose-fitting garment tied with a rope belt, hands shackled behind his back with silvertine, stood Mekk¡¯Ayan. His raven-black wings and hair were stark against the surrounding white stone and pastel colours of the assembled crowd, his gaze fixed upon the base of the podium, making eye contact with no one. From Reeves¡¯ position, he was silhouetted against the brilliant colours of the rising sun.


    Even the dawn bleeds for you, Reeves thought.


    The Syncwarden finally came to the end of a long, formal recital, involving the introduction of the Governor and Councillors and thanking them for their attendance; a history of the Tower and its purpose and importance to the Angelican way of life; acknowledgement of all those who had gone before and other tedious nonsense. Hardly anyone was listening, and the fact that the boy¡¯s voice barely carried past the lectern didn¡¯t help matters, until one of the Councillors stepped forward and quietly urged him to speak up.


    ¡°Um, yes. Ahem...¡± the young Syncwarden glanced nervously around at the crowd, and took a deep breath.


    The murmuring of the audience died away into attentive silence.


    Clearing his throat, the Syncwarden turned to Mekka.


    ¡°To the Angel named Mekk¡¯Ayan,¡± he declared, attempting to project his voice. ¡°You stand here today seeking admission to our most Holy Tower, Caer Sync. You have arrived here not of your own free desire to end your life, which is your right; but to see justice done, which is the right of the people. You have been accused of a number of ghastly crimes, deeds that have caused great pain, distress and destruction to our fair city of Fleetfleer, and the entirety of the Angel nation of Arkana. These deeds include several breaches of the First Law: Murder of Angel Kin; our Governor Mon Carroll and Syncwarden Tek¡¯Hari, along with many brave members of the City Guard who lost their lives defending them. As well, the death of a Holy Seraphim for which there is no precedent in our law.


    ¡°In addition, the loss of the Seraphim led to a failure of our city¡¯s crucial protection against Dragon attack, leading to sixty-seven further fatalities of innocent civilians in the resultant onslaught.¡±


    The Syncwarden went on, detailing lesser crimes such as the damage to property and livelihoods and the financial cost of rebuilding the city. Mekka did not move as the list of crimes was spoken, save for the wind ruffling his hair and feathers, but his expression flickered. Reeves was sure he saw a glint of tears in the black-winged Angel¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°The Council has received your confession,¡± the Syncwarden continued, ¡°and examined it. Do you, Mekk¡¯Ayan, attest that everything there written is the whole of the truth, and none of it false, misleading or with parts omitted?¡±


    Mekka looked up, meeting the Syncwarden¡¯s gaze. ¡°I do,¡± he answered softly.


    ¡°Do you attest that you wrote it by free will, and not under duress?¡±


    Mekka nodded. ¡°Yes.¡±


    The Syncwarden nodded. ¡°Your confession has been recorded permanently in the library of Grath Ardan, and can not be retracted or changed. However¡­¡± The Syncwarden hesitated, looking around at the crowd. ¡°If anyone here present can provide evidence that refutes this confession, please step forward now.¡±


    The crowd was silent and deathly still, the only movement the chill morning breeze stirring a sea of feathers.


    ¡°If anyone here present can provide any compelling reason as to why this man should not be committed to the Tower today, please step forward.¡±


    Again, silence. The wind died for a moment, as though the world itself was holding its breath.


    No one stepped forward.


    The Syncwarden took a deep breath and cleared his throat again. ¡°So it shall be. The Council has granted you permission to enter the Tower for Judgement. No matter the severity of your crimes, our law states that all Angels are judged equally at the end of their lives, by Excelsior or the Endless Pit, as Fate decrees.¡±


    The Syncwarden stepped down off the podium. A murmur arose once more amongst those watching as the Governor¡¯s aide walked forward bearing a white cloth. The Syncwarden took it from her reverently and stepped over to Mekka, binding the strip of cloth around his eyes. The long ends fluttered out behind him as the wind picked up again.


    This was traditional, afforded only for criminals. The condemned were not permitted to behold the Seraphim as they were Judged.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°May¡­ may the Goddess have mercy on you,¡± the Syncwarden said awkwardly to Mekka, then: ¡°Come this way, please.¡± The Syncwarden gestured at Reeves as he turned and started walking.


    Finally, Reeves thought. Picking up his spear, he strode over to Mekka, took the Angel by the arm and shoved him after the Syncwarden. Then he fell a few steps behind as the three of them marched towards the Tower.


    The wind gusted as they made their way across the platform, the voice of the crowd rising with it, a mixture of cheers and jeers, an incomprehensible roar of noise. A few cries of: ¡°The Pit! The Pit!¡± could be made out in the din. Reeves took his spear in both hands, gripping it tightly. The air was charged. A strange quiver of apprehension passed through him, a dark thrill, a sense that¡­ something was on the verge of happening.


    Something more than the end of one villain¡¯s life.


    The crowd felt it too. They were restless, energised¡­


    Reeves turned a full circle as he walked, watching the assembled masses like an eagle. Mekka had no friends amongst Angels, but there were Humans loyal to him, as evidenced by the scene back in Forthwhite. They had been hiding him at the inn. Reeves licked his lips nervously. Could he have underestimated them? Could they have found their way here? But no, there was no possible way for Humans to reach this platform, not without Angel assistance or a means of flight that would clearly be seen¡­


    They had almost reached the doors. If there was going to be a rescue attempt¡­ it had to be now. There wouldn¡¯t be another chance.


    But nothing happened.


    The audience continued to roar. Loose feathers danced past on the wind. Reeves turned back to face the doors, sweating beneath his armour.


    The sky had grown darker, as though night was trying to crawl back. The clouds had lowered, closing in around Caer Sync. The Syncwarden, Mekka and Reeves paused before the vast golden portal as four guards took hold of the doors, pulling them ponderously open. As they did so, the clouds split apart to the east, revealing a glimpse of the newly-risen sun. Glorious golden light spilled across the platform, and the roar of the crowd subsided into an awed lull.


    Mekka turned his blindfolded head slowly to face the light.


    It was such a poignant and beautiful moment that for a fleeting instant Reeves doubted. He doubted Mekka¡¯s confession, doubted his own feelings, doubted that sending him to the Tower was right.


    The light of the Goddess was shining on him. Mekka wasn¡¯t a demon. He wasn¡¯t evil. He was mortal. Just another mortal who had made mistakes.


    Just as Reeves had made mistakes¡­


    He allowed the black-winged Angel that last moment of serenity, before lifting the butt of his spear and moving Mekka forcibly along. Then they were passing into the cool hallowed space of the Sanctuary, and the moment was gone.


    Reeves paused, turning to watch the mighty doors close behind them with a final, resounding boom.


    He should have felt relieved. There had been no last minute heroics, no sudden arrival of Mekka¡¯s allies, nor resistance from Mekka himself. Everything was going as planned. Nothing could happen now, save the inevitable.


    Why, then, did he feel so on edge?


    He strode forward, through the short, high corridor and a large archway, onto the platform overlooking the Sanctuary.


    It was a huge, cylindrical space of smooth white stone, ringed by tiny triangular windows. There was no way in or out save the huge, heavy entry doors and two small gates, both meticulously guarded. The small antechambers inside the Tower had been thoroughly searched before the ceremony.


    Above them loomed Excelsior¡¯s Clock, below them the impenetrable darkness of the Pit. Two gigantic Seraphim hung suspended to either side of the chamber, made of stone. There were three eyes in each of their heads, all closed, wings folded, massive hands resting upon their robed chests.


    There was no one else inside the Tower besides himself, the young Syncwarden, and Mekk¡¯Ayan. And yet¡­ Reeves¡¯ apprehension had increased.


    The Syncwarden was agitated too, fidgeting with his sleeves and smoothing his golden robes as though uncomfortable in them. He shook his head. ¡°Something is¡­ something is not right...¡±


    Reeves looked around again, but could see nothing amiss, and could hear nothing, not even the wind or the crowd outside. The chamber was deathly quiet. Nothing moved apart from the torches burning on the walls.


    ¡°He is correct.¡±


    To their surprise, it was Mekka who had spoken. ¡°It is silent.¡±


    They looked at him, and the Syncwarden gasped. ¡°The Singing Cliffs!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°I cannot hear them!¡±


    The three of them listened to the ominous hush.


    The Syncwarden¡¯s face went pale. ¡°We should be able to hear them! What¡­ what does this mean?¡±


    ¡°Who cares?¡± Reeves swiped a hand through the air. ¡°It is irrelevant! Open the gates!¡±


    The Syncwarden hesitated, then hurried over to a complicated mechanism on the wall to the right of the main archway. Reeves held out his spear, blocking the boy¡¯s path. ¡°Don¡¯t bother with that one. Just the Pit.¡±


    To his surprise, the Syncwarden drew himself up. ¡°This is my domain!¡± he declared, softly but with undeniable authority. ¡°Excelsior is always to be opened first! That is how it is done!¡±


    He held the Commander¡¯s stare impressively. Reeves gave him a sardonic smile and relented, withdrawing his spear. As the young man worked the crank, Reeves spun and paced across the platform.


    ¡°You!¡± he thwacked Mekka across the back as he passed. ¡°Step up to the edge!¡±


    Mekka did so, slowly.


    Reeves strode back and forth impatiently. Looking up, he saw Excelsior¡¯s Clock split into four parts, the segments folding back against the sides of the Tower. Brilliant white light, more pure than the sun, spilled down. High in the vast reaches a silvery pool could be seen, tantalisingly, deep and inviting like an exquisite lake, swimming with rainbow colours. It was a place of profound peace, heartachingly wonderful, like a memory of distant childhood happiness¡­


    Reeves blinked and quickly looked away, taking a deep breath. That was a place he wasn¡¯t ready to go to yet, though even that brief glimpse of it burned in his mind.


    The Syncwarden moved to the left-hand mechanism and began working it. Reeves edged to the side of the platform and glanced down. The black, ornate grille covering the Pit opened as the Clock had done. There was a clanging sound as the four segments came to rest against the walls.


    He moved quickly back to the centre of the platform.


    ¡°Marvellous,¡± he declared. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±


    Mekka stood on the edge, not moving, staring straight ahead. The ends of the blindfold trailed down his back, over his black wings.


    Reeves rolled his eyes. ¡°No last words?¡± he said sarcastically. ¡°You¡¯re sorry? You regret everything? You¡¯re a changed man, blah, blah, blah?¡±


    Mekka said nothing.


    ¡°You knew this moment was coming!¡± Reeves said in annoyance. ¡°You¡¯ve spent innumerable days dwelling in self-pity. Step off with whatever is left of your dignity!¡± He looked sidelong at the Syncwarden, who shook his head, reading his expression.


    ¡°We cannot intervene. He must step off the platform himself.¡±


    Reeves gave him an irritated look. ¡°Even if it takes all day?¡±


    The other man shrugged apologetically.


    Reeves¡¯ foot tapped on the stone. He took up his spear. ¡°I¡¯ve got better things to do.¡± He stepped forward.


    ¡°I have something to say,¡± Mekka said quietly.


    Reeves paused with a sigh. ¡°Yes?¡±


    Mekka turned his head slightly. ¡°I am not the only one who is about to die.¡±


    ¡°What are you¡­¡±


    ¡°Commander¡­¡±


    There was something about the quiet tone of the Syncwarden¡¯s voice that sent the hairs on the back of Reeves¡¯ neck prickling.


    ¡°What?¡± he snapped, and turned to see the young man pointing.


    He looked.


    At first, he couldn¡¯t see what had bothered the Syncwarden, thinking that something was happening with the Seraphim. But the great stone statues remained in their places, unmoving and unchanged.


    Behind them, however¡­


    The triangular windows were black.


    Not just dark. Not clouded by the approaching storm. They were pitch black.


    It had been relatively light outside just moments ago.


    ¡°We¡­ w-we need to get out of here,¡± the Syncwarden stammered. ¡°We¨C¡±


    CRACK.


    The sound was so loud it made all three of them jump, the echoes rebounding around the circular chamber.


    Then it came again, like thunder.


    CRACK.


    ¡°Just¡­ just the storm¡­¡± Reeves tried to say, but the words trailed off. The Syncwarden was staring wide-eyed at the walls. Reeves stared too.


    They watched as dark lines traced over the pale stone, travelling outwards from the points of the triangular windows.


    For an indefinably long moment, the two of them just stared in mesmerised horror, watching the cracks grow longer and longer, connecting with each other like a vast spiderweb¡­


    Then the Syncwarden bolted. Without another word, he fled into the adjacent corridor.


    Reeves¡¯ instincts screamed at him. He started to follow, but his gaze fell on Mekka, crouched at the edge of the platform.


    And then, all reason failed him.


    He had come so far to bring his damned man to justice! This black-winged godforsaken freak of nature who refused to die, who had eluded authorities and death for so long. He had brought Mekka here to see him cast into the Pit, and he could not leave without being sure that it was done. How could he rest easy if he abandoned the Tower now? He would never be sure that Mekka hadn¡¯t miraculously escaped¡­


    A violent tremor rocked the Tower, sending him tumbling. Chunks of rock broke from the walls, narrowly missing him, bouncing into the Pit. With a furious cry, Commander Re¡¯Vier shoved himself to his feet and charged across the platform towards the hated black-winged Angel, spear extended¡­


    Time seemed to slow oddly as he ran. The cracks in the walls widened, the entire chamber shattering almost gracefully, like pottery, the pieces floating apart, dreamlike, into a black void¡­


    He reached Mekka. But just at the moment when the Angel would have been skewered, Mekka sprang upwards like a cat, twisting in the air, leg swinging out to knock Reeves¡¯ spear away. But the Commander¡¯s reflexes were just as quick, and he had anticipated this move. He diverted his spear aside, Mekka¡¯s foot brushing the shaft. He let his momentum carry him in a full circle, bringing the spear around and up just as Mekka landed from his jump, raking the tip across his side. Twirling his spear as Mekka gasped in pain, he batted the black-winged Angel off the platform.


    As he did so, the ledge beneath him crumbled away, falling apart like a piece of old cheese, tumbling into the blackness of the Pit.


    Instinctively, Reeves spread his wings to catch his fall, but was astonished to find that he did not drop like a stone. He was drawn neither upwards or downwards, but instead simply floated, weightless in empty space. Enormous pieces of masonry tumbled slowly around him. A short way away, Mekka also drifted in the middle of the chamber, hunched over his wound, still blindfolded and shackled. Blood floated out of him in a curious way, leaving a trail of globules hanging in the air.


    Reeves had no idea what was happening; he looked around in confusion, and found that his movements were sluggish. Nothing felt real; the Tower around him was simply gone, a jumbled mess of suspended stone, and time seemed to have crawled almost to a halt¡­


    On either side of him, the Seraphim were slowly, slowly opening their huge eyes, light blazing forth.


    He was so intent on staring at them that he didn¡¯t notice the massive slab of stone spinning elegantly towards him, until it was too late¡­


    Something heavier than the world crashed into his head, and his consciousness winked out.

 Chapter One Twenty Three

    A rescue mission, swift and sure


    To find that Heaven stands no more.


    The White Dragon sped through the clouds; a sleek, determined shard of ice battling an angry sky. Wind buffeted Ferrian, and visibility was poor. In fact, they had completely lost sight of Caer Sync. Squinting, he peered down from the Dragon¡¯s back. Now and then, through gaps in the cloud cover, patches of dark green forest could be seen


    They were still over Arkana, then.


    He wiped condensation out of his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He was worried that they would overshoot the Tower completely. If they ended up over the sea, then they¡¯d gone too far. But they should be arriving at Fleetfleer soon ¨C any moment now¡­


    A few minutes passed, then a few more. But still there was nothing to be seen but grey cloud.


    Thunder grumbled, rolling around them like a stone ball on a wooden floor. Lightning flickered here and there, licking the clouds like electric snakes. He didn¡¯t particularly like being up here in a storm ¨C how foolish would it be, to be struck down by lightning on a rescue mission! ¨C but the Dragon seemed happy. She wove to and fro as though playing with the wind, as though daring the bright snakes to catch her. Ferrian had to keep reminding her to stay on course.


    He hoped she had a better sense of direction than he did.


    Crouched at the base of the Dragon¡¯s neck, just forward of her wings, Ferrian felt well-rested and sharp. Despite the inconvenience of the storm, he was glad of the bad weather. The chill wind and dampness were a relief; they were like an old friend: reassuring. They were blissful after the long, tiresome days of withering spring sun. He felt, for the first time in a while, hopeful, his fears and worries tossed away somewhere in the slipstream behind them.


    He felt ready for anything.


    But he could not have prepared himself for what he was about to encounter¡­


    A short while later, they finally broke through the clouds to find Fleetfleer close ahead to their left, the spire of Caer Sync rising majestically behind the floating white city.


    Ferrian gave a small cheer. As they neared, he began to search for a suitable place to land, wondering if they should go directly to the Tower¡­ when something exploded.


    The flash of white light was so intense that both he and the Dragon were momentarily blinded. The Dragon made an eerie keening noise and banked wildly.


    Ferrian struggled to hold on as the Dragon flapped about. A thunderous rolling noise crashed over them, but this time, it did not come from the sky¡­


    Finally, the Dragon righted herself, but her strange whine continued. Ferrian blinked, trying to clear the coloured patches from his vision. The Dragon swung around until Caer Sync came back into view.


    And then they witnessed something that Ferrian simply could not believe.


    The Tower moved.


    A tremor rippled through it, a sustained rumble that Ferrian could feel in his bones, even in the air several miles away. And then¡­ it began to fall.


    It fell slowly at first ¨C very slowly. Reluctantly, almost imperceptibly. But it began to pick up speed.


    It leaned like a gargantuan, ancient, dying tree, emanating a hair-raising moan as it did so. It toppled with a kind of horrifying, breathless dignity.


    It fell to the south, towards the forest. The city of Fleetfleer was directly in its path.


    And it kept falling. It fell on and on, more and more of it appearing out of the clouds as though it never ended, as though it truly was a spear dropped by the Gods¡­


    Ferrian could do nothing but watch, open-mouthed and stunned beyond words, as the Holy Tower descended with unfathomable force onto the city, cleaving it in half like a battle-axe through butter. The white stone carved a path of destruction through everything: stone, mortar, timber, flesh, continuing through the forest below as far as Ferrian could see.


    The crashing noise was horrific, and went on forever.


    The air became littered with birds and Angels flying about in a frenzied panic. The first of the screams washed over him.


    He could not fathom what he had just seen. It¡­ it couldn¡¯t be real!


    Then the Dragon made another sound of distress. With an effort, Ferrian tore his gaze away from the collapsing remains of the city to look northward.


    A bright golden glow obscured the shattered remains of the Tower. Ferrian could just make out a large globe within it, pulsing faintly, like an exposed heart. Pieces of stone floated around it peculiarly.


    But beyond that¡­


    Beyond where Caer Sync had once stood, where the cliffs met the ocean, was a huge black stain, as though the air itself was rotting away.


    Ferrian thought his stomach had already dropped out of him into the forest below. He was wrong, for it did so now.


    ¡°Oh no,¡± he whispered. ¡°Oh no¡­¡±


    The black shadow was unmistakable.


    There was some kind of immense wraith over there, even more vast than the Dragon-wraith he had fought and killed at Forthwhite years ago.


    Not again!


    Did that thing topple Caer Sync?!


    Ferrian¡¯s mind felt numb. He did not want to approach any closer. But he had to know what it was, he had to find out what had happened¡­


    ¡°Dragon,¡± he said, his voice barely a whisper, ¡°take me over there. But keep your distance.¡±


    The Dragon hesitated, her great white feathered wings pounding the air. But she obeyed.


    The forest ended, and they sailed over the cliffs. The Dragon circled the patch of shadow, bearing wide out over the sea.


    Ferrian forced himself to look at it, fighting the nausea and bile that rose within him, the familiar freezing clutch of dread, the taint of dark madness that sought to seize his frightened mind for its own. He held these things at bay as he peered hard into the depths¡­


    There was a triangular-shaped¡­ something¡­ in there. It was enormous and alien, like no creature or construction that Ferrian had ever seen. It was outlined in a dim blue-purple glow, with similarly-coloured lines crawling all over its surface like electric worms.


    It hovered about fifty feet above the surface of the water, close to the cliffs where once a spectacular chiming waterfall leaped into the sea. Now, a foul black oily substance poured out of the base of the Tower in its place.


    Trigon. The Tower¡¯s contained reservoir of trigon was now flooding unchecked into the northern ocean!


    Ferrian thought that he was about to be sick. A cold sweat broke out over his skin. ¡°D-dragon,¡± he stammered, ¡°let¡¯s find Mekka and get the hell out of here!¡±


    Mekka.


    Ferrian¡¯s heart skipped in terror. ¡°Oh, Gods!¡± What had happened to his friend? Had he been crushed to death? Had he¡­ was he¡­ the Pit¡­


    A wave of dizziness washed over him. He clutched one of the Dragon¡¯s protruding white spine-plates for support. Too much was happening at once, and he didn¡¯t understand any of it¡­!


    The storm broke, then, cold rain pelting down on them. The Dragon sped up, banking back towards the cliffs. Beneath them, the grey sea tossed violently. Ferrian watched it pass beneath, dazed, barely feeling the rain streaming over him. Then his numbed brain slowly noticed something else that was wrong.


    A strange grey mist was pouring off the waves, thick and greasy, like smoke, as though the sea was smouldering. Things began to leap up out of the mist towards them, throwing themselves high in the air.


    One or two of them slapped against the Dragon¡¯s pearly hide, leaving smoking grey scars.


    The Dragon half-shrieked, half-roared, surging upwards.


    ¡°What are these things?¡± Ferrian cried, trying to catch a good look at one as they rained upwards, hundreds of them. And then, with a sickening shock, he realised what they were.


    They were fish. Skeletal and gruesome, and only partly substantial. They dissolved back into mist as they fell.


    Trigon was pouring into the ocean, killing the sea life and turning it into wraiths, or reviving things that were already dead, or both¡­


    We¡¯re being attacked by dead fish!!


    And then¡­ something monstrous appeared.


    It started as a shadow sliding beneath the waves, a darker grey patch slinking in the tormented sea. Ferrian strained to keep sight of it past the Dragon¡¯s beating wings.


    ¡°Dragon!¡± he yelled. ¡°Faster!¡± Looking ahead through the silver sheets of rain, he could no longer see the cliffs.


    He looked back at the sea, but had lost sight of the shadow. Brushing water futilely from his face, Ferrian drew his Sword. Glancing down at his hands on the hilt, he saw that they were shaking.


    The monster rose up behind them with despicable quietness, a mountain of briny sinew and stringy cartilage. Ferrian turned in time to see it looming over them.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    It was a match in size for the Dragon. Rotting, barnacled, misty hide dripped off its massive skeleton. There were many pale blind eyes, tiny and spider-like in its curved, scarred head, and rows of fins, ragged and torn. The rain poured over it and through it; parts of its vast body becoming smoke, mingling with the clouds, then reforming again as solid, slimy flesh.


    It was an abomination, something dredged up from deep, cold, trigon-infected watery depths.


    It was a whale.


    A massive, undead whale-wraith.


    ¡°DRAGON!¡± Ferrian screamed.


    The Dragon threw herself to one side as the whale surged towards them. It missed, trailing horrible, fetid smoke, its body deforming as it passed, as though the bones were shifting around.


    Ferrian retched. The Dragon shrieked, spraying icy breath in an arc, freezing the rain.


    ¡°Won¡¯t¡­ do any good,¡± he muttered weakly. ¡°Only silvertine¡­ can¡­ hurt it¡­¡±


    He knew that the Dragon knew this, of course; but she was frightened and angry. The whale was big enough that it could probably consume the Dragon¡¯s soul if it touched her. Only Ferrian could truly kill it, but he wasn¡¯t keen on getting that close¡­


    Where are the damned cliffs?! he thought desperately. We should be near by now!


    The Dragon flew hard, her great white wings pounding through the storm, and finally something appeared out of the haze: a grey wall.


    We survived a Dragon-wraith, Ferrian told himself determinedly, his silver eyes hardening. We can survive this!


    Gripping his Sword with one hand, the Dragon with the other, he prepared himself, searching for the whale.


    It had disappeared.


    Towering forest trees materialised out of the gloom, like a giant, silent army ¨C masses of roots, grass and vines curling like a vegetative waterfall over the cliffs at their feet. Nearly there!


    The whale appeared again, behind them to their right. It slid out of the fog like a nightmare, silent and grotesque, on a direct collision course. Its enormous mouth full of slimy baleen was one of the most terrible things Ferrian had ever seen.


    His stomach lurched again. He looked away, turning himself around fully, carefully on the Dragon¡¯s slick silvery-white scales. Bracing himself as best he could, he positioned himself between the white plates sticking up from her spine, Sword held ready.


    Rain streamed down his face; his Sword and eyes were bright in the gloom.


    The whale closed in.


    Ferrian screamed, determined to slash the thing back into the mist from whence it came¡­


    ¡­ and then they were within the cover of the trees.


    At the last moment, the whale turned aside. But as it did so, its massive tail flicked around, catching one of the Dragon¡¯s hind legs with its flukes.


    Smoke poured off the Dragon. She howled in pain, jerking to one side.


    They were going much too fast, and there was little space to manoeuvre in the woods. Ferrian threw himself flat on the Dragon¡¯s back, holding on for his life as she careened unstoppably through the trees, smashing against trunks, obliterating branches and finally, tumbling hard into the forest floor.


    Mekka¡¯s consciousness floated in a golden haze. Snatches of dreams came and went, forgotten in moments, each fading furtively into the dim amber glow. It was a blissful state of half-existence; he would have liked to stay that way forever¡­ but then the pain brought him awake.


    A burning, throbbing ache intruded on his wistful illusions, scattering them.


    I can¡¯t be dead, he thought groggily. It hurts too much¡­


    He moved, and sharp agony sliced all along his side and chest, causing him to gasp and grimace. Instinctively, he put a hand to the spot, and felt something damp and sticky on his fingers.


    Still, he could not see anything, only the strange golden haze.


    Then he remembered that he was blindfolded. And following that thought came another: he could move his hands. He was no longer shackled.


    Slowly, Mekka reached up and removed the blindfold.


    For a moment he was disoriented, wondering if he was in fact still in a dream. Nothing made sense. He floated in the middle of a large, empty space. There were no walls; or rather, the walls were broken, split apart into hundreds of pieces of stone, suspended just as he was. Beyond them, and in every direction was nothing to be seen but yellowish light, warm and mellow like late afternoon sunlight.


    There was no Pit below him: just the same golden glow. Upwards ¨C no Excelsior, either.


    But the two Seraphim remained, to either side of him. No longer sleeping in stone, but living beings. Each with three pairs of wings, moving up and down languidly with soft swishing sounds. Golden halos rotated above their heads; their hands rested on their chests in gestures of prayer, their huge eyes open and filled with the same golden light.


    Mekka felt like an insect pinned between them.


    Fear rushed through him. Memories of the third Seraph, the one he had killed with a trigonic dagger, raced painfully through his mind.


    Is this¡­ some form of Judgement? he thought in dismay. Some personal purgatory? He didn¡¯t think he could face yet another accounting of his innumerable crimes.


    But the Seraphim did not move or speak, and appeared to be staring intently at each other rather than Mekka.


    Swallowing, he averted his gaze, flinching with pain again as he turned in the air. And that was when he caught sight of something else.


    Well, he thought wryly, if I have ended up in the Goddess¡¯s reception area, I appear to have dragged someone along with me¡­


    Some way off, near the floating debris, hung the limp form of Commander Re¡¯Vier. Mekka couldn¡¯t tell if he was unconscious or dead. Oddly, he was not wearing any armour or weapons, dressed only in underclothes and a long white coat. Pools of a silver metallic substance hovered in the air around him.


    Mekka looked down at his own unbound wrists, then around himself. Sure enough, a small silver puddle wobbled in the air nearby.


    Everything made of silvertine has melted! he thought in wonder. Returned to its original form¡­


    Blood also hung in the air around him, and his own clothes were saturated with it. Gingerly, Mekka examined the wound.


    Reeves had opened him up nicely, but not fatally, in a clean gash along his left side. The Commander had known what he was doing. Ever protective of your First Law, Mekka thought, gritting his teeth. Coward.


    With an effort, he reached down and tore strips off the hem off his garment, and bound the wound with them tightly to staunch the flow of blood.


    That done, he closed his eyes with a sigh, wondering what else could possibly happen to him.


    The rain sounded loud on the tarpaulin roof; a steady, relentless drumming. It reminded him of his younger days, years spent camping in the wild when the weather dictated his life, and he was all alone, with no one for company save birds and night animals and the ever-present rain.


    Except when the rain turned to snow. The only sound better than that of rain on a tarpaulin was the soft silence of snow. It would gather around him, wrapping him in a cold white blanket, pristine, untouchable, keeping him safe and hidden¡­


    Ferrian woke with a start, to find himself lying not in snow but face-down in damp, churned-up dirt. The drumming sound echoed a massive pounding pain in his head.


    With a groan, he attempted to push himself up. That was a mistake. The groan turned into a stifled cry of pain.


    He tried again, more slowly this time, raising himself carefully up onto one elbow. Quickly, he checked himself for injuries, and to his relief, nothing seemed to be broken. He was sure that every single part of him was bruised, however.


    Then he realised that the span of leather over his head was not a tarpaulin.


    It was a wing. The great white wing of the Dragon.


    Gathering himself, Ferrian crawled out from under the wing.


    The Dragon lay before him in the gloom like an enormous felled ghost. Rain cast a glimmering sheen on her iridescent scales, making them ripple. She was not moving.


    Breathlessly, Ferrian followed the line of her body, stumbling on torn-up undergrowth and mounds of dirt, until her tail narrowed enough to climb over it.


    Her legs were sprawled out in front of him. One of them looked completely grey, as though burnt or rotten. A few other small grey patches dotted her side, scale and flesh alike eaten away, turned foul.


    Despite the dampness, his throat was dry. His gut twisted.


    Hurriedly he ran forward, around her limbs until he came to her head. It rested amongst the roots of a colossal tree, great mossy arches curving around her like cradling arms.


    ¡°Dragon?¡± Ferrian whispered. Several of her icicle-like horns were smashed, and dark blue blood ran in thin streams over her long snout, mingling with the rain. Her eyes were closed.


    ¡°Dragon?¡± Taking hold of the slippery roots, he climbed them until he reached her.


    The Dragon did not move.


    ¡°No...¡± His eyes filled with tears. ¡°Please don¡¯t be dead!¡± He placed a hand on her nose. She felt cold, but of course she felt cold. She was an Ice Dragon. He couldn¡¯t feel any breath coming from her, and didn¡¯t know how else to check if she was still alive.


    He shook his head in denial. Surely the Dragon¡¯s soul was too huge, too mighty to be stolen by a few stupid dead fish!


    Ferrian looked around helplessly. The forest rose around them, watchful giants ¨C brooding, but offering no help. It was dark, like twilight. Anxiously, he searched the shadows, the half-formed shapes in the gloom, reassuring himself it was just ordinary dark, not trigon-dark. He looked back the way they had come: it was a wrecked path of broken branches, scarred trees and mist.


    But nothing like the destruction caused by the toppling of Caer Sync.


    Ferrian had seen it with his own eyes, not so far away, yet he couldn¡¯t imagine it. The catastrophic horror was too immense. He couldn¡¯t think about it¡­


    He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, tears spilling down his face. It had all gone horribly wrong. One minute he had been feeling good, confident that they would reach Mekka in time, that everything would somehow work out fine. And the next¡­


    He slumped down on the roots, back against the Dragon¡¯s snout, staring out at the rain in despair.


    The Dragon moved. She twitched so suddenly that Ferrian slipped off his perch, tumbling face first into the mud and leaves below.


    He was so elated that he didn¡¯t care. ¡°Dragon!¡± he cried, leaping to his feet. Then in the next moment, he fell back onto his knees, putting his hands to his muddy face. ¡°Oh Gods. Thank the Gods!¡± He took several deep breaths to compose himself, then looked up. ¡°Are you¡­ are you badly hurt?¡±


    The Dragon opened her huge silver eye, blinking slowly. ¡°I will¡­ live,¡± she replied.


    Then her great head rose, her body shifted, and her neck curved around so that her head came to rest on her good paws. Her long, sinuous tail curled inwards as well, and her wings outstretched above her like a canopy. Then she closed her eyes again.


    Ferrian watched her, feeling weak with relief. In a flash of inspiration, he walked over and knelt once more before her, placing a hand on her nose. Closing his eyes, he summoned his magic, gently sending a wave of frost whispering out across her scales.


    He could not heal the Dragon¡¯s wounds, as Requar would have been able to, but, just as he had with Lady Araynia, he could ease her pain, at least for awhile.


    When it was done, the Dragon slept peacefully within a glittering layer of frost. Ferrian stroked the ice. ¡°Rest for a bit,¡± he whispered, and got to his feet.


    Standing alone in the rain, Ferrian wondered what to do. He felt suddenly weary, and wanted to lie down and sleep for awhile, too. But he couldn¡¯t. Above everything else, Mekka¡¯s fate preyed on his mind. He couldn¡¯t rest without knowing what had happened to the Angel.


    He stared glumly into the darkness of the trees to the east, where he imagined Fleetfleer to be. He could see and hear nothing but the pattering of rain on the ferns. How far into the forest had they crashed? He had no idea; everything had happened so fast. And with the Dragon injured, he had no way of reaching the ruined city or whatever was left of Caer Sync; at least, not until she recovered well enough to fly.


    But there was a chance that there were survivors roaming about the forest. Perhaps Ferrian could locate someone and try to find out whether Mekka had been taken to the Tower or not¡­


    Closing his eyes, he took a shaky breath. It was a small chance, but Ferrian didn¡¯t know what else to do. He would find no answers standing here.


    He checked his small battered knapsack, which, remarkably, he was still wearing. There were a few provisions left inside. He reached back to draw his Sword¡­


    His hand clutched empty air.


    Ferrian looked over his shoulder, then removed his scabbard in disbelief. It was empty.


    His Sword was gone!


    He looked around wildly. I must have dropped it somewhere!


    A terrible thought occurred to him. The last time he remembered holding it was when they were in the air, when he was facing down the monstrous whale. Could it have fallen into the ocean?!


    No, Ferrian told himself, heart hammering, he was sure he still had it when they entered the trees¡­


    Dumping the rest of his gear in a heap, he ran about the clearing, frantically searching the mud and bushes. After about twenty futile minutes, he paced back and forth in front of the Dragon, in full-blown panic.


    ¡°This can not be happening!¡± he said out loud. ¡°I can NOT have lost my Sword AGAIN!¡±


    It was not the first time he had stupidly dropped the Sword. The last time, he had thought it gone forever, swept away down the Sorcerer¡¯s Valley, but it showed up again, uncannily.


    He cursed, whirling around, furious with himself, and then noticed that his footprints in the mud were filled with ice. In his distress, he had unconsciously summoned his magic. He had an annoying habit of doing that¡­


    Wait. Magic?


    He stopped dead, slapping a hand to his face. I¡¯m being a fool!


    Closing his eyes, he took a few minutes to calm himself, breathing deeply, concentrating. Then, slowly, he lifted his arm.


    At first, there was nothing. But he remembered his training, remembered to be patient. This was one of the first things Lord Arzath had taught him.


    Frost spread out from him, a thin white bloom across the mud.


    At last, he felt a tug, and opened his eyes to see something silvery-bright flash out of the darkness, whirring towards his outstretched hand.


    He caught the Sword neatly, then sagged once more with relief. ¡°Magic can be useful for something!¡± he said, laughing despite himself. Then he straightened and went to gather up his things.


    With a last long look at the sleeping Dragon, Ferrian snapped a small icelight into existence, and set off into the depths of the great forest.

 Chapter One Twenty Four

    Peaceful morning, still and warm


    From the silence, terror born.


    The herb garden was doing well. Small, fragrant bushes of thyme, mountain sage and wild spinach, bilberries and pepper berries, dandelions and thistle clustered together in the tiny courtyard, protected from the wind. They didn¡¯t receive as much sunlight as Luca would have liked; mostly in the mornings when the rising sun had lifted above the mountain peaks, and before the castle¡¯s shadow enveloped them. But he kept them watered and pruned, neat and tidy, checking on them every day.


    The thyme had started flowering, the little purple blooms attracting bees, which buzzed around the young Centaur as he pottered around, gathering some of the herbs to flavour his dishes later. He paused for a moment, regarding his sunlit garden. One side of the courtyard was bordered with white walls and the tall dining room windows, the other with black stone. It was a little odd, and a little cramped, but he liked it here. He was proud of what he had grown, and he enjoyed the challenge of trying to create tasty dishes from sparse, wild ingredients. It made every day interesting, and kept his mind from dwelling upon more worrying things. He was content to simply cook and forage and look after everyone at the castle.


    He was concerned at how little Lord Arzath ate, but Luca took trays of food up to his chamber regularly, anyway. Sometimes, when he returned for them, they were actually empty.


    Satisfied with his cuttings, he headed back inside, turning right along a white-walled corridor leading to the kitchen, his mind already dashing ahead to the meals he needed to prepare. Breakfast was already done and over, the others having retired to their rooms upstairs. Everine had attempted to loiter in the kitchen again, but her brother had dragged her forcibly away.


    Luca was grateful.


    Lady Araynia had been very quiet lately, hardly speaking to anyone at all. Luca was worried about her. He felt that something was going on that he didn¡¯t know about, something important, but she didn¡¯t seem to want to talk to him. He was fairly sure that Lord Arzath had threatened her or scared her in some way, but he had no idea what to do about it. He wished he knew how to help her.


    Reaching the kitchen, he brushed the thoughts aside, busying himself with the food.


    A few minutes later, he was in the middle of chopping up some tubers when an unexpected crawling sensation spread over his skin, as though his entire body had suddenly been swarmed by ants.


    Luca froze mid-chop, his knife held in the air.


    He suddenly had an immensely powerful feeling that he was being watched.


    Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.


    There was no one else in the kitchen. No one standing by the doorway.


    He stared at the two entrances to the kitchen for a couple of minutes. Nothing happened.


    Slowly, he turned around, still gripping his knife, walked to the dining room doorway and peered out.


    Deserted. The dining hall was empty. The fire flickered brightly in the hearth. The tall windows opposite were filled with bright sunlight.


    Backing away, Luca moved carefully across the kitchen to the door leading to the rear corridor. Opening it as quietly as he could, he looked through.


    The pale-walled corridor stretched away to his left. There was a spacious circular stairwell at the far end, past the door to the garden. A bright red drape with a rising sun emblem hung on the wall in the stairwell, moving slightly in a draught. Luca watched it, then glanced back into the kitchen again, then back at the drapery.


    Nothing.


    There was no one there.


    He closed the door to the corridor. Why, then, was he filled with such unexplained dread? His skin was covered in sweat. He felt almost¡­ ill¡­


    He had felt something like this before. In Crystaltina, the night the wraiths had attacked. He had felt it so strongly he had rushed to get Lady Araynia out of the house.


    It was the same dark feeling, as though a hole was opening up inside him, as though he was being devoured from the inside¡­


    Demon-wraiths!


    But he could see no creeping black shadows. No telltale hint of oily, fireless smoke. Sunlight continued to pour in shafts across the kitchen from the narrow ventilation slots near the ceiling.


    Luca made his way quietly out into the dining room, still clutching his knife. Nothing seemed amiss, but the eerie feeling of dread grew. His heart told him to run, to bolt out of the castle, right now, as fast as he could go.


    But he could not do that. He could not abandon everyone else to save himself. If there was danger here, he had to warn them, at least¡­


    He started moving around the dining table, heading for the doors, when he heard a noise.


    Footsteps.


    Clear footsteps walking across the stone floor of the foyer.


    Luca stopped dead. For a moment he was almost relieved ¨C wraiths didn¡¯t walk in boots, they were soundless ¨C but something still felt wrong.


    The footsteps were steady and purposeful. And then they stopped.


    The door to the dining room opened.


    A stranger stepped in.


    She was the most terrifying-looking Human that Luca had ever seen.


    Red hair spilled about her shoulders, as though dyed in blood. Black lines traced the sides of her pale face; her wintry eyes shadowed. She wore some kind of sinister black armour, half-hidden beneath an incongruous dusty-coloured longcoat.


    Luca wished he wasn¡¯t trembling so hard. The small kitchen knife in his hand might as well have been a bunch of dandelions. He couldn¡¯t see any weapons on the woman, but who knew what she was concealing under that coat?


    Bravely, he found his voice. ¡°W-who¡­ are you?¡±


    The woman could have gutted him with her gaze alone. ¡°Where,¡± she replied, ¡°is Mekka? Where is Hawk?¡±


    Luca didn¡¯t know how to lie. Not even to save his life. ¡°N-not here,¡± he stammered. It was half true. ¡°Mekka is in Arkana,¡± he added. ¡°He was¡­ taken to Caer Sync.¡±


    The woman regarded him, tilting her head slightly to one side. A small smile formed on her bloodless lips. ¡°But Hawk is here.¡±


    It was a statement, not a question. She knew he was here. Nothing that Luca told her would make a difference.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he replied, hoping he could gain a small measure of trust by being honest.


    The woman stared at him for a long moment with the same unnerving smile. Luca tensed, waiting for her to do something, waiting for an opportunity to run. He could outrun any Human. Perhaps he couldn¡¯t fight, but he was more nimble than most¡­


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said, sounding disappointed, her smile fading. ¡°You¡¯re afraid of me.¡±


    Luca¡¯s heart rate increased.


    She lowered her gaze, then, slumping slowly, like a downcast child. ¡°They were all afraid of me,¡± she said softly. ¡°No one tried to fight me. They were just¡­ afraid¡­¡± There was a glimmer of tears in her eyes. ¡°I had to kill them, because they were afraid of me.¡±


    She was clearly insane. Luca¡¯s mind raced, trying to work out his options¡­ Through the kitchen. Along the back corridor. Up the stairwell¡­


    The woman sighed.


    And then everything went black.


    For a second Luca thought he had gone blind, or knocked out. Realising he was still conscious, he bounded backwards, twisting around in the air and landing in a gallop. Though he could see nothing at all, he had a good memory of the layout of the dining room, and ran fast for where he anticipated the kitchen door to be.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    He slightly misjudged the edge of the long dining table. Attempting to leap the corner, he smashed into a high-backed chair and went down in a tangled heap of limbs.


    Frantically, he tried to extricate himself from the furniture.


    At that moment, the fireplace bloomed, off to his left. It wasn¡¯t bright enough to illuminate the entire hall, only its close surroundings. It was as though the darkness had pulled back in just that one spot.


    The suddenness of it startled Luca, but allowed just enough light to let him kick the chair away and jump to his feet.


    He was only a few feet away from the kitchen¡­


    Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement in the blackness of the hall. Out of pure survival instinct, he slid back to the floor, just as a massive, gleaming black spike shot out of the shadows, right over his head, the tip embedding itself in the opposite wall.


    Luca looked up at it in horror.


    It hung there for endless, abominable seconds before retracting, softening as it did so, becoming limber, like a tentacle, and melted back into the darkness.


    Luca was frozen in fear, his breath in his throat. He dared not rise to his feet.


    The woman appeared in front of him, stepping silently out of the dark, positioning herself in front of the kitchen doorway. The firelight dimly etched out her figure, gleaming on the strange armour. Her eyes were like black holes in a skull¡­


    Luca ceased to think. Springing to his feet and turning in one fluid motion, he bounded around the dining table and sprinted the length of the hall, heading for the main door.


    He expected a huge spike in his back at any moment¡­


    With a cry of fear, he threw himself at the darkness where he thought the door must be¡­


    ¡­ and burst out into clear light, skidding on the polished marble floor of the foyer.


    Blinking in the sudden change of light, he risked a glance behind him.


    The interior of the dining room was completely black.


    He heard the woman laugh. It was not a maniacal laugh, but soft and happy, as though enjoying a quiet joke with a lover.


    Luca raced for the sweeping white staircase, reaching the top in three bounds. He threw himself into one of the corridors leading from the balcony, then swung up a narrow spiral staircase, his hooves clattering loudly on the stone.


    He was aware, as he ran, that he was leading the wraith-woman directly towards his friends. She had probably allowed him to escape for exactly this reason. But Luca had no choice. He had to warn them¡­


    He burst out onto an upper level, galloping down the corridor. ¡°LADY!¡± he screamed. ¡°EVERINE! BEN!¡±


    A door halfway along the hallway opened, and Araynia peered out, looking alarmed. Luca slid to a halt in front of her. ¡°We must go!¡± he told her breathlessly. ¡°We must go NOW!¡±


    Seeing his expression, the blood drained from her face. Pausing only to grab her cloak from a chair beside the door, she hurried out of her room.


    Luca was already galloping towards Everine and Ben, who had stepped out of their own chambers in bewilderment. No one had heard soft-spoken Luca scream before.


    ¡°A¡­ a wraith,¡± he gasped. ¡°In the castle! We must go!¡±


    The lady and the boy paled as well. Ben raced back into his room, his sister close behind him. Moments passed as they dragged the battered wheelchair and its half-dead occupant out into the corridor.


    Luca glanced anxiously behind him.


    Nothing appeared in the stairwell.


    ¡°A wraith?¡± Araynia said fearfully. ¡°How¡­ how did it find us here?!¡±


    Luca shook his head. ¡°It is¡­ different. Still¡­ partly Human. A woman, with red hair. She was asking for¡­ Mekka, and Hawk¡­¡±


    Both Everine and Ben looked up at him in shock.


    ¡°Carmine?!¡± Everine gasped, blue eyes wide.


    Ben stared at him as well, agape. ¡°She escaped?!¡±


    Without another word, Everine gripped the wheelchair¡¯s handles and started running.


    The little group sprinted down the hallway and around the corner. Here began a maze of complicated corridors where the black part of the castle met the white. Luca directed them, being the only one who had ventured into this wing of Castle Whiteshadow. Dark, unlit walls and empty yawning hallways passed unnervingly.


    They piled into a black stone stairwell, heading down. Immediately, they encountered a problem: the wheelchair jounced so violently that Hawk almost fell out.


    Ben leaped forward, catching the body in time, but was forced to hold him in place as Everine struggled to manoeuvre the chair down the narrow, tightly winding steps.


    Their progress became excruciatingly slow.


    Luca kept glancing behind him, jittery as he brought up the rear. The stairwell seemed to wind down and down infinitely, the banging of the wheelchair echoing, seemingly, throughout the entire castle.


    ¡°Hurry!¡± he urged. ¡°Please, hurry!¡±


    Everine muttered something unintelligible, and probably not polite.


    At last, they reached the bottom, and picked up speed again, passing back into a white-walled section of the keep. Luca guided them into another stairwell, this one somewhat wider and less steep.


    Everine charged into it a little too enthusiastically. The wheelchair jolted hard, and its occupant tumbled out, rolling down the steps like a rag doll tossed by a careless child.


    Everyone cursed.


    They ran down the stairs after Hawk¡¯s body.


    The bottom opened out into a pale, circular chamber, empty except for a single crimson drape hanging against one wall. Everine and Ben got to work hauling Hawk back into the chair.


    Luca darted to the side of the chamber, running his slim bronzed hands over the stone walls. ¡°There is a secret door here somewhere,¡± he explained. ¡°Ferrian mentioned it before he left.¡±


    Araynia hurried to help him search. As soon as Hawk was seated again, the others joined them. Minutes passed as the four of them searched for the hidden catch.


    ¡°Are you sure this is the right stairwell?¡± Everine asked in exasperation.


    Luca nodded, equally frustrated. ¡°He said it was the eastern stairwell, behind the kitchen,¡± he replied. ¡°It must be here!¡±


    Araynia shook her head helplessly. ¡°We¡¯ve searched everywhere. Even behind the drapery!¡±


    Luca shook his head as well. ¡°We are missing something. Keep looking!¡±


    They did so, with increasing desperation. Somewhere in the castle, the wraith was hunting them. If the hidden exit wasn¡¯t found soon, they were all going to die¡­


    Araynia gasped suddenly, causing them all to look at her hopefully. ¡°Oh, Gods!¡± she exclaimed, looking around at them. ¡°Lord Arzath!¡±


    Everine snorted, waving a hand. ¡°Forget about him!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Araynia stared at her in horror. ¡°No, we¡­ we can¡¯t! He deserves a chance!¡±


    Ben stepped out from beneath the drape. ¡°I¡¯ll go!¡±


    Everine grabbed his arm. ¡°No, you will not!¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± Luca swallowed. ¡°I¡­ I know the way to his chamber.¡±


    And before he could think about it or anyone could stop him, the Centaur bounded back up the stairs.


    Araynia kept watch at the entrance to the stairwell as Everine and Ben continued to prod and peer at the walls, floor and stairs for any sign of a catch or mechanism that would open the elusive hidden door. Everine¡¯s cursing became increasingly louder and more¡­ inventive. Araynia winced.


    Her own heart felt as though it wanted to leap out of her throat. She stood pressed against the chilly stone of the wall, hardly daring to peek around the corner.


    The rest of the castle lay in silence.


    Araynia strained her ears to hear anything, anything at all. She could feel the seconds ticking away along with her frantic heartbeat.


    Luca is taking too long! She chewed on her nails unhappily. I should not have let him go!


    There was no hint of ominous black shadow¡­ yet¡­


    ¡°Who¡­ who is she?¡± she whispered, half to herself. ¡°How did she find us?¡±


    Everine sighed, turning, and set her back to the wall. She waved a hand at the wheelchair. ¡°His fianc¨¦e,¡± she replied dismally.


    Araynia stared at her, aghast. ¡°What? How did¡­?¡±


    ¡°Long story,¡± Ben interjected from the opposite wall. He shook his head. ¡°But trust me, you do not want to meet her.¡±


    ¡°Carmine was my friend,¡± Everine said, arms clasped around herself. There was a glint of tears in her eyes. ¡°A spy for awhile, trained by Mekka. But she wanted to be a soldier.¡± She sniffed. ¡°That¡¯s what got her into this damned mess!¡± She kicked the wall with the heel of her boot.


    ¡°Oh no,¡± Ben said quietly. The other two looked at him. ¡°I just thought of something.¡±


    Everine straightened. ¡°What?¡±


    Ben looked at his sister, his young face pale and haunted, and then over at the wheelchair. ¡°Hawk is half-wraith too, right? Well¡­ what if Carmine can sort of¡­ sense him? What if wraiths can track other wraiths? Luca told me that Centaurs can kind of smell magic, or feel it, or whatever. Like, traces of it hang around for days or weeks or even years, but normal Humans can¡¯t detect it. What if¡­ what if trigon is like that?¡±


    Everine stared at him. ¡°Are you saying we led her here? That no matter where Hawk goes, Carmine can find him?¡±


    Ben shrugged uncomfortably. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ just a theory¡­¡±


    The blonde-haired woman pushed herself away from the wall, pacing across the chamber. She stopped and kicked the wall again. ¡°Dammit!¡±


    Araynia stared at the wheelchair with its limp, hooded occupant, expecting him to rise up at any moment, which was entirely possible. Her fear surged. She felt suddenly trapped, like a mouse in a corner. The demon-woman was coming for them, coming for her fianc¨¦. It knew exactly where they were!


    And it knew that they couldn¡¯t get away¡­


    She could feel herself panicking, breathing too fast. The archway beside her was too open, without even a door to barricade themselves behind¡­


    Clutching the blue pendant at her throat, as though its dim, soft magic could somehow protect her, she forced herself to look around the corner¡­


    A black figure loomed directly in front of her, blocking her vision.


    Araynia shrieked, throwing herself back against the wall¡­


    It was Lord Arzath. He strode into the room, his black cloak sweeping out behind him. He carried a long, beautiful sword in one hand, unsheathed, the blade seeming almost to glide at his side¡­


    He swept through the room, slamming his free hand on the central pillar as he went, without looking or pausing. ¡°Fools!¡± he spat, swiping the drape aside and disappearing without breaking his stride through the exit that had opened in the opposite wall.


    Everine leapt at once to the wheelchair, turning it and pushing Hawk quickly into the passage. Her brother followed close on her heels.


    ¡°Go!¡± Luca urged. Araynia saw that her servant ¨C her friend ¨C was pale, exhausted and shaking. His brown eyes were wide and terrified. ¡°Go!¡± he urged again, breathlessly. ¡°She is¡­ coming!¡±


    Araynia hurried into the passage. Inside the threshold she turned, holding the drape aside for Luca.


    And that was when she saw that the corridor outside the stairwell, just behind the Centaur, was black. Impossibly, inky black.


    The blackest black there ever was, or could be.


    Eyes widening, she took a breath to warn Luca¡­


    She saw him gathering himself, preparing to leap into the passage¡­


    The spike shot out of the darkness like a bolt, monstrously huge, piercing the Centaur¡¯s back with an awful, sickening noise, impaling him mid-air just as he sprang forward.


    As Araynia¡¯s breath caught in her throat in horror, masses of thin, dark, oily tentacles swarmed out of the shadowed corridor, coiling around Luca¡¯s legs, body, and throat. Then they yanked him soundlessly into the blackness.


    And just like that, Luca was gone.


    Araynia found her breath again, and screamed.


    Then something was pulling her backwards, and she screamed again, thrashing violently, but it was not tentacles, it was hands. The stone door of the passage slid closed with a heavy thud.


    ¡°NO!¡± Araynia screamed. ¡°LUCA!¡±


    She broke free, throwing herself against the door. ¡°LUCA!¡±


    Then a much more powerful force seized her, hurling the young woman several feet down the narrow, dark passage.


    Arzath stepped in front of her, placing himself in front of the door, one arm extended, purple lightning crackling around his hand, sending light dancing crazily over the rough-hewn walls of the tunnel. ¡°He is DEAD!¡± he snapped brutally. ¡°Now get up and MOVE, or we will shortly be joining him!¡±


    Ben was attempting to help her get to her feet. She brushed him off. Tears flooded her vision. She could barely breathe for the frantic sobs. ¡°No! NO!¡±


    Arzath swiped his hand. A lightning bolt crashed into the wall right beside her, showering her with sparks and rock dust, making everyone jump. ¡°RUN NOW!¡±


    They ran. Ben took Araynia¡¯s hand and forced her to move with him.


    Araynia ran through her tears, through her grief, through her fear, through the darkness of the tunnel, into the unknown.


    She ran for her life.

 Chapter One Twenty Five

    A tunnel long, a fearful flight


    A tense stand-off in violet light.


    The tunnel continued for a long time, a dead straight passage boring ahead through the heart of the mountain. There were no side passages save one, briefly, to their right; Arzath ushered them quickly past it.


    Behind them, darkness followed, thick and impenetrable, and no one could tell if it was the cold, quiet lightlessness of the deep rock, or the deathly touch of trigon reaching out to grasp them. Ahead, the shadows retreated before Arzath¡¯s magical light, the walls beside them stained vivid purple and dancing with frantic silhouettes, closing them in like an endless tomb.


    They ran until their breath was gone and their legs screamed to stop, and then ran some more, driven onwards by panic.


    Finally, just as they were all on the verge of collapse, the tunnel ended.


    It simply ended, in a flat stone wall.


    Everine, running in front, crashed Hawk¡¯s wheelchair into the wall and went down in a tangled heap.


    Ben and Araynia brought themselves up behind her and sagged against the side of the tunnel, gasping for breath.


    Arzath pushed past them all. Breathing heavily himself, he ran a hand over the rough rock adjacent to the smooth wall, then placed his palm flat against it and pushed.


    There was a grinding sound and the wall that blocked their path shuddered and lifted itself upwards, showering them all with fine dust.


    Glancing back once, but not bothering to look at anyone, Arzath strode ahead, his eyes illuminating the space that lay beyond.


    Not wishing to be left behind in the darkness, the others scrambled to their feet and hastened to follow.


    They entered a smallish square room, neatly cut into the rock. It was made more cramped by the fact that it was almost completely filled with crates, boxes, barrels, sacks and various equipment, stacked against the walls right to the ceiling. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. It looked as though this room had not been used in a very long time.


    The door behind them closed with an impossibly loud, echoing sound that made all of them jump save Arzath, who was sweeping his purple gaze around the room. He moved to one side and brushed the dust off one of the crates.


    Leaning forward, he peered closely at the wood. A faint blue design appeared beneath his fingertips, glowed weakly, then faded and was gone.


    ¡°Preservation spells,¡± he muttered, feeling an uncomfortable chill at the touch of the old, familiar magic, as though he were somehow touching the ashes of his brother. Brushing the feeling away, he crouched and prised open a wooden box. It was full of apples, red and healthy, as though freshly picked. He pocketed a couple, then stood.


    ¡°A storage room,¡± he declared aloud. ¡°My brother likely stocked it half a century ago. Everything remains in good condition. Take whatever you need.¡±


    Though he had never explored this far into the tunnels, he wasn¡¯t surprised at the existence of such a room. Requar had spent most of his life in the valley besieged. Arzath¡¯s own castle had been designed with similar escape routes and contingency supplies. He was fairly sure the tunnel ran straight east to the other side of the peaks, though where exactly it emerged he did not know. He estimated another day of travelling, at least. There would be no time for sleep.


    The wraith knew where they had gone, and it would not stop until it found them.


    He turned his attention to the stone door through which they had come. Striding over to the wall, he found the concealed mechanism and placed his hand over it. Summoning his magic, he let it course though his hand into the switch. Dazzling white-purple sparks leapt over the stone and crackled across his glowing fingers. He poured magic into the metal mechanism until it melted sufficiently to jam the device, rendering the door immovable.


    It would likely not stop the wraith, but the more obstacles between them and it, the better. He didn¡¯t bother with a spell trap: magic was ineffectual against trigon.


    He could not be sure of the strength of their enemy, but it was obviously no ordinary demon-wraith. It had found its way somehow to this remote valley. It was purposeful and intelligent, not some mindless dead thing. And those vicious black spikes¡­


    His stomach quavered a little. He recognised those spikes. He had seen them before, felt them pierce his own flesh, worming into him, seeking to devour his soul. Their touch had infected him, sickened him, stole his life away little by little, until he was barely a shell of a Human being.


    And what they had done to his brother was far worse¡­


    Pushing away from the wall, and the memories aside as he did so, he spun into the centre of the room.


    The others were huddled to one side, pale and miserable, having not moved from where they had collapsed. The young noblewoman was curled in a corner, half-buried in her fluffy cloak, weeping softly; the only sound to disturb the chilly, ominous silence. The boy Ben sat beside her, holding her hand, his face haunted. The blonde woman sat on a crate, knees pulled up to her chest like a child, face buried in her arms. The battered wheelchair stood near her, its occupant slumped grotesquely, one arm dangling over the side, like the corpse that it was.


    Taking a single step forward, Arzath raised his arm slowly.


    Catching sight of the movement, Ben leapt to his feet. ¡°No!¡± he cried, eyes wide.


    Ignoring him, Arzath allowed his hand to fill with sizzling violet light.


    ¡°No!¡± Ben shrieked again, his voice rising shrilly. ¡°No, stop! STOP! PLEASE!!¡±


    Arzath turned his head, regarding the boy coldly. ¡°This thing,¡± he hissed, ¡°is riddled with trigon! It has drawn a monster into MY castle. As long as it exists, it will attract wraiths like flies to rotting meat!¡±


    The boy looked at him, his brown eyes filled with both fear and understanding. ¡°I¡­¡± he swallowed. ¡°I know! But¡­¡± he shook his head. ¡°But you can¡¯t!¡±


    Arzath snorted. His fingers flexed wider, the glow surging in brightness as electricity licked forth. ¡°I do as I wish!¡±


    Ben gave another cry, and started to leap forward¡­


    Arzath swung his arm towards the boy.


    Everine screamed, leaping off her crate. ¡°DON¡¯T YOU DARE!¡±


    Arzath paused, regarding her. Then he turned his arm towards her. His face twisted into a sardonic smile. ¡°Would you rather be first, instead?¡±


    Her face went bloodless, then flushed as anger surged through her. Her fists were balled at her sides as she stood her ground, her blue eyes flashing. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    Arzath sneered. ¡°I care nothing for any of you, you snivelling¨C¡±


    ¡°But Ferrian does,¡± Ben interjected quietly.


    Silence fell.


    ¡°If you kill any of us,¡± he went on, ¡°including him¨C¡± he gestured at the chair¨C ¡°do you think Ferrian will forgive you for that? He¡¯s spent years trying to find a cure for Hawk. Are you going to take that away from him?¡±


    Arzath said nothing. Slowly, he turned to look at Ben.


    The boy¡¯s expression was steadfast. He held the sorcerer¡¯s fearsome gaze, at least for a few seconds, before blinking and swallowing. ¡°He¡¯s more powerful than you, isn¡¯t he?¡± he went on, either bravely or foolishly. ¡°He¡¯s only twenty and he¡¯s already a better sorcerer than you ever were!¡±


    Everine¡¯s intake of breath was sharp. ¡°Ben!¡±


    Ben ignored her, and the flare of light from Arzath¡¯s glare. ¡°You think he won¡¯t be furious? You think he won¡¯t come after you? And then you¡¯ll have to fight him! He has a Sword and a Dragon; what do you have?¡±


    Arzath¡¯s eyes blazed into him like twin purple suns, so bright there was barely a shadow left in the room. His free hand clenched, unclenched, then clenched again. The boy stood there like someone who knew he couldn¡¯t be touched. Anger boiled inside Arzath, power sizzling through his veins, acrid and searing, longing for release. For an instant, he considered letting it loose, torching the entire room and everyone in it¡­


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Swinging his arm back towards Ben, ignoring Everine¡¯s yelp of fear, he walked forward, forcing the boy backwards until he was stopped by a wall of crates.


    ¡°What do I have?¡± His voice spat and hissed like the electricity arcing around his fingers. He stepped even closer, so that the magic licked only inches from the boy¡¯s face. ¡°What do I have?!¡±


    His eyes widened. ¡°I have nothing to lose!¡±


    To his satisfaction, the boy¡¯s defiant expression finally wavered, going several shades paler, doubt flickering in the brown eyes along with the reflection of the sparks in front of his face.


    Arzath held his position long enough for the fear and uncertainty to take a firm grip of everyone watching. Then he dropped his arm with a vicious swipe, extinguishing the magic. Turning, he swept away from them, cloak swishing, towards the opposite door.


    ¡°Stay here and die if you wish!¡± he snarled, slamming his hand on the wall to open the slab. ¡°I go on alone!¡± For a moment he paused and looked back, his face eerie in the purple light radiating from the furious bright holes of his eyes. He pointed a finger at Hawk. ¡°And if I discover anyone attempting to follow me with that disgusting corpse, I will destroy ALL OF YOU!¡±


    Then he was gone, melting into the darkness, silhouetted by the violet glow of his magic until the door slid closed behind him, blocking the sorcerer from view and plunging them all into deepest blackness.


    When he could breathe again, Ben began to feel his way quickly around the room towards the stack of torches he had seen beside the door. Everine¡¯s breathing was loud: he could tell she was starting to panic. The blackness was so complete that they could see nothing at all. Carmine could be standing in the middle of the room at that very moment, tentacles silently extended, and they wouldn¡¯t even know¡­


    Ben¡¯s own heart hammered wildly as his hand finally found a torch, and he fumbled a match tin from his pocket. The darkness felt as though it was crushing him, the silence deafening¡­


    Then light flared, chasing the shadows away with a warm, fiery glow. Ben swung the torch around.


    Nothing.


    No wraith.


    Everine sank heavily onto a crate, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. Ben hurried over to his sister. ¡°Are you alright?¡±


    She nodded, but her face told him otherwise. She was struggling to hold herself together. She managed a scowl. ¡°You¡­ you shouldn¡¯t have pushed Arzath like that!¡±


    Ben glanced in the direction the sorcerer had gone, his heart still pounding from the encounter, and flushed slightly. ¡°Someone had to stand up to him!¡± he said. ¡°He¡¯s a bully! And besides,¡± he shrugged. ¡°He¡¯s all bluff. He wouldn¡¯t have actually murdered us.¡±


    Everine bit her lip, looking unconvinced. She was silent for a moment. Looking over at the wheelchair, she swallowed. ¡°But,¡± she said quietly, ¡°he was¡­ right.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    She looked up at him, her eyes filled with despair. She shook her head, and sighed deeply. ¡°Ben. We¡­ we can¡¯t just keep dragging Hawk around like this. Especially if Carmine can find him wherever we go!¡±


    Ben stared at his sister. ¡°What are you suggesting?¡±


    She glanced at the wheelchair again unhappily. ¡°Perhaps,¡± she whispered. ¡°It¡¯s time¡­ to let Hawk go.¡±


    Ben shook his head in disbelief. ¡°What? Just¡­ leave him here?¡±


    Everine sighed. ¡°She¡¯s his fianc¨¦e, Ben,¡± she said. ¡°She came here for him, and we cannot stop her. Do we¡­ do we have any right to?¡±


    Ben said nothing. They both stared at the pitiful hooded figure in the half-broken wheelchair. His left hand hung exposed, dangling over the side of the chair; gruesome, black and rotting. Beneath his plain brown robes, the golden silvertine armour sparkled like sun-beaten water in the light of Ben¡¯s torch. It had not dulled in the slightest after all these years.


    Neither had Ben¡¯s hope. Not once. Not even when the Angel Legionnaire had stood at Hawk¡¯s bedside, sword raised¡­


    Ben shook his head. ¡°No,¡± he replied. ¡°That Angel back at the Inn spared Hawk¡¯s life. He disobeyed a direct order from his Commander, and he didn¡¯t have to do that. He doesn¡¯t even know Hawk. To him, he¡¯s just another dying Human¡­¡±


    Ben took a deep breath, closing his eyes. ¡°That¡¯s a chance we can¡¯t just throw away!¡± He looked back at his sister, taking her hand in his own. ¡°We have to hold on a little longer, Everine. At least survive until Ferrian gets back!¡±


    Everine shook her head. ¡°Ferrian doesn¡¯t know how to help him, Ben...¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll think of something!¡± Ben insisted. ¡°If Hawk¡¯s going to die, then Ferrian should be the one to decide, not us! He left us to take care of Hawk, remember? He trusted us!¡±


    Everine¡¯s eyes filled with tears. They spilled over her pale cheeks. ¡°I don¡¯t want to lose you, Ben,¡± she said, her voice choking. ¡°Not like¡­ this. Not like¡­ Luca¡­¡±


    Ben hugged her, feeling her body trembling as she embraced him tightly. She sobbed softly into his shoulder. He blinked back tears of his own. He had been too far back in the tunnel to see what had happened to Luca, but Araynia had been standing in full view of him when he died. Her anguished scream still echoed awfully in his mind.


    It likely would forever.


    Luca had been the kindest and most gentle person that Ben had ever known. The young Centaur had wanted nothing out of life but to cook good food and make other people happy. He had never complained about anything, not even when Everine was being insufferable.


    He hadn¡¯t deserved to die like that.


    His bravery had forced Arzath to save all of their lives.


    Ben squeezed his eyes closed. He was afraid too. He didn¡¯t want to become a wraith, or have to watch anyone else die so horribly. But they had to try to save Hawk. They¡¯d managed to keep him alive this long. They couldn¡¯t give up now!


    Pulling away, he brushed the tears from his face. ¡°I still have the dagger,¡± he said, checking that the beautiful gold-gilded Angel blade was stashed safely in his belt. It was. ¡°The silvertine dagger that Legionnaire gave to me.¡±


    Everine sniffed, wiping at her nose, looking at him dubiously. ¡°It¡¯s a dagger, Ben.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s better than nothing.¡± He took a deep breath. ¡°Arzath should be far enough ahead by now. We¡¯ll follow him at a distance, at least until we¡¯re out of the tunnels.¡± He looked around the storeroom. ¡°We should hurry and pack up some of this food.¡± Nervously, he glanced at the stone door behind him, but it remained resolutely closed. No hint of inky black shadow penetrated its seams.


    Turning back to the centre of the room, he suddenly stiffened.


    Everine got at once to her feet. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    ¡°Lady Araynia¡­¡± Ben walked slowly to the opposite corner, where the young noblewoman had been huddled. Then he spun back around, waving his torch.


    ¡°She¡¯s gone!¡±


    The darkness was cold as a crypt, enclosing her, an endless grave through which her feet dragged her lifeless body. The fur trim of her cloak brushed the hard-packed dusty floor; the scuff of her boots and whisper of her breath the only sounds in the utter stillness.


    There was no light, and yet, there was only one light left in existence. Her cupped hands cradled the sapphire pendant, held it close; her head bowed, honey-coloured eyes tinged blue by the soft, gentle glow.


    Darkness and horror and sorrow pressed around her, lingering on the edge of her consciousness. They were enormous, threatening with each fragile beat of her heart to overwhelm her. But as long as she remained fixated on the blue stone, they kept their distance. Memories faded, became an almost meaningless blur. She lost all sense of time. She forgot her companions. She no longer possessed any hopes or plans or dreams or worries.


    She was no longer a person, just a moving body.


    There was only the stone, and the simple loveliness of its swirling depths, the faintest fairy touch of magic on her fingers.


    Only the stone. It was all that mattered in the world. It was the only thing left of her shattered soul.


    She didn¡¯t know how long she moved through the darkness. Perhaps forever. Perhaps, for that unknown passage of time, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. At some point, she became aware of dull pain in her feet, and a gradually increasing heaviness that slowed her steps, but these things weren¡¯t important.


    Nothing was important, except to keep her eyes on the stone. She knew only that she must not look away ¨C not to see where she was going, nor where she had been, because those were irrelevant. And if she dared to lift her gaze, even a little, she was aware that monstrous things would claim her, snatch her down into a pit of madness and despair from which she would never escape¡­


    She clung to the stone. It smoothed out her thoughts, calmed the black terror that skulked around her tiny haven. It filled her mind with cool, blue swirling mist.


    The stone was eternity.


    Eventually, Araynia became aware of something different. A gradual brightening of the darkness. It embraced her like gentle arms.


    At last, stiffly, she looked up, and came to a stumbling halt.


    Light spilled out of a crack before her, a half-moon shaped cleft in the rock. She blinked, squinting in the glare, then slowly shuffled forward. She had to turn her body sideways to fit through the gap.


    The crack emerged into a small, shallow cave. The floor ran another fifteen feet or so further, widening as it went, until it opened out onto a cluster of huge boulders that lay tumbled down the mountainside. Opposite her, and immediately to the left of the cave entrance were soaring cliffs, scoured harsh, pale grey by the blazing sun. To the right, at the bottom of the boulder slide, was a stand of venerable, red-skinned myrtle trees, their canopy so dense that she could see nothing within, or beyond, save a few small birds flitting back and forth between the twisted limbs.


    And at the very entrance to the cave¡­


    Araynia limped forward.


    The Sword of Healing was stuck downwards into the sandy stone, rising reverently against the backdrop of the Barlakk Mountains. The sapphires in its hilt cast a dappled blue pattern on the floor amid the shadow of the long blade.


    Standing on the lip of the cave, Araynia lifted a hand to shade her eyes and peered warily around the bowl of the small rocky valley.


    Lord Arzath was nowhere to be seen.


    There was no trace of demon-wraiths, either; no shadows, nor smoky mist. There was only clear, bright sunlight, a stunning blue sky, and lichen-covered mountain stone. A cool, fresh breeze washed down off the peaks, ruffling her dark hair and cloak, soothing her tired, burning eyes.


    She turned back to look at the crack leading to the tunnel.


    Nothing moved there.


    Confused, she stood where she was for several minutes, not knowing what to do. She looked down at the pendant in her hand.


    Its wistful light had gone out. It was a clear gemstone once more, glittering as it caught the sunlight. She replaced it around her neck, feeling suddenly cold inside despite the heat of the sun, and very, very alone.


    The Sword rose beside her, sparkling and majestic. For long moments, she simply stared at it. A strange ache filled her heart, a kind of longing. Tentatively, hesitantly, she stepped up to it and reached out.


    Her fingers brushed the hilt.


    Nothing happened.


    She drew her hand back for a moment. Then, swallowing, she reached out again, and curled first one slim hand, then the other around the handle.


    She lifted the Sword free.


    It came forth easily, sand and light sliding off the blade. It was very long: from tip to pommel only a couple of inches shorter than she was. She expected to have difficulty hefting it, but the Sword was much lighter than she expected. She turned it upright to look at her reflection, but regretted it instantly.


    Tears filling her eyes, she looked away, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. She hadn¡¯t wanted this Sword, hadn¡¯t asked for it. She had been lured to the valley unknowingly, for it to be bequeathed to her by its former master, largely against her will. But evidently it was hers, now.


    Too late to save Luca, she thought painfully. Too late to save my family. Why? Why me? Why now? Her vision blurred. I don¡¯t even know how to use it!


    Blinking the tears away, she looked back down at the boulder-choked valley. It took a few tries to find her voice.


    ¡°L¡­ Lord Arzath!¡± she called, hoarsely and not very loudly.


    There was no reply.


    Alone with the wind and the birds, Araynia sank down at the mouth of the cave, folding her legs beneath her, placing the Sword across them. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks, speckling onto the metal. She did not like Arzath; he was a cruel and arrogant man, and he terrified her.


    But she wished, more than anything, that the sorcerer had not left them.

 Chapter One Twenty Six

    Through the forest, quiet and still


    What hope remains is bleak and chill.


    The forest trees of Arkana rose in massive grey columns, as thick around as houses, the lowest branches stretching out across the mist as though supporting a great hall fit for grim and mighty Gods. Enormous roots curved like arches in the fog; or perhaps they were the petrified tentacles of some gargantuan sleeping monster. They blocked the path in mossy walls, creating a twisting labyrinth of dead ends, confounding turns and slippery abysses.


    Huge fungi paraded over the roots, fan-like and eerily resplendent, striped with colours that glowed in the dreary light. At the bottom of this tangled kingdom, the undergrowth was dense, crowded with ferns and shrubbery competing for space, a jungle all by itself, and practically impassable.


    In the depths of this green, chaotic jumble of life, silver flashed: a bright streak moving from side to side rhythmically. Some of the plants scuttled away as it approached. A tiny light, like moonlit ice encased in frosty mist bobbed alongside the silver streak, along with a few curse words.


    Ferrian hacked his way forward irritably. His Sword was sharp enough to cut through anything, including the massive tree roots, but it was still slow going; his legs constantly became snared in vines, and twigs snagged his cloak. Freezing the vegetation and then shattering it was more effective, but came at a cost of draining his energy, and he preferred to conserve his magic in case he needed to deal with demon-wraiths or who-knew-what. The icelight took little to maintain, and in any case he needed it in the murky half-light: at the very least he hoped someone would see it. Finding survivors was a priority.


    Now and then he stopped and called out, but so far had received no response. Occasionally, he used his Mind Vision, but saw only the small bright auras of animals and birds, nothing resembling a person.


    He had no idea how far he was from Fleetfleer. He¡¯d been walking for hours, he was sure, but it felt like he¡¯d only travelled a few hundred metres.


    He hoped fervently that it was more than that.


    As he continued slashing his way through the bushes, a strong sense of deja vu followed him, like a ghost. Once or twice he¡¯d turned involuntarily to say something to Mekka or Hawk, before remembering they weren¡¯t there. Four years ago, he had hacked a path through this very jungle, with the same Sword ¨C although then it had been the Sword of Frost, and he himself had been dead, and not prone to fatigue¡­


    Cutting away a wall of leaves, he found his way all of a sudden obscured by a massive root. It rose above him in a curving wall about twenty feet high, covered in ivy and hanging moss. The wood of these trees was so hard it was like rock. In fact, Ferrian had wondered more than once if the trees here were actually a kind of living stone. He wished he¡¯d thought to ask Mekka on the previous journey. That trip seemed now almost cheerful compared to the catastrophe they now faced.


    Sighing, he slumped against the root, taking a moment to catch his breath and rest. Staring out into the fog, he tried to quell the cold, dark knot of fear in his stomach. He wanted desperately to believe that Mekka was still alive, but the more his thoughts dwelt on the possibility, the more unlikely it seemed ¨C turning morbidly instead on what he was going to say to Everine and Ben when he returned to the castle. The fact was, either Mekka had been admitted to the Tower already, or he hadn¡¯t. If he had, then Ferrian had arrived too late to save him. If he hadn¡¯t, he¡¯d likely been locked up somewhere, probably in the Gaolhouse, which was at this moment buried under a mountain of rubble, along with half of Fleetfleer.


    Either way, the chances that his dark-winged friend had somehow made a miraculous escape were slim ¨C even for him.


    Pushing himself away from the root, attempting to leave his dark thoughts behind, he continued onwards. Following the curve of the root to the right, he chopped at the undergrowth with renewed determination. A greenweaver lurked on the log beside him, its spindly legs outstretched like a ferny spider. Ferrian swiped at it moodily. Those things gave him the creeps. He hadn¡¯t forgiven them for trying to snack on him, back when his body had been a walking corpse. Sure, he¡¯d been decomposing at the time, but his mind had still been working, and the indignity of being eaten alive by plants wasn¡¯t something that he could easily forget¡­


    He came to a halt.


    There was a strange sound.


    He realised he¡¯d been hearing it for a few minutes now, and dismissed it as the soft call of a bird¡­ but¡­


    No. It wasn¡¯t a bird.


    Turning on the spot, he tilted his head, trying to catch it again.


    There it was! The sound of¡­ humming? Like someone humming a quiet tune to themselves.


    Frowning, Ferrian pushed onwards, carefully, in the direction of the song.


    He came out into a cleared space littered with broken plants, mud and wreckage. Great towering, looming piles of wreckage. Giant slabs of white stone protruded everywhere like broken bones amid shattered pieces of timber; parts of buildings and tree branches alike. Golden roofing tiles were scattered over the ground like bright confetti. There were household goods too; smashed pottery and furniture, house plants, paintings, drapery¡­


    Ferrian regarded it all dismally. Fleetfleer had only just been rebuilt a few years ago after a Dragon attack. Now here it lay again, in devastation.


    Mercifully, the thick fog and trees obscured most of it.


    He couldn¡¯t see any bodies¡­


    He almost missed seeing the child. The humming started again, drawing his eyes upwards.


    A small figure was perched, half-hidden, on the raised end of a huge, tilted flat slab of stone, the protruding edge curved and bevelled ¨C perhaps one of the platforms from the central plaza, as it was floating weirdly amongst the wreckage. The kid was staring down at something in its hands, though Ferrian couldn¡¯t see what it was.


    Then the kid leaned forward and Ferrian caught sight of the wings.


    His breath froze in his throat.


    The feathers were white, patterned with copper, orange tips standing out like flames amongst the dreary wreckage. He knew of only one Angel family with such unique colouring¡­


    ¡°Li?!¡± he cried.


    The small figure stood up. For a long moment she stared down at him, then suddenly ran forward and leapt down off the ruins. She bowled into him so hard that he staggered backwards.


    The little Angel had grown much bigger since the last time he¡¯d seen her.


    ¡°Ferrian!¡± she gasped. Pulling back from him, she jumped up and down on the spot, eyes wide, rusty-coloured hair a mess around her round, smudged face. She beamed as though the sun had suddenly opened up on the forest. ¡°You came back! I knew you would!¡± She hugged him again. ¡°I knew you would! Did you come to rescue me?¡±


    Ferrian smiled uncertainly, patting her head. ¡°Uh, it¡¯s good to see you, too, Li,¡± he said, ¡°but¡­ are you all alone down here? Are your parents alright?¡±


    She stepped back from him again, this time sharply, as though slapped. The smile vanished from her young face, as though a rain cloud had rolled over it. She stared down at the object in her hands: a floppy doll made out of cloth. Suddenly, she flung the doll away from her, into the mud. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Shrugging carelessly, she turned and walked away.


    Frowning, Ferrian bent down and picked up the limp figure that Li had discarded. It was an Angel doll. One of its wings was missing, ripped off cruelly, its sawdust innards leaking out over his fingers. Turning it over, he saw that there was a feather tied around its neck.


    A single, pure black feather.


    Mekka¡¯s feather.


    He stared down at it anxiously.


    Watching her picking her way through the ruins, he tried a different approach. ¡°Have you seen anyone else?¡±


    Li nodded, pointing upwards. ¡°Up there. In the treetops.¡±


    Ferrian looked up into the mist. Makes sense, he thought.


    He wandered around with her as she picked up bits and pieces of things from the ground, examined them intently, then discarded them. Staring down at the mutilated doll in his hand, he tried to think of something to say that wouldn¡¯t upset her. ¡°What were you doing before¡­ uh, before this happened?¡± He waved an arm at the ruins.


    She was silent for awhile, and he didn¡¯t think she was going to answer, but finally she spoke. ¡°My parents went to the Judgement Ceremony,¡± she said. ¡°Pretty much everybody did. The whole city was talking about it. But I wasn¡¯t allowed to go.¡± She shrugged. ¡°I wanted to see Mekka though; I hoped maybe I could say goodbye, so I went anyway. I hid at the edge of the platform.¡± She stared at a fragment of painted vase in her hand. ¡°It was hard to see over everyone, so I had to fly up a bit.¡±


    Ferrian swallowed. ¡°What did you see?¡±


    Li huffed a sigh. ¡°Oh, it was pretty boring. Just a lot of blah, blah, and everyone standing around. My wings got tired. Then the Syncwarden blindfolded Mekka and took him into the Tower along with a fancy soldier.¡±


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    Ferrian¡¯s heart turned to ice in his chest. They took him into the Tower.


    Then the young Angel¡¯s expression changed, her voice becoming more subdued. ¡°Then¡­ things got¡­ weird. Everyone started shouting at once, and making a lot of noise. They sounded like animals. The crowd rushed forward like they were trying to get into the Tower, like they all went crazy. The guards were trying to fight them off, throwing people off the platform, but they kept coming back.¡± She looked disturbed. ¡°I got a creepy feeling, so I flew down here to the forest. Then there was a sound like¡­ like thunder cracked open the whole world, and stones and buildings and things came crashing down.


    ¡°I hid in a hollow of a tree until it all stopped. When I came out, it was so quiet. But then I heard screaming.¡±


    Her voice dwindled into a whisper. Ferrian crouched slowly beside her, placing a hand on her small shoulder. Her white feathers quivered slightly.


    ¡°It¡­ it¡¯s over now,¡± he said with an effort. But even as he tried to comfort Li, he felt a huge, hollow space open up inside him. They took him into the damned Tower!


    They were both silent for a long moment, the mist curling eerily around them. ¡°What are we going to do now?¡± Li asked finally.


    Pulling together enough of his tattered soul to stand up, Ferrian pushed himself upright with his Sword.


    ¡°You¡­ you need to go somewhere safe,¡± he told her. ¡°You should fly up into the canopy with the other Angels. If your parents are still alive, they¡¯ll be looking for you¨C¡±


    ¡°NO!¡± Her sudden shout caught him off guard. He turned to see her glaring at him, her hands balled into fists. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go back to them! You can¡¯t make me!¡±


    ¡°Li!¡± His expression hardened. ¡°It¡¯s dangerous down here! There¡¯s¨C¡± he paused, unable to bring himself to tell her about the black pyramid. ¡°There are demon-wraiths,¡± he went on. ¡°And parts of the city might still be crumbling apart. You shouldn¡¯t be wandering around down here by yourself!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care!¡± she retorted furiously. ¡°My home is destroyed anyway and my parents are gone! I know they are! I just want to live down here in the forest! You can¡¯t make me go up there!¡±


    Before Ferrian could stop her, she turned and ran a few steps, then took off, flapping away into the mist.


    ¡°Li!¡± Ferrian called, starting after her. ¡°Li, wait¡­!¡±


    He realised that going after her was futile. She was an Angel, and could hide a hundred feet up a tree and he wouldn¡¯t be able to get to her.


    I¡¯ll bet that¡¯s exactly what she¡¯s doing, he thought angrily. She was so stubborn and strong-willed!


    So much like her brother, Aari.


    It was going to get her into trouble.


    Sighing, he turned away, slashing at a bush in frustration. Then he dropped down onto a chunk of stone. Letting both the Angel doll and his Sword fall to the ground, he put his face in his hands.


    This whole rescue mission had turned into a complete disaster. He had arrived too late to save Mekka. His Dragon was injured. Caer Sync and Fleetfleer lay in ruins. Trigon was flooding into the ocean. Li was probably an orphan.


    And he hadn¡¯t been able to do anything about any of it.


    Some sorcerer I am!


    He¡¯d spent the last four years devoting himself to study and gruelling magical practice, trying to regain his Winter. Not only to restore a fundamental part of himself, but in the vain hope that he would be able to save his friends. He was tired of seeing them fall, one by one, victims of circumstances that he was powerless to affect. For all he had learned, on his long journey to become a sorcerer, for all he had suffered and lost¡­ it had come to nothing. He had no answers. He was as na?ve and pathetic as the small boy who had wandered the wilderness, wreaking havoc with blizzards and running from himself in fear¡­


    Dismally he realised that deep down, despite everything, he was still the same person. Still the same scared, confused, silver-eyed kid stumbling his way through life.


    The same boy who had once stared into a pond on a warm summer evening, wanting only to drown in his own freakish reflection¡­


    A short while later, the first snowflake fell.


    Ferrian felt it brush his fingertips, soft and light. A moment later, there was another.


    Slowly, he removed his hands from his face. They were stiff and cold, and covered in frost. Looking down, he saw that the rest of him was, too, as well as the stone on which he sat, and the ground around him in a neat white circle. Snow fell, serenely.


    For a full minute he stared blankly at the snow, before understanding its significance. With a start, he got up.


    The Winter!


    He looked around, eyes going wide. The Winter! It had returned!


    A mixture of emotions surged through him; relief and elation swirling peculiarly around his broken heart.


    Sadness, he thought in wrenching revelation. My despair brought it back¡­


    All these years, since going to the valley with Arzath, he¡¯d felt self-assured and safe, full of purpose. Only now, as his confidence crumbled, as he wavered on the brink of utter hopelessness, had the Winter returned once more.


    It had returned to protect him.


    The Dragon had understood. She had assured him it would come back. She knew.


    He stood in the snow, letting it settle over him. Li, on the other hand, had not.


    Looking around, he wondered whether he should stay here and wait for her a bit longer. But if she was anything as obstinate as her older brother had been, her pride would take a long while to wear off.


    He had to find her.


    Turning, he retrieved his Sword, ice sliding smoothly off it. Hesitating for a moment, he crouched before the little doll and untied the black feather from around its neck.


    Fighting a fresh wave of grief, he closed his eyes. I will protect her, Mekka, he promised his lost friend. I swear to you.


    Tying the feather to his belt, he stood and started walking through the gloomy forest once more.


    The sound of cursing startled Mekka out of a doze. Blinking, he rubbed his face; he hadn¡¯t realised he¡¯d fallen asleep again. For a confused moment, he thought he was still dreaming; but the sharp ache in his side reminded him that he was regrettably awake: and still alive.


    Sighing, he looked around, feeling weary, trying to ignore the burning pain of his wound. He was still floating in the middle of the strange, otherworldly golden void, huge chunks of white stone circling the perimeter, endlessly, as though caught in an eerie, slow current.


    The two giant Seraphim remained looming inscrutably on either side of him, though now they were upside down.


    With a careful beat of his wings, wincing at a fresh stab of pain, Mekka righted himself.


    The cursing came again. Using his wings to turn himself further, he caught sight of an unfortunately lively, white-feathered figure off to one side, near the ring of stones.


    Oh, he thought dryly. He¡¯s not dead. What a shame.


    It would have been marvellous if the Wing Commander¡¯s brains had been knocked out and were floating majestically around him along with his splendid armour. He supposed that was too much to ask for.


    Reeves was floundering like an idiot, snatching at the pools of floating silvertine in disbelief, as though hoping he could put them back together. He seemed desperate, frantic, waving his arms about¡­


    Mekka snorted.


    Suddenly Reeves paused, then lunged at something nearby; a small solid object, something that had not dissolved into a gleaming pool of silvertine. He clutched it in his hands, visibly sagging with relief.


    Mekka raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was not a weapon. It was¡­


    A book?


    Why the hell was Reeves carrying a book around, of all things?


    It was then that the other Angel noticed him. ¡°Oh, curse the Goddess!¡± Reeves exclaimed. ¡°You are still alive?!¡±


    Mekka gave him a smile. ¡°It¡¯s a knack.¡±


    Reeves made a sound of disgust, putting a hand to his forehead. A trail of blood ran down the side of his face, from a matted wound on his temple. The Tower had paid him back nicely, it seemed.


    Scrunching his face into a snarl, Reeves slashed a hand viciously through the air. ¡°This is your doing!¡±


    Mekka stared back at him coolly. ¡°Of course it is. Why not.¡±


    Reeves¡¯ eyes flashed. ¡°You knew that something was about to happen! You stood there gloating that we were all about to die!¡±


    Mekka sighed. ¡°You felt it too, Reeves,¡± he pointed out. ¡°As did the Syncwarden. As did the crowd outside.¡± He shook his head ruefully. ¡°Unlike most people, I happen to listen to my instincts.¡±


    Reeves shook his head. ¡°Then what the hell happened?¡±


    Mekka was silent for a moment. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he admitted. ¡°But...¡± he swallowed. ¡°I sensed something¡­ monstrous outside the Tower. Something like a wraith, but worse.¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°I was once¡­ touched by a trigonic dagger. It twisted my thoughts, turned me into a grotesque parody of myself. It did this insidiously, so that I did not know what was happening until it was too late.


    ¡°Of course, I hated the Governor; I wanted him to die in misery for what he had done to me! I have always despised the people of Arkana and everything they stand for.¡± He shook his head sadly. ¡°But I was not a complete person. The trigon showed me only the truth I wanted to see.¡±


    ¡°Touching,¡± Reeves sneered. ¡°A tragic story. You might as well have told it to the Syncwarden.¡±


    Mekka looked at him coldly. ¡°It is written in my confession,¡± he replied. ¡°My thoughts and actions were my own, and I take responsibility for them. I came with you willingly, because I believed that the people of Fleetfleer deserved resolution.¡±


    Reeves¡¯ eyes narrowed. ¡°If you so eagerly came here to die, why take your damned time about it?¡±


    Mekka glared at him. ¡°Because I was listening!¡±


    ¡°Listening?¡±


    ¡°After I fled Arkana four years ago,¡± he explained, ¡°a sorcerer healed me. Using a Sword of the Gods, he repaired my blind eye and released me from the grip of trigon. But something remained. An¡­ echo of dark thoughts.¡± He looked away uncomfortably. ¡°To put it simply, I can hear it. Trigon. The sound of wretched voices whispering to me, as though they¡­¡± his voice faltered. ¡°A-as though they¡­ recognise me.¡± He gazed unhappily into the golden mist. ¡°I hesitated on the platform because I was trying to work out what they were saying.¡±


    Reeves folded his arms. ¡°And what were they saying?¡±


    Mekka frowned. ¡°I don¡¯t know. They did not sound Human or Angel, or any race on Arvanor that I recognise. They were¡­ strange. Alien...¡±


    Mekka suppressed a shiver, feeling troubled.


    ¡°Charming,¡± Reeves stated after a long moment of silence. ¡°You can talk to demon-wraiths.¡± He smiled, as though he had expected as much.


    Mekka didn¡¯t dignify that with a reply. He¡¯d said nothing of the sort, but he couldn¡¯t be bothered arguing with this pompous bigot.


    How did I end up stuck in here with him? he thought bitterly. Can I not just die in peace?!


    They were both quiet for awhile, lost in their own ruminations. Mekka looked over to see the white-winged Legion Commander studying his surroundings, tapping his book against one hand, his eyes travelling thoughtfully over the golden-hued stone circumference of their holy prison.


    ¡°If I am not mistaken,¡± Reeves said finally, his voice very soft but Mekka could hear it clearly in the silence, ¡°we are inside some kind of Aegis.¡±


    Mekka nodded: he had come to the same conclusion. ¡°The Seraphim are protecting themselves,¡± he murmured.


    Reeves turned slowly in the air to look at him, his gaze piercing. ¡°Only themselves?¡± he wondered, a mocking edge to his words. ¡°Not the entirety of Arkana, despite this terrible monster supposedly looming over us? They allowed the Holy Tower to fall?¡±


    Mekka let himself drift in space until he was no longer facing Reeves. His face hardened to stone, not replying. There was no point. Reeves had already figured it out.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± the other Angel said at last, after a long, knowing moment had past. ¡°Of course! We are missing one of our beloved Seraphim! Their power must be greatly diminished!¡±


    Mekka closed his eyes, unable to suppress a wince. Reeves¡¯ words might as well have been knives thrown into his face, for all the pain they caused. He found himself wishing that the Pit was still there, that it would open up and swallow both of them in the next instant.


    No, he thought suddenly, a slow, dark anger building within him. I have suffered too much already. I have paid for my crimes with my soul. I will not bear THIS on my conscience as well!


    When he opened his eyes again, they were dark and blazing; his words cut through the serenity like flashing steel blades as he spun on Reeves. ¡°For all I have done, I am NOT responsible for the fall of Caer Sync! How dare you¨C¡±


    His voice simply stopped, the words refusing to leave his throat.


    Trying again to speak, he found that he could produce no sound.


    Alarmed, Mekka went to lift a hand to his neck, but found that he couldn¡¯t move that, either. It remained curled into a fist at his side, unresponsive to his efforts.


    He was completely paralysed, as though turned to stone.


    Several yards away from him, Reeves appeared similarly stunned. Only his turquoise eyes betrayed his fear and confusion.


    Mekka¡¯s heartbeat quickened in his chest, his breath rushing over numbed lips. What was happening?!


    Nothing in the shattered Sanctuary appeared to have changed. Except¡­


    His motionless body drifted slowly around until the two giant Seraphim came into view.


    They were huge, their faces high above him, their wings moving with dreamlike grace, their halos twisting and turning in an eternal, shining dance.


    Their gazes were no longer focussed on each other.


    They were staring down at him.

 Chapter One Twenty Seven

    Alone again, no friends in sight


    By shattered gate, a lovely fight.


    The gloom deepened as Ferrian struggled onwards through the forest. Whether due to approaching night, the onset of his Winter or some unfathomable pyramid-shaped horror swallowing the world, he did not know, and at this point hardly cared. The endless tangle of broken foliage and hush of falling snow had wrapped him in timeless exhaustion.


    His movements were becoming sluggish; his arms ached from hacking through the thick vegetation, his limbs stiffening with the cold.


    And there was still no sign of Li.


    At some point he just staggered to a halt in the middle of a bush, breath coming in heavy white puffs, shoulders slumping in defeat.


    Perhaps it was time to go back to the Dragon.


    It was a sensible idea, actually. From the air, he would have more chance of spotting survivors and get a clearer picture of what was going on. There wasn¡¯t much he could do getting tangled up in vines.


    Instead, he lifted his Sword and continued chopping through the bush.


    Some part of his mind, a part that he had stubbornly ignored for awhile, intrusively pointed out that the only reason he was down here physically exerting himself, becoming lost in the depths of the forest searching for an Angel girl who didn¡¯t want to be found, was because he couldn¡¯t face the alternatives.


    Sooner or later, he would be forced to fight that black pyramid.


    And even if he somehow managed to destroy it, even if he and the Dragon survived, even if he saved what was left of Arkana¡­ he still had to return to Castle Whiteshadow without Mekka and face Everine and Ben with a broken promise. And after that, yet more demon-wraiths in Crystaltina to look forward to, not to mention the unsolved problem of Hawk¡¯s condition, and Carmine, and Arzath¡¯s precarious mental state¡­


    Why SHOULD I turn back? he snapped at himself angrily. Why fight that black pyramid? What was the point of saving the goddamned world if he couldn¡¯t help his friends?!


    And why couldn¡¯t he help his friends? Why was he always somewhere else when they were in trouble?


    Slashing his way through to a clearing, he stared down at his Sword in frustration. He could change things, of course. He could change anything. In an instant, he could be in any place, at any time. He alone held the power to transform his own world into whatever he wanted it to be.


    But that way lay madness. He could spend the rest of his life falling through infinite mirrors trying to find a perfect version of reality that didn¡¯t exist. He was perceptive enough to understand that, at least. And be haunted forever by the possibilities.


    Ferrian wasn¡¯t entirely sure what the Sword of Mirrors¡¯ true purpose was, or how it was supposed to be used, only that it was good at killing demon-wraiths.


    He knew that, just like the Dragon-wraith, no one else could destroy that pyramid.


    Looking up, he watched the icelight glimmer on the falling flakes of snow.


    Why, then, am I wasting time down here in the forest, hiding in the snow?


    He knew why.


    He was afraid.


    Sighing deeply, he knew that he had to go back. Avoiding his problems, ignoring them, was the same as running from them. And he had made a vow a long time ago that he would never run away from anything again.


    He didn¡¯t want to leave Li here.


    But he had to.


    He shook his head. I vowed to protect Li. I can¡¯t bear it if she dies. But maybe this isn¡¯t the right way to do it. Maybe the way to save my friends is to kill the big things, to face the monsters they can¡¯t. Maybe that¡¯s the only thing I CAN do.


    Ferrian closed his eyes. He just wished that there was someone ¨C anyone ¨C else who was capable of wielding a Sword of the Gods, someone to stand beside him and fight, so that he did not have to bear all of the world¡¯s problems alone.


    Reluctantly, he decided to give up the search for Li. She was like Mekka: if she didn¡¯t want to be found, she wouldn¡¯t be. He could search this forest till he dropped dead and never find her. She was small and agile and could fly. She could escape the wraiths.


    She had to.


    He opened his eyes.


    And found himself staring at his own reflection.


    With a startled gasp, he took a step backwards.


    A large sphere floated right in front of his face, flawlessly silver.


    Stunned, Ferrian looked around, but there was little to see. The mist had closed around him in murky twilight, reducing visibility to only a few feet. Even the great trees had disappeared. The steadily falling snow obscured everything but the bushes nearest to him.


    He looked back at the sphere. It had drifted off to his right. Snowflakes stuck to it.


    Baffled but wary, Ferrian circled the reflective ball.


    It did nothing but drift silently through the air, at the height of his head.


    Lifting his Sword, he poked at it.


    The blade went straight through, with only slight resistance. Pulling it free, however, the silver substance clung to it.


    Ferrian shook his Sword, and the substance broke up into dozens of smaller globules, wobbling in the air like soap bubbles, rising languorously.


    Silvertine, he thought, amazed. This was silvertine in its unrefined form. Of course. The Tower had been full of the stuff. Trigon had flooded into the sea; silvertine must now be spilled all through the forest.


    There was something mesmerising about the sphere. Unable to take his eyes off it, he followed it until it became trapped beneath the frond of a giant fern.


    Something caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see another globe of silvertine a short distance away, like a gleaming ghost in the mist.


    Forgetting his plan to return to the Dragon, Ferrian pushed his way through the edge of the clearing until he came out into another open space.


    Silvertine was scattered all through the air here, dozens of globes of many sizes floating amongst the snow. They emitted a kind of radiance; not light, exactly, but a shimmering brilliance seen with his soul rather than his eyes.


    He stared at the scene, entranced. Fears and worries seemed to melt away, becoming all of a sudden unimportant. A peculiar sense of familiarity stole over him, a sort of longing ache, as though he had returned to a place he knew well¡­


    The silvertine reminded him of his eyes, and the eyes of the Dragon.


    Am I made of silvertine? he wondered strangely.


    The edges of the spheres blurred with rainbow colours. The snow was like feathers on his skin. His heart felt light.


    As though beckoned, Ferrian walked forward. Reaching out, he touched one of the globes.


    Silvertine coated his fingers like oil, spreading over his hand¡­


    Some warning instinct broke through his daze, and he wiped his hand hurriedly on his cloak. Stepping back, he shook his head, trying to clear it. His thoughts were fuzzy and warm, as though he were intoxicated.


    Stumbling away, he clutched at his head. When he looked up again, he noticed the glow. At first he thought that it was his icelight, but his icelight had gone out¡­


    Trying to focus, he made his way towards it, carefully avoiding the floating silvertine.


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    He had only gone a few feet when he stopped, breathless at the sight before him.


    A dozen or so yards away, rising through the darkness and mist, was a massive piece of wreckage. It was curved on one edge, shattered on the other, rising straight upwards from the ground like a gnomon on a sundial. Its face was covered with intricate, ornate gilded runes and designs in interconnected circles, as well as what Ferrian recognised as giant numerals in Angelican ¨C he had seen such symbols in ancient books during the time he had spent in Grath Ardan and his subsequent research into the nature of trigon and silvertine.


    It was unmistakably part of a famously immense, millennia-old timepiece, and gateway to what was once the Angels¡¯ idea of Heaven.


    It was Excelsior¡¯s Clock.


    A few feet beside Ferrian knelt an Angel soldier in the finest armour Ferrian had ever seen. He was motionless, staring upwards, long spear lying on the ground beside him, wings folded at his back.


    Perhaps he had been lamenting the loss of the Tower. But now his attention was fixed on something else.


    As was Ferrian¡¯s.


    A figure stood between them and the clock, illuminating the area around it with a glorious bright white light. The figure was like nothing Ferrian had ever laid eyes on before.


    It was a female Angel, her skin glowing like warm marble, wrapped in flowing, liquid silver robes that spread out across the ground like a gown. Her silver hair was tied around her head in braids and wreathed with a mass of ghostly flowers and trailing tendrils made of mist. Her eyes were a shade of blue that Ferrian had never imagined, like the brightest, sunlit water; her face was ageless, with a motherly and compassionate expression, beaming such kindness that Ferrian felt emotion surge inside him. Huge rainbow wings spread from her back, scintillating with every colour imaginable, with two smaller, pure white wings below them.


    Her arms, at her sides, were slightly spread, as though inviting an embrace.


    At Ferrian¡¯s approach, her beautiful eyes turned to him, and he felt like dropping to his knees with the soldier. Every thought fled from his head save a sense of resounding happiness and an urge to weep from sheer wonder.


    An image entered his head unbidden; that of a small, sleepy, sunlit village amid golden wheat fields, the plains surrounding it unbroken save for a single mountain peak watching over the town from the south. Fluffy clouds floated through a golden-tinged blue sky. Smoke trailed lazily from chimneys. White cows chewed daisy-speckled grass.


    It was the very essence of peace. A place he had dreamed of, but never visited. A place he had once been loved, but never seen, by a family that never knew him.


    A place that existed no longer.


    Ness. The place where he was born.


    His face was wet with tears. The Angel looked at him with impossible empathy, but her soft smile offered hope, and peace, and love, and warmth ¨C everything that he had never had. He need not suffer any longer, nor be afraid. Everything he wished for could be true. Everything would be made right again¡­


    Without realising it, Ferrian stepped forward. His Sword arm dropped until the blade dragged in the snow after him.


    The Angel gazed at him, saying nothing, offering the world with her eyes alone¡­


    She lifted her arms to embrace him.


    Her glowing fingers were inches away when a sudden pain burned through Ferrian¡¯s palm, cold and searing, like dark ice¡­


    Reflexively, he let go of his Sword, clutching at his hand.


    The trance broken, he looked down at his Sword. Black vapours curled from the trigonic dagger, distorting as they came near the silvery-white mist emanating from the blade and the Angel.


    The Angel had moved back slightly, though her expression hadn¡¯t changed. There was no trace of fear on her face.


    In that instant, Ferrian was struck by the truth. This wasn¡¯t a goddess, or a Seraph, or even an ordinary Angel. It was a wraith! Not a demon-wraith, but an Angel-wraith, an Angel that had died in silvertine¡­


    His blood went cold. Shocked at how close he had come to making a fatal mistake, Ferrian snatched up his Sword. Without stopping to think about it, he plunged his Sword into her.


    The snow fell around them.


    Nothing happened.


    The Angel laughed softly, lovingly, like a mother would at a child being cute. Closing her eyes, she placed her hands reverently on either side of the blade.


    Ferrian tried to pull the Sword free, but it would not come. He tried again with both hands, yanking hard, but it was lodged firmly in the Angel¡¯s body.


    The first stirrings of panic pounded through him. Oh crap, he thought, eyes going wide. Silvertine doesn¡¯t work on a silvertine wraith!


    To his further horror, the Angel¡¯s hands began to melt, turning silver, fusing to the blade.


    Terrified that his Sword was about to be absorbed by the wraith, Ferrian did the only thing he could think to do.


    He summoned his magic.


    Snow swirled around him in a sudden whirlwind. He called his power forth quickly, pouring it into his hands, into the Sword in an icy rush.


    As he did so he concentrated hard, his awareness splitting in two until he was at once confronted by the hall of mirrors, and at the same time he was standing in front of the Angel wraith. He didn¡¯t waste time. As the Angel continued melting onto his Sword, part of his consciousness searched the endless mirrors until he found a suitable one: a reality in which the wraith did not exist.


    He threw his consciousness into that reality.


    The Sword trembled his hands. Wind rushed about him in a gale. Finally, there was a blinding flash of light and an eerie whining noise increasing rapidly in pitch until it culminated in a sharp cracking sound, like thunder.


    As the light and wind faded and Ferrian snapped back to himself, he saw that the Angel was gone. In the place where she had stood there was nothing but a patch of dissipating mist, the tip of his Sword resting on the snowy ground.


    And there was a strange blind spot in the air that he could not look at.


    Staggering backwards, blinking at the coloured patches that swarmed across his vision after the flash of light, Ferrian fell to his knees. He felt drained of energy, and he was shaking. A cold sweat had broken out on his skin.


    He took deep breaths of the chilly air.


    He had nearly been claimed by a wraith.


    An Angel-wraith, of all things!


    For a few moments he knelt where he was, recovering, before realising that it was very dark. Snapping his fingers to ignite an icelight, he looked around.


    The soldier still knelt in the snow a few feet to his right. He was statuesque, an arm lifted to cover his face, and covered in ice.


    ¡°Oh Gods!¡± Ferrian leaped to his feet at once. Dropping beside the winged man, he put a tentative hand to his shoulder and shook him.


    Thankfully, it was just a thin layer of frost, which slid easily off his polished armour. Slowly, the man lowered his arm and looked up stiffly, his face very pale.


    ¡°Magic,¡± he whispered.


    Ferrian swallowed and nodded. ¡°Yeah,¡± he replied.


    ¡°I¡­ did not believe that true sorcerers still existed.¡±


    Ferrian smiled ruefully. ¡°I¡¯m the last.¡± He sighed. ¡°Probably.¡± Getting to his feet, he offered a hand to help the Angel to his feet.


    The soldier took it, pulling himself up, ice showering off his armour and wings. Taking off his elegant winged helmet, he put a hand to his chest and bowed. ¡°I owe you my life. Thank you.¡±


    Ferrian waved a hand awkwardly, feeling embarrassed. ¡°I guess that thing took a liking to me instead.¡±


    The soldier stared at the place where the glowing figure had been. His brow creasing, he rubbed at his head. ¡°What¡­ happened?¡±


    ¡°It was an Angel-wraith,¡± Ferrian explained. ¡°A wraith killed by silvertine.¡±


    The man nodded. ¡°I see. I have never encountered such a thing. But it stands to reason.¡± He looked troubled.


    Ferrian looked at him. The craftsmanship of his armour was incredible; glimmering in the icelight, it was close-fitting and sleek, etched with intricate details of vines and feathers. Over his breastplate he wore a short, open-fronted white coat embroidered with silver wings that spread over the shoulders. His own wings were light brown fading to white at the tips, his floppy brown hair tied in a short ponytail at his neck, though most of it had escaped. His eyes were intelligent and pensive.


    Unlike most Angels, especially soldiers, he didn¡¯t give off an arrogant air. Indeed, he hadn¡¯t yet made a single snide remark.


    ¡°You¡¯re not one of the city guards,¡± Ferrian pondered aloud.


    The Angel gave him a lopsided smile. ¡°No,¡± he replied. He held out a hand. ¡°I am Lieutenant Tan¡¯Daran of the Sky Legion. You many call me Tander.¡±


    ¡°The Sky Legion?¡± Ferrian said in surprise, taking his hand. ¡°I thought they were...¡±


    ¡°Disbanded? Yes. They were reformed thirty years ago.¡± He inclined his head towards the dark forest. ¡°Not here in Arkana, but Siriaza. A place at the eastern edge of the Snowranges called Sundown Peak.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I have not been with them long. Only four years.¡±


    Ferrian stared at him, frowning. ¡°Siriaza? Then what are you doing all the way...¡± His voice trailed off, heart sinking. ¡°You¡¯re the ones who arrested Mekka.¡±


    Tander studied him for a long moment, looking him up and down. ¡°Ah,¡± he said finally. ¡°You are one of Mekka¡¯s allies.¡± His brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ¡°Reeves was expecting a rescue attempt.¡± He put a hand up to rub his chin. ¡°I did not expect him to have such powerful friends...¡±


    Ferrian turned away, looking down at his Sword, watching the snowflakes settle on the blade. Suddenly, he stabbed it into the ground. ¡°I failed.¡±


    A long moment of uncomfortable silence descended. Snow fell out of the darkness, twirling softly to the ground. The trigonic dagger stood out like a black gash in the middle of the beautiful Sword.


    ¡°I am sorry,¡± Tander said finally, sounding sincere.


    Ferrian looked up at him. He was gazing sadly at the ruins of Excelsior¡¯s Clock. ¡°My own Commander escorted Mekka into the Tower,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I can find no trace of either of them. I assume they have both perished, and not in an honourable way.¡±


    His eyes glimmered. He looked as bad as Ferrian felt.


    Ferrian swallowed. This day had turned out disastrous for everyone.


    He felt impossibly tired. Taking hold of his Sword, he pulled it out of the snow. Glancing back the way he had come, he hoped he would be able to find the trail he had cut through the forest.


    He turned back to Tander. ¡°The fall of Caer Sync wasn¡¯t my doing,¡± he assured the Angel. ¡°Just in case that¡¯s what you were thinking.¡± He shrugged, shaking his head. ¡°I don¡¯t have that kind of power.¡± He hesitated. ¡°There is some sort of black pyramid thing hovering over the sea. I think it¡¯s made out of trigon. It broke a hole in the Tower, somehow, and it¡¯s spilling trigon into the ocean. I was attacked by damned dead fish and whales.¡±


    Tander turned to look at him, eyes wide. ¡°I saw only a black shadow beyond the cliffs, when I went to investigate the Tower,¡± he told Ferrian.


    Ferrian paused, staring at him. ¡°You went to investigate the Tower?¡±


    Tander nodded. ¡°Yes. There is a glowing golden sphere where the Sanctuary used to be. I assume that the Seraphim have cast a protective shield over themselves.¡±


    Ferrian remembered a bright yellow light emanating from the Tower as it collapsed, while he watched in horror from the back of his Dragon. He hadn¡¯t given it much thought, he¡¯d been so focussed on the damned black pyramid¡­


    A protective shield¡­ where the Sanctuary used to be¡­


    His heart skipped a beat. Was there a chance? A small chance¡­?


    ¡°I attempted to enter it,¡± the Angel went on, ¡°but I could not get inside. The surface was solid, like glass, and surrounded by a ring of floating slabs of stone.¡±


    Ferrian¡¯s stare was intense. ¡°Could you see anything inside?¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°No. The light was too bright. I gave up, and returned to the forest to search for survivors.¡±


    Ferrian looked up into the darkness, beyond the snow falling onto his face. ¡°I have to get up there,¡± he declared aloud.


    Tander looked uncertain. ¡°I can take you, but...¡±


    Ferrian gave him a smile. ¡°I have my own way,¡± he said. ¡°But thanks, anyway.¡±


    Hesitating a moment more, he turned back to the Angel. ¡°If you come across a small girl with orange and white wings and a stubborn attitude, will you make sure she is safe? Please?¡±


    Tander blinked, slightly taken aback. ¡°Yes,¡± he replied. ¡°Of course.¡±


    Ferrian took a deep breath, untying the black feather from his belt. ¡°And give her this.¡± Handing the feather over, he spun to leave.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Tander called. ¡°You didn¡¯t mention your name!¡±


    Ferrian looked over his shoulder, his eyes bright as silvertine in the darkness. ¡°Ferrian,¡± he said. Taking a firm grip of his Sword, he ran off into the night-shrouded forest.

 Chapter One Twenty Eight

    Quiet gloom, anticipation


    From the dark, a revelation.


    The darkness was deep. Oppressive and chilly as a vast cavern; moon and stars crushed from the sky by a shadow far blacker and heavier than night¡¯s eternal fist. Snowflakes fell, quietly and mournfully, the only hint that somewhere above, clouds still lingered.


    The ancient forest trees of Arkana reached out, helpless and imploring over the gargantuan wound of wreckage that lay at their feet. The ruins spanned the entire length of the Angel continent: a hundred miles or more; an extraordinary, endless wall of shattered white stone cleaving the forest in two. Globes of silvertine ¨C millions of them ¨C glimmered serenely, reflecting crushed dreams and fern fronds, ascending slowly and delicately amongst the vast, stony-columned trunks.


    To the north, where sea and sky and land were now all as one, obliterated in the dark, hung a much larger sphere of burning golden light. Orbiting it was a ring of broken stone: the remains of the Sanctuary of Caer Sync.


    There, something was being held in limbo, protected from the encroaching reach of trigon, from the deadly touch of a thing that was monstrous and huge and alien and unknown.


    But the sphere¡¯s light was dimming, inevitably, like a dying sun.


    It would not last.


    The Seraphim had lost their sacred ability to protect Arkana and her people. No longer had they even the power to save themselves.


    Their Goddess, if she had not now toppled from her lofty perch, had forsaken them.


    Tander sat on the outstretched branch of one of the tallest trees. The forest canopy spread out below him, snow-dusted and golden-tinted, watchful and awaiting its ultimate fate.


    As was he.


    A few miles ahead of him hung the remains of the great city of Fleetfleer. Cleft now in two, the glowing Aegis beyond silhouetted its sad, proud towers and broken spires. Masonry still crumbled, now and then, to land with muted thumps in the undergrowth far below. Fires dotted the collapsed buildings, from lanterns and hearths gone astray, bright blotches of light in the darkness. Smoke coiled upwards to join the thick morass encompassing the once beautiful land of Arkana.


    Tander¡¯s breath passed over half-frozen lips in a white cloud before his face. He was stiff and numb from fatigue and cold; his armour felt made of ice, sculpted onto him. A deep ache had settled into him, through every bone and muscle and inch of his skin, conflicting with the hard, cold, iron ball of hope in his chest.


    The young Human he had met in the forest ¨C Ferrian ¨C believed that Mekka was still alive, somehow. Tander had recognised the fierce determination in his strange, silver eyes. And if the black-winged Angel had survived, trapped within that glimmering Aegis¡­ that meant there was a chance Commander Re¡¯Vier was in there with him¡­


    Tander gazed at the golden sphere with burning, tired eyes. He no longer knew what to think or believe, any more. The last few hours had been a whirlpool of chaos; unexpected surprises and terrors catching him off guard from every direction. In the span of a day, the world had changed irrevocably.


    Having lived a simple, orderly and disciplined life up until now, certain of nothing but confident in his own loyalty to the Sky Legion, Tander was left feeling mortally unsettled and disoriented. All plans and destinies had been tossed to the wind, snatched by a darkening Fate¡­


    Tander lifted a cold, silver-gauntleted hand to his face, rubbing his creased forehead. He had known that the world was about to change, of course. That was the entire purpose of the Sky Legion. Commander Reeves had devised a grand, stunning plan, insistent that he could unite all the nations of Arvanor in peace, and that he could do it without war or bloodshed or harming a single living soul.


    It was an unbelievable claim, a miracle if true, and Tander had always thought that there must be something more to it: some troubling catch. But he had followed Reeves nevertheless, trusting him in blind faith because that was what was required. Reeves refused to divulge the details of his plan to anyone, not a single other member of the Legion.


    Tander had joined them on Sundown Peak, not out of ambition or a desire for adventure, or to prove himself in any way.


    He had joined simply because he longed for something to believe in.


    He wanted to imagine that there were still people in the world who were great, and could achieve wondrous things, even if he did not expect that of himself. Tander wasn¡¯t sure about the Gods, and all the races of Arvanor, including his kin, seemed petty, closed-minded and mired in their own traditions. But Reeves¡­


    Reeves was different.


    Behind the sarcasm, lack of empathy and intense narcissism; beyond the beauty of his flawless white wings and cold smile, there was something about him that was true, and real. Reeves knew something, indeed. His dream was no lie. The spark in his blue-green eyes told Tander that he genuinely believed in something extraordinary.


    He closed his eyes. But if his Commander were gone, what of his glorious plan? What of the Sky Legion then, if none of them knew its purpose? What of this monster that had devastated their ancient homeland and threatened the world?


    What were they all to do now?


    Opening his eyes, Tander thought there was one who might know ¨C if she still lived. He was sure of something, at least: that the Legion had not travelled all the way to Arkana merely to drop off a criminal.


    Reeves had formed some secret deal with the Governor. She likely knew what his intentions were.


    But no one had seen the Governor or her assistant since the ceremony¡­


    ¡°Tander,¡± a voice said impatiently from somewhere behind him and to his left. ¡°The rest of the survivors fled to Sel Varence hours ago. We are the only ones left. Is there a reason we are sitting around freezing our arses off in this Goddess-forsaken forest?¡±


    ¡°Reeves is dead,¡± another voice pointed out harshly. ¡°As are the rest of our squad. No one else is going to show up. We are wasting our time.¡±


    Tander kept his gaze fixed ahead. ¡°We will leave when I say we leave,¡± he replied quietly. ¡°And it is ¡®Sir¡¯. I am in charge now.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course!¡± Nix retorted, putting as much sarcasm into his voice as he could possibly muster. ¡°Commander Tan¡¯Daran! Apologies, Sir!¡±


    Tander clenched his jaw but did not reply. He knew that Nix was trying to goad him.


    He found himself wishing, uncharitably, that the only two remaining members of his team were anyone but these two. Nix was na?ve and troublesome, and Parsh ¨C silver-winged and arrogant as they came ¨C openly disliked Tander. He didn¡¯t think either of them would try to challenge his authority; they were proud of their loyalty to the Legion and respected the chain of command. But he could not in any way match Reeves¡¯ leadership, charisma or singularity of purpose, and they all knew it. They would do everything they could to make his life difficult and coax him into abdicating responsibility to someone else.


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    Ever since he had joined the Legion, some of the others had considered it a game to attempt to fire up Tander¡¯s temper, but they always failed. Tander was ineffably cool and level-headed: he simply never got angry. That was why he was higher in rank than they were. He was not prone to cockiness or making impulsive decisions. He was smart and tactful.


    But he had never wanted to lead. He was not suited to it. And in truth he was terrified: he had no idea what to do now, the fate of the entire Legion having been suddenly dumped on his shoulders. At the moment, he wasn¡¯t in any kind of mental state to work through anything. He tried to keep his worries to himself, but they leaked out of him embarrassingly for everyone to see.


    He realised suddenly that he was sitting in a tense, hunched-over position, his wings curled tightly against him. Attempting to straighten himself up, he failed to suppress a further wave of shivers.


    ¡°Poor Tander,¡± Parsh mocked from behind him. ¡°Burdened with leadership in the face of catastrophe. Whatever will become of us?¡±


    Tander had had enough. Letting out his breath in a white huff, he half-turned, waving a hand at them. ¡°Go on, then! Go ahead to Sel Varence. I will meet you at the embassy.¡±


    Barely had the words left his chilled lips when his two fellow Legionnaires slipped into the night like ghosts, leaving behind their small campfire flickering in the crook of the branches, sending shadows disconcertingly over the smooth, grey wood.


    Tander turned back to stare dismally at the fading Aegis on the horizon. They¡¯d been all too eager to leave. Despite his words, he felt a strong urge to follow his men; the chill of the night sank more deeply inside him, and he felt suddenly, morbidly alone.


    What am I doing here? he thought wretchedly. Parsh was right: it was highly unlikely that any other survivors were going to turn up. If Reeves or the Governor or anyone else were still alive, they would make it out of the forest eventually. The nearest inhabited civilisation was Sel Varence, nestled on the far side of the Tentaryl Ranges. It was a logical rendezvous point.


    I¡¯m not achieving anything by staying here¡­


    But he seemed frozen to the tree, despite the dreadful buzz of his nerves. He couldn¡¯t leave.


    He closed his eyes. The others thought the reason he was waiting here, hoping futilely for the Commander¡¯s return was because he wished to be absolved of responsibility. But¡­ that wasn¡¯t it. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He wanted Reeves to live. He could not abandon his Commander if there was a chance that he could be saved.


    And that wasn¡¯t the only reason.


    Ferrian.


    The sorcerer was going to do something, and Tander wanted to know what it was.


    He had not told the others about Ferrian. He thought it wise to keep their meeting to himself until he was more certain as to what was going on.


    Tander had thought that true sorcerers were long relegated to history; their mighty oligarchy ended spectacularly with the destruction of their School more than a century and a half ago. To encounter one in the middle of Arkana on this fateful day was both astonishing and deeply troubling. But the young Human seemed curiously agreeable, and had saved Tander¡¯s life. Tander had watched him vanquish a silvertine wraith right in front of him, and he appeared to have brought this unnatural Winter upon them. He claimed that he had not destroyed Caer Sync.


    Ferrian had carried a Sword of the Gods; the twin serpents of ebony and ivory were unmistakable and still known to many people on Arvanor, if only as legend.


    Ferrian was indeed a real sorcerer: a powerful one.


    More worrying still, he was allied to Mekk¡¯Ayan, one of the most notorious criminals the country had ever seen.


    Why? Tander wondered. How? Was Ferrian truly trustworthy? What were his plans? What did this ultimately mean for Reeves¡¯ grand ideal?


    There was a sound behind Tander.


    Keeping his breathing steady and his pose unchanged, his arm resting casually on his knee, his attention sharpened and set itself behind him.


    There was a soft scrape of metal on metal. It was an accidental sound: that of someone attempting to be quiet.


    Tander waited a moment more, then opened his eyes and pretended to yawn loudly. Then he nonchalantly stood up, ruffling the snow from his wings. He stretched his arms out wide, his gauntleted hand coming within reach of his long spear¡­


    Moving like the wind, he spun, the silver tip of the spear whirling in a glittering arc to point downwards at¡­


    ¡­ a cooking pot?


    A spoon rolled slowly down the hollow formed by the joining of the great branches, coming to rest beside the dwindling campfire.


    There was nothing in the darkness beyond.


    Silence. Snow fell, like tiny ghosts hiding whatever may have been lurking there.


    Tander watched the shadows carefully, then finally lifted his spear, stepped forward and picked up the pot. There was a bit of soup left in the bottom. Retrieving the spoon, he moved to the other side of the fire and settled himself down with his back against the wide trunk. Taking off his helmet, he set it beside his spear, then took up the spoon and began to eat.


    He made sure to slurp it noisily. ¡°Mmmm,¡± he murmured appreciatively. He paused, considering the amount of soup left, swirling it around in the pot. ¡°Hmm. Not much left,¡± he declared aloud. Then he dipped his spoon back in, scraping the bottom for every last drop¡­


    When he looked up again, a small face was staring at him from across the hollow, wide-eyed.


    ¡°Hello there,¡± Tander greeted. ¡°Who might you be?¡±


    The child said nothing.


    Tander shrugged, and turned back to his soup. ¡°Oh well,¡± he sighed. ¡°No reply. I expect there¡¯s nobody there, then...¡±


    ¡°Li¡¯Zan!¡± the girl blurted out, hopping forward.


    Tander regarded her. ¡°Hungry?¡±


    She nodded.


    Tander stared into the pot. Putting a hand on his belly, he said: ¡°Well, I am full. Couldn¡¯t eat another bite.¡± He held out the pot for her. ¡°Here. You have it.¡± It was a lie, of course. He¡¯d hardly eaten anything all day.


    The girl darted forward, snatched it up and sat down, spooning the soup into her mouth so fast it splattered everywhere.


    ¡°Hey now, slow down!¡± Tander said in concern. ¡°You¡¯ll choke yourself!¡±


    The girl ignored him, coughing. She was filthy; her pretty clothes torn, twigs in her hair. There were streaks through the grime on her face, as though she had been crying at some point, but now she just seemed famished.


    Her wings were rather beautiful; snowy white with a delicate coppery pattern, and striking orange at the tips of the longest feathers. They caught the firelight like flames of their own.


    If you come across a small girl with orange and white wings and a stubborn attitude, will you make sure she is safe?


    Tander leaned forward with his arms on his knees. ¡°Everyone else has gone to the Human city of Sel Varence, on the other side of the mountains,¡± he told her. ¡°Your family might be there waiting for you.¡±


    Li shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go.¡± She slurped the soup.


    Tander stared at her. ¡°You stayed behind deliberately?¡±


    The little girl looked up, defiant. ¡°Well? So did you!¡±


    Tander smiled slightly: she was a bright one. ¡°I am a soldier. I am waiting here to help survivors.¡± He nodded at her. ¡°It seems I found one.¡±


    Li eyed him warily, and went back to the soup.


    Tander leaned back, watching her eat. Contemplatively, he reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew the black feather that Ferrian had given to him. He held it for a minute or two, rolling it slowly between his fingertips, watching the firelight sheen across its raven-dark surface. He waited until Li had set down the pot and wiped her face on her sleeve, then held out the feather. ¡°I believe this belongs to you?¡±


    She looked startled, as though he had pointed a dagger at her face. Then her expression changed into a scowl, and she turned away, arms folded across her chest. ¡°I don¡¯t want it,¡± she sniffed. ¡°You keep it.¡±


    Tander¡¯s face and voice became stern. ¡°You cannot refuse a feather you have accepted in companionship!¡± he chastised. ¡°It is a sacred bond!¡±


    Li stared at the ground darkly for a long moment. Then finally, sulkily, she reached out and grabbed it. ¡°Well, it doesn¡¯t matter any more!¡± she huffed. ¡°He didn¡¯t want to be my friend anyway! He said so! And he didn¡¯t even say goodbye!¡±


    Tander stared at the fire. What was this little girl¡¯s relationship with Mekka, that he had blessed her with a feather? And Ferrian?


    ¡°How did you meet Mekka and Ferrian?¡± he asked directly.


    Li sniffed and wiped at her eyes. ¡°I met them in Grath Ardan,¡± she replied, shrugging, as though meeting people in a forbidden magical library happened every day. ¡°They were looking for some books or something. We were trapped in there for awhile, but we found a way out eventually.¡± She looked up proudly. ¡°Ferrian killed all of the Murons!¡±


    Tander was silent for a long moment, frowning. He rubbed at his chin. ¡°I¡­ see,¡± he said quietly. He didn¡¯t, though. He didn¡¯t see at all. His mind and gut churned with questions. ¡°How long ago was this?¡±


    Li shrugged again. ¡°I don¡¯t know. A few summers, I guess?¡± She chewed her lip. ¡°Ferrian is my friend,¡± she said, looking at her hands remorsefully. ¡°I got mad at him and stormed off. He probably hates me, now...¡± She looked up, suddenly hopeful. ¡°Mister soldier man? Do you know where he is?¡±


    Tander blinked, brought abruptly out of his deep thoughts. He shook his head. ¡°Oh. No. Not exactly. I thought he might be¨C¡± His voice died in his throat. Thoughts forgotten, he stood up, eyes going wide. ¡°Oh my Goddess...¡±


    There was a gasp from Li. She ran out onto the branch in front of him.


    Beyond the little winged girl, from out of the darkness to the west, rose a majestic white form, great wings spread wide, scales rippling like starlight on liquid ice in the glow of the dying Aegis. It was as though the Goddess herself had risen from the ruins of her dead Tower to face the darkness¡­


    Tander had never seen anything so wondrous and emotional, not even the wraith that tried to claim him in the woods. He leaned on the tree for support.


    Li jumped up and down in excitement. ¡°It¡¯s the White Dragon!¡± she cried. ¡°YAAAAAY!¡±

 Chapter One Twenty Nine

    The past revealed; a giant eye


    Ancients from a distant sky.


    Visions assaulted Mekka¡¯s consciousness, an unending barrage of colour, sound and emotion. Dark things swirled on one side of him, brightness on the other, all of them intermingling and clutching at his soul ¨C twisting it, stretching it, attempting to shape it in ways it was not meant to be shaped, until he thought he might break. And through all of it, random events kept up their relentless siege of his senses.


    It was as though he had been dropped into the very centre of reality; a whirlpool of infinite greatness and eternal evil, mixed with the futile mundanity of mortal kind. He wanted to scream, to put his hands up to cover his ears, his eyes, but his physical body was paralysed and his mind had nowhere to flee to¡­


    And then it all faded away. Quite suddenly, the chaos resolved itself, drawing back, making way for clarity. Whispers remained, just on the edge of hearing, ever-present in the background. But for now, Mekka¡¯s sanity was allowed a respite.


    He found himself beholding just one scene. It spread out around him in perfect detail from his vantage point somewhere just below a heavy ceiling of roiling clouds. The sky was murky as mouldy soup, yellowish-brown and foul. The land beneath was hot and red and dry, with rivers of lava and fields of ash. What little vegetation there was was scorched and struggling. It reminded him somewhat of the Middle Isle, but far more vast: the plains stretched out to the gloomy horizon.


    Mekka didn¡¯t recognise this place as anywhere on Arvanor, until he noticed the distinctive spiked peaks of the Barlakks below him.


    A shock fizzled through him, but instinctively he knew that this was not the future he was witnessing. For one thing, there were too many Dragons. They were everywhere, soaring restlessly through the noisome air, skirmishing with each other, young and eager and hungry. They dipped down to the land in their red and gold majesty, scales gleaming dully in the baleful light.


    Looking closer, Mekka saw that there were other living things down there, too. Humans, watchful and frightened; the more daring gathered in groups of primitive huts, the rest in caves. There were no towns or cities that Mekka could see; no agriculture, no civilisation.


    This was the far distant past, when Dragons ruled.


    The scene changed again; or rather, Mekka found himself being drawn upwards, through the stinking clouds, far upwards where the vapours that blanketed Arvanor thinned, and the sun came into view. The sky was still a sickly yellowish colour, though brighter than it was below.


    Here, Mekka was astonished to find a city. It was vast and black, the architecture curving like the petals of dark flowers clustered together. Lights everywhere cast a blue luminescence, but they did not flicker, like flames.


    As he drew closer to the city, Mekka saw machines and technology made of metal that he could not fathom the purpose of: some of it moving of its own accord. And the people¡­


    The people were Angels! All of them with wings black and iridescent as ravens, their skin pale as the moon. There were lights on their clothing as well, and they wore masterfully ornate headdresses and jewellery, and carried peculiar devices that hovered just above their outstretched palms. But there was something sinister and cold about them; a lack of empathy, or indeed any emotion at all. They went about their business not looking or speaking to anyone else, not even when they brushed someone in the street. They were like beautiful statues that seemed not to fly but float about, uncaring and lost in meaningless purpose¡­


    He was moving away now, the dark city receding into the strange, yellow dusk. He was pulled backwards into the clouds, faster and faster, until he came within sight of another city.


    This one was not black, but pure white and silvertine-bright, as though crafted from the distant sun herself. The buildings were like art: exquisite sculptures of mysterious forms and unknown material. There were many lights here, too, golden and sleek, lights that followed the edges of structures like gilding. Sleek machines moved quietly around the outskirts of the city.


    The people here were Angels, too, but just as eerily apathetic and serene as their ebony-winged counterparts. Their wings were all white, their eyes painfully blue, with gleaming halos rotating above their heads, and flowing robes. They boasted six wings rather than two, and were giant in stature compared to their dark kin.


    They were the Seraphim.


    The Ancients, Mekka thought, awed. The Seraphim are the Ancients!


    The scene warped, curving in on itself in a nauseating manner. Mekka braced himself as chaos began to reassert itself, but this time the onslaught of images was brief. When it settled, he was faced with only mildly less confusion.


    The air was crowded with metallic shrapnel, flying everywhere like deadly rain. Mekka flinched mentally as pieces cut past from every direction. Multi-coloured explosions shook the clouds and the land beneath, tearing apart everything with their shockwaves. There were Dragons in the mix as well, but they were horribly shredded¡­


    Mercifully, the scene warped again, and now Mekka was staring at the black city on fire, the elegant flower-like buildings shattered, the dead lights spitting sparks into the air. From the centre of the destruction, within a boiling column of smoke a huge object could be glimpsed ¨C as though the rubble of the city had re-formed itself into a jagged mass topped with a dark, sleek pyramid. It rose slowly, turning as it did so to reveal lights rippling across its smooth sides like electric water and a large, brilliant blue semblance of an eye¡­


    With increasing speed it ascended into the sky, ever higher until it was lost from sight. As it did so, silver machines swarmed over the carcass of the city, dismantling it with horrifying efficiency¡­


    The swirl of madness resumed, and this time went on so long that it was almost more than Mekka could bear. But the scenes, when they slowed again, were short flashes of insight:


    For a long period, the victorious Seraphim lived in blissful peace. They ventured down from their city and roamed the land. They slaughtered most of the Dragons. Arvanor recovered, becoming green and fertile, and all animals and intelligent races flourished.


    Humans came to populate most of the land. The Seraphim shared their knowledge with these curious wingless people; knowledge of architecture and governance and magic, but not their sciences or machines, which they had abandoned. In time, some of the Seraphim became more Human. They were less distant, more capable of emotion, but retained their aloofness and superiority. They were the first rulers.


    Towers were built, five of them; great soaring spires of white stone, so high they seemed to reach into the heavens. One perched on cliffs beside an endless ocean, one glowering in the middle of a smoky red island, one rising amid cold, rugged storm-wracked mountains, one shimmering in a desert of rainbow-coloured sands, and one standing watch beside an idyllic blue-green bay.


    Angels worshipped these Towers, sacrificed themselves to them in the name of their Goddess. The few remaining Seraphim encouraged them to do so: every Angel life ordained to end at a Tower.


    Due to this, the Angel population eventually dwindled, to just one city above a lonely forested peninsula, and just one Tower: Caer Sync. The remaining Towers fell by rebellious actions or abandoned to time and ultimately forgotten.


    And the purpose of these Towers?


    The purpose of the Towers¡­


    Mekka¡¯s viewpoint pulled out; far, far out, beyond the clouds, further than any Angel could fly, until the sky grew dark and stars welcomed him. The entirety of Arvanor lay bright and wondrous below him, lands and kingdoms, mountains and deserts and seas all small and distant.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Under a great, blue dome¡­


    Mekka came back to himself with a jolt. It took him a few wild, disoriented seconds to realise that he was back in the Sanctuary. He was breathing heavily and soaked in sweat. Discovering that he could move again, he saw that his hands were shaking.


    Across from him, Reeves was half-curled as though in pain, hugging himself. His face was as white as his feathers.


    He saw the same as I did, then, Mekka thought.


    The Ancients¡­ the Black-Winged Angels¡­ Mekka couldn¡¯t finish the thought. He was too mentally exhausted to contemplate the enormity of it all. His brain felt fried from the inside out¡­


    There was an ominous rumbling sound, a trembling of the air that made his hairs stand on end. Looking around him, he realised with dismay that the golden glow that surrounded them was much dimmer. Blackness waited beyond the perimeter of floating rocks, like deepest night pressing against a candlelit window.


    And the glass was becoming very thin.


    Mekka felt sick.


    Against his better judgement, he glanced up at the Seraphim. They had turned to stone, though their eyes were still open and glowing, staring once more at each other, as though in shared, silent contemplation at their own imminent deaths.


    The rumbling came again, along with a flurry of awful whispers that passed over him in a gut-wrenching wave. Cracks appeared in the Seraphim, slowly running down from their eyes like tears. Their gazes flickered.


    Mekka looked down hopelessly. He wasn¡¯t sure why. It was as though that damned Pit was determined to claim him, no matter what happened. He gritted his teeth. ¡°Dammit!¡±


    He sighed in resignation, closing his eyes. He was tired of it all. Sick of the reprieves, the false hope. He didn¡¯t care any more what became of him¡­


    The burst of white light blinded him, even through his eyelids. It was accompanied by the most horrendous wailing sound, like metal being tortured¡­


    Somewhere in Mekka¡¯s fractured, weary mind he recognised the sound. Despite the glare, he squinted his eyes open¡­ and then everything fell apart.


    The Aegis failed completely, burning away, shrivelling like paper in a dark fire. Blackness rushed forth, flooding over the Seraphim, who exploded into pieces as they were consumed. Mekka and Reeves braced themselves for the end, but something massive and white bore down on them at the same time, with great speed.


    Mekka had no chance to do anything, let alone scream, as huge, glittering talons reached for him¡­


    ¡°Dragon, have you got them?!¡±


    ¡°I have.¡±


    ¡°Then get us the hell out of here!¡±


    Ferrian wasn¡¯t sure why he was shouting. Now that the whine of his magic had faded away, there was complete silence. An inky void flooded below: a deathly, soundless tide.


    It flowed around himself and the Dragon, as well; thankfully just shadow and not a tidal wave of liquid trigon, as he feared. But the darkness was so intense he could see nothing, not even the pale form of the Dragon beneath him. He gripped her scales tightly; her wingbeats and his own frantically hammering heart were the only things he could hear in the sudden, horrible stillness.


    Then something glared out of the darkness right in front of them, so suddenly that it made Ferrian jump.


    It was a giant, lurid, bright blue eye.


    The Dragon swerved so suddenly that Ferrian threw himself onto her neck to avoid being thrown off. She sped away in a soaring arc, her glittering form now illuminated in a cerulean hue by the light of the eye.


    Ferrian couldn¡¯t take his own gaze off it. The unblinking eye was terrifying and mesmerising at the same time. He felt that it could see right into his soul. He felt his veins burning with its overwhelming, alien stare¡­


    Then the eye was receding into the distance, growing rapidly smaller until it finally disappeared from view.


    A few minutes later, Ferrian felt the reassuring touch of snowflakes on his skin and chill wind in his hair. A chink of moon found its way through the clouds, and the forest became visible below. The oppressive, sickening feeling eased as they flew swiftly through the wintry night, leaving the black pyramid behind.


    It was a long while before Ferrian could resist the urge to keep looking back.


    Some time later, Ferrian awoke to find himself lying on warm grass. This led him to believe that he was still dreaming: how could he be lying on warm grass? He was meant to be flying endlessly through freezing darkness¡­ but as he awakened more fully, he realised that it was true.


    Blinking blearily, he pushed himself up.


    He was lying in the middle of a wide, sun-drenched field, a warm wind ruffling the grass, scented with wildflowers promising the approach of summer. Beautiful blue sky stretched overhead, streaked with high, white clouds. A mountain range lifted oddly-shaped, smooth-weathered peaks to meet it.


    Beside him, the White Dragon lay on the grass, wings folded against her spiny back, shining flanks heaving gently as she slept. One of her hind legs, tucked beneath her, was still tainted an ugly grey.


    There was no sign of his Winter, nor any hint of shadow¡­ save the black form slumped on the ground a few yards away.


    With a sharp intake of breath, Ferrian scrambled to his feet and ran the short distance to his friend. The Angel was in bad shape. He was covered in blood and very pale. Anxiously, Ferrian shook him. ¡°Mekka?¡±


    He didn¡¯t respond. Ferrian shook him again.


    To his relief, Mekka slowly opened his eyes.


    Ferrian let his breath out in a rush. ¡°Thank the Gods!¡±


    Mekka blinked and squinted at the sunlit sky. ¡°Death¡­ isn¡¯t so bad,¡± he whispered hoarsely.


    Ferrian patted him reassuringly. ¡°You¡¯re not dead, Mekka.¡±


    The Angel sighed in disappointment, closing his eyes again. ¡°Dammit. That was my best chance...¡±


    Ferrian sighed in exasperation. Taking Mekka¡¯s arm, he carefully helped him to sit up. ¡°That¡¯s a great way of thanking me for rescuing you!¡±


    Mekka¡¯s expression changed then. Apologetically, he reached out a hand and grasped Ferrian¡¯s shoulder. He was grateful.


    Then he peered around himself. ¡°We are very close to Selvar,¡± he murmured. ¡°I recognise these fields. And the road over there.¡±


    Ferrian followed his gaze, and could just make out a dark line of caravans and carts on the horizon, stretching northwards until they vanished behind a rocky line of hills. Wisps of chimney smoke rose from that direction as well. He guessed that Sel Varence lay in the canyon just beyond the next ridge.


    He was still staring that way, feeling trepidation at the thought of entering the crowded city ¨C but he had to get Mekka to a healer ¨C when a stranger stumbled into view.


    He was dressed in a long, elegant white coat, an Angel with dazzling snowy wings. He was backing away carefully from the Dragon, as though afraid to wake her.


    The Commander of the Sky Legion! Ferrian guessed. He had forgotten all about him!


    Mekka sighed again in dismay. ¡°Ugh. You might have left him to the darkness...¡±


    Ferrian looked at his friend, perturbed. ¡°That¡¯s unkind of you!¡±


    Mekka grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself on Ferrian¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I was trapped in that Aegis with him for several hours,¡± he said, wincing at the pain in his side. ¡°Losing my eye was less painful¡­¡±


    Ferrian frowned. ¡°Mekka. That¡¯s not very funny.¡±


    Mekka snorted a laugh. Evidently, he thought it was.


    Leaving his Angel friend to his grim humour, Ferrian approached the Commander.


    Noticing him, Reeves paused, drawing himself up a little. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°My name is Ferrian,¡± he replied politely. ¡°And you are Commander of the Sky Legion? I met your Lieutenant in the forest.¡± He held out a hand in greeting.


    Reeves ignored it, gesturing instead at the Dragon. ¡°This beast sides with you?¡±


    Ferrian folded his arms. ¡°She¡¯s not a beast, she¡¯s a Dragon. And if you don¡¯t mind your manners, she will freeze your wings off and then eat you.¡± He glanced at the Dragon. ¡°She likes her food crunchy.¡±


    The Dragon opened a silver eye, lazily regarded Reeves, then closed it again.


    It was a joke, but the Angel had gone pale. Nevertheless, he eyed Ferrian up and down for a long moment, before realisation struck and he took another guarded step backwards. ¡°You¡­ are a sorcerer!¡±


    Ferrian put his hands on his hips. ¡°Yes. Any other astute observations?¡±


    ¡°Quite.¡± Reeves¡¯ sharp turquoise eyes narrowed. ¡°But I shall keep them to myself for now.¡±


    Good grief, Ferrian thought. Maybe Mekka had a point, after all¡­


    Reeves waved a hand at the grass around them. ¡°I am missing one of my possessions,¡± he declared haughtily. ¡°A book. If you find it, hand it over to me at once!¡±


    ¡°You mean this book?¡±


    Mekka was leaning against the Dragon¡¯s long snout, a small, leather-bound book in one hand, flipping idly through the pages.


    Something very like panic flashed over the Commander¡¯s face, quickly masked by anger. He advanced on Mekka.


    He didn¡¯t appear to be carrying any weapons, but Ferrian quietly readied his magic, just in case, watching the white-winged Angel carefully.


    Reeves came to a halt in front of Mekka. His glare could have rivalled Arzath¡¯s on a good day. ¡°Give that. To me.¡±


    Mekka ignored him, turning the pages slowly, taking his time. Finally, he closed the book thoughtfully and held it out with a smile.


    Reeves swiped it out of his hand. ¡°What did you read?¡±


    Mekka shrugged. ¡°Nothing. It is written in Ithillic. Not a language I am familiar with.¡±


    Reeves¡¯ gaze continued to bore into him, as though to determine whether or not he was lying. At last, he turned away.


    ¡°Oh!¡± Mekka added. ¡°But you might be interested to know that there is a page missing.¡±


    Reeves paused and turned back. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°In the middle of the book.¡±


    Reeves stared at him. Then he opened the book and started riffling quickly through the pages. Sure enough, in the very centre was clear evidence that a piece had been torn out, quite roughly.


    Reeves closed the book, very slowly, holding it with both hands flat on the covers and looking as though he wanted to murder someone with it. ¡°That thrice-damned Governor!¡± he snarled. Whirling, he strode away a few paces then took off into the air, heading for the city.


    Ferrian joined Mekka beside the Dragon. ¡°So, what was written in the book?¡±


    Mekka smirked, but shook his head ruefully. ¡°I genuinely do not know. I was not lying when I told him I cannot read Ithillic. It was a language used by the sorcerers for their research and spells. You might be familiar with it.¡±


    Ferrian looked troubled. ¡°Oh dear¡­¡±


    Mekka nodded.


    ¡°What would the Commander of the Sky Legion want with research from the SOMS? He can¡¯t use magic.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± the Angel replied. ¡°But that isn¡¯t what troubles me.¡±


    Ferrian looked at him.


    Mekka nodded in the direction the Angel had flown. ¡°Whatever Reeves is after, someone else is looking for the same thing.¡± He frowned darkly. ¡°And they may well have gotten to it first.¡±

 Chapter One Thirty

    A Sword reclaimed; a heart still pained


    With every step, a shadow gained.


    Lady Araynia sat at the entrance to the cave in stillness and silence. The sun had moved behind the peaks at her back, leaving the little rocky valley in cool blue shadow. The higher slopes remained glowing in sunshine; and beyond them, the snow-capped tips seemed distant, lofty and unreachable, far beyond the worries of lowly mortals.


    Araynia wondered dimly what it would be like to stand up there, at the very top of the world, bathed in light while the rest of the land wallowed in darkness.


    What would that feel like?


    Below her, amongst the boulders, small clouds of midges gathered in the hollows, protected from the breeze, but not from the robins, which darted now and then into the rocks, their red breasts bright flashes of colour against the grey.


    Little, happy creatures with little, simple lives.


    Araynia stared at them blankly.


    After some time, she heard sounds behind her: footsteps and voices echoing in the cave.


    Everine and Ben.


    She didn¡¯t look up or greet them as they emerged. Questions were asked, concerns were expressed, but Araynia didn¡¯t trust her voice so she merely nodded or shook her head. Yes, she was alright, although of course she wasn¡¯t, but she had to give some response; yes, Arzath had given her the Sword. No, he wasn¡¯t coming back.


    They were on their own, now.


    Everine remarked that they were better off without him, anyway. For all his power, the sorcerer was no more able to stop Carmine than they were.


    That put everyone in a dark mood, and there was little talking afterwards.


    Their most immediate problem was how to manoeuvre Hawk¡¯s wheelchair down the boulder slope.


    It wasn¡¯t easy. The chair became wedged in almost every crevice and hollow. Dry sticks jammed up the spokes, as though determined to halt their progress. Hawk flopped about like a dead fish, constantly threatening to topple out even after they tied him in place. Many times, they had no choice but to drag his body over the boulders separately to the chair, because hauling both at once was impossible. The boulders were large, and there was no clear path down through them.


    All three of them became tired and irritable very quickly, forced to rest often. Araynia was loath to help, not because she didn¡¯t care but because she was not very strong and felt useless. And a large part of her that she didn¡¯t want to admit to didn¡¯t like being close to the semi-dead man.


    In truth, he repulsed her. It was a shameful thought considering she was, apparently, destined to become a healer, but she couldn¡¯t help it. Nothing about Hawk¡¯s condition was natural or right. A normal dying man she could probably deal with, but this¡­


    After what had happened to Luca, she could hardly bear to look at him.


    Araynia made an effort to repress her feelings and assist where she could, but mostly Ben took her Sword from her to use as leverage for getting the chair free.


    The boulder slide was only three or four hundred yards downhill, but it took them three hours to manage it.


    Dusk had fallen by the time they finally reached the myrtle forest. The sky had turned purple overhead, speckled with fresh white stars, the peaks rising darkly around them. They all collapsed in exhaustion at the edge of the trees.


    But no one wanted to camp within sight of the cave. It loomed as a black hole on the mountainside above them.


    It was far too easy to imagine what might come stalking out of it.


    In wordless agreement, all three of them got wearily back to their feet and pushed on through the forest.


    Around midnight, they could go no farther. Everine¡¯s legs simply gave out under her. Determinedly, she tried to keep going, but progress was so slow that it was no longer worthwhile. None of them had the energy to extricate the chair from snags, which were plentiful in the dark.


    Ben called out to Araynia, who was walking ahead with her blue gemlight guiding the way. She seemed to be lost in a kind of trance. But when she stopped, the light faded away and the young woman folded up like a dropped doll.


    Sleep overwhelmed them.


    Dappled sunlight greeted Ben as he awoke, along with a musty smell of mushrooms and damp leaves, and an incredible symphony of birdsong. Rubbing at his eyes, he pushed himself up.


    They were lying in the middle of a rainforest. Ancient myrtles, tall grey sassafras and giant treeferns surrounded them. Moss covered almost everything in soft, emerald blankets. There appeared to be no defined path, but the undergrowth was relatively sparse. The ground was lumpy and criss-crossed with protruding roots and rocks.


    He wondered how far they¡¯d managed to travel. Looking back the way he presumed they had come, he could not see the boulder slope, but the peaks were still visible above the treetops, quite close. Judging by the terrain, he guessed dismally, probably not very far.


    He could see straight away what had caught up the chair; one front wheel was entwined with a trailing length of ivy, while a back wheel was hampered by an awkward root. Getting to his feet, wincing at a wave of multiple complaints from various parts of his body ¨C especially his back ¨C he pulled out his silvertine dagger and crouched by the chair, hacking away at the vine.


    Everine woke while Ben worked, groaning at her stiff muscles. She said nothing, however, not even a word of complaint, just got up and helped her brother with the chair.


    When they were done, Ben went to wake Araynia. He shook her and said her name several times, and was starting to seriously worry when her eyes finally flickered open.


    They sat around in silence, eating fruit and bread from the sacks they had filled at the storeroom, listening warily to the forest sounds. There was nothing black to be seen, although the twisted limbs of the old myrtles reached over them somewhat disconcertingly. All seemed peaceful in the forest, however, the shafts of bright sunlight broken only by the flitter of birds and swaying leaves.


    Ben looked down at the apple he was eating, realising that it was rather tasteless. Whether from the preservation spells, his fatigue, or simply a rubbish apple, he wasn¡¯t sure. He found himself unwittingly daydreaming about the time Luca had made a fabulous dessert out of apples and perfectly crispy pastry¡­


    He wasn¡¯t hungry at all, after that.


    The expressions on the faces of his companions told him their mood was much the same.


    ¡°Something is wrong,¡± Araynia announced, quietly and suddenly.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Ben replied, in an attempt to lighten the mood. ¡°This apple is fifty years old.¡±


    Everine gave the noblewoman a sarcastic look. ¡°Something other than a red-haired maniac with tentacles chasing us? Or the fact we¡¯re pushing a dead man in a wheelchair through a mountain range?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Araynia swallowed, shaking her head. ¡°N-not that.¡± She looked harrowed and pale.


    ¡°Araynia,¡± Ben said carefully, with more compassion than his sister, ¡°what¡¯s bothering you, apart from the obvious?¡±


    She was fidgeting with her gemstone, avoiding eye contact with them, clearly distressed about something. She took a long time to reply.


    ¡°Arzath,¡± she whispered finally.


    Ben and Everine exchanged a frown. ¡°Arzath?¡± Ben said. ¡°Of all things, you¡¯re worried about him?¡±


    She nodded.


    Everine snorted loudly. ¡°The damned sorcerer¡¯s miles away by now! He¡¯s the one who chose to desert us!¡± She glanced distrustfully at the wheelchair. ¡°I can hardly blame him, either¡­¡±


    Araynia looked up, anxiety on her face. ¡°He gave up his only weapon!¡±


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    ¡°His only weapon?¡± Everine stared at her incredulously. ¡°He can burn anything in his path! He was on the verge of murdering us all back in the tunnel!¡±


    Araynia shook her head. ¡°Not wraiths.¡±


    They all fell silent. After a long, sombre moment, Ben shook his head. ¡°Carmine followed us all the way here for Hawk, not for the sorcerers,¡± he pointed out reasonably. ¡°There¡¯s no reason to think she may have gone after him instead of us.¡±


    There was another uncomfortable silence, in which a disturbing thought crept into Ben¡¯s head:


    Carmine should have caught up to us by now.


    They had been so slow with the wheelchair, and had slept for half a day, judging by the position of the sun. And a wraith probably didn¡¯t need to eat or rest¡­


    Taking a deep breath, he let it out again and began packing up the remains of their meal into the sack. ¡°We¡¯re all on edge,¡± he said, standing up. ¡°Let¡¯s keep going.¡±


    Everine remained sitting. She threw up her arms and let them drop again. ¡°Where are we supposed to be going to?¡±


    Ben removed his scarlet bandanna, smoothed his hair out of his face, then re-tied it around his head tightly. Then he picked up the sack and tossed it over his shoulder. He looked around for a moment, then pointed south. ¡°That way,¡± he said. ¡°And we keep going that way, for as long as we can.¡±


    An hour later, they had left the rainforest behind and entered a drier stretch of pine trees. The ground here was smoother and softer underfoot, but the land had become more hilly, rising and falling in endless small crests and gullies. The smooth, round, lichen-speckled boulders made a reappearance, poking up from the pine needles like the exposed skulls of giant corpses.


    Ben kept checking the position of the mountains and sun to ensure they were still moving south: they were. He estimated that they would eventually hit the major road that ran beside the foothills of the northern branch of the Barlakks, though how far that might be, he had no idea. He remembered it only vaguely from roughly-drawn maps. What they were going to do when they reached more civilised country was a problem they were going to have to face later, but for now, they were focussed on just making it out of the mountains.


    Everine was mostly in charge of the wheelchair, though she let Ben take over now and then. Araynia was reluctant to even go near it. Neither of them were surprised by her attitude; Hawk was a complete stranger to her, and a mostly dead one at that. He unnerved all of them, but Ben and Everine had gotten used to the feeling.


    Ben felt intense sympathy for the noblewoman. Luca¡¯s death had affected all of them, but he could barely imagine what Araynia was going through. He didn¡¯t know how to comfort her, or even if he should try. The young Lady seemed naturally shy and withdrawn, but was now in a very peculiar mood. Mostly, Ben and his sister just gave her space and didn¡¯t ask her to do things unless necessary. Everine was a little snarky sometimes, but she hadn¡¯t gotten along with Araynia from the beginning. This irritated Ben, because he liked the noblewoman, and he thought his sister was being a bit insensitive in the circumstances. But Everine was Everine¡­


    Now that they were travelling in daylight, Araynia had retreated to the rear of their line. Ben looked over his shoulder often to see that she was falling further and further behind.


    He had just finished helping Everine push the chair up a steep incline, when he looked back and saw that Araynia was standing still at the bottom of the slope.


    He called encouragement to her, but she didn¡¯t even look up.


    Leaving Everine leaning against a tree rolling her eyes, he jogged back down the hill. ¡°Not still thinking about Arzath, are you?¡± he asked as he reached her.


    She looked at him, her face haunted. ¡°I cannot go on.¡±


    ¡°Sure you can! I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s less steep over the next hill¡­¡±


    Araynia shook her head.


    Ben sighed, running a hand through his hair. ¡°Okay. We¡¯ll take a rest break and eat something¡­¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Araynia¡¯s Sword was wrapped up in her fur-lined cloak, tied to her back with a spare length of rope as a makeshift sheath. She reached up and untied it, letting the whole bundle slip to the ground. Ben watched in confusion as she bent down and withdrew the Sword.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    She stood up slowly, taking a deep, shaky breath. ¡°I¡­ cannot go any farther. I feel that¡­ something is terribly wrong. Something is pulling me back.¡± Tears glimmered in her eyes as she looked down at the beautiful silver blade. ¡°I¡­ I was given this Sword for a reason. I feel that I must use it.¡±


    Ben stared at her, aghast.


    Everine joined them. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    Araynia¡¯s eyes roamed around the forest, as though watching mysterious things unseen to them. ¡°I feel things,¡± she went on softly. ¡°The lives of animals, of people. I sense things that I couldn¡¯t sense before. Sometimes, I see them glowing, or hear their thoughts randomly. Something is happening¡­ to me¡­¡±


    She looked down at the Sword again. ¡°This Sword belonged to Lord Arzath¡¯s brother. There was a strong bond between them. I have inherited Lord Requar¡¯s magic, and I think¡­ his intuition as well.¡± She swallowed back her emotions. ¡°I know that Arzath is in danger! I cannot explain to you how I know. But it is true.¡± She shook her head. ¡°I cannot simply walk away! He has trusted me with his most valuable possession, and in doing so left himself vulnerable to wraiths! All to protect me!¡±


    She wiped tears from her face with the back of her long blue sleeve. ¡°I do not deserve his sacrifice or this Sword! He should not die because of me!¡±


    She turned away from them, stepping over her cloak and walking off into the forest.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Ben cried. ¡°Araynia!¡± He whirled helplessly on his sister. ¡°Everine!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not going back,¡± Everine stated outright.


    ¡°But¨C¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s a grown woman!¡± Everine said sternly. ¡°She can make her own decisions, just like Arzath did.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t just let her walk off and fight Carmine on her own! This is crazy!¡±


    Everine¡¯s temper flared. ¡°What do you propose we do, Ben? Run after her and tie her up, while she¡¯s waving a magic Sword around? And suppose we go with her ¨C what of Hawk? Shall we abandon him in the middle of the forest? Or would you prefer to wheel him all the way back there, serving him up nicely right into Carmine¡¯s face?¡±


    Ben shook his head, exasperated.


    ¡°Well?¡± She glared at him, putting her hands on her hips. ¡°Who do you want to save? A dead man or a pretty girl?¡±


    Ben flushed. ¡°It¡¯s not like that!¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Everine told him brutally. ¡°It¡¯s not. Because you made your decision back at the storeroom already. Now we have to live with the consequences.¡± She turned and began making her way back up the hill.


    Ben was distraught. He paced around at the bottom of the slope, fear and grief burning through him in alternate waves. He didn¡¯t want to lose another friend to Carmine.


    Araynia¡¯s small dark form had almost disappeared amongst the trees, but her Sword caught the shafts of light, flashing intermittently, like a signal of farewell.


    Ben was seriously tempted to carry out Everine¡¯s first suggestion: picking up that rope and chasing her down, tying her up and forcing her to go with them. Perhaps Everine had forgotten, but Ben was aware that Araynia was carrying the Sword of Healing, which, unlike Ferrian¡¯s Sword, could not be used to harm any living thing, only wraiths. She couldn¡¯t hurt either Ben or his sister with it, and they could overcome her easily¡­


    But the most appalling thing was that Araynia was right; she was the only one of them with a decent silvertine weapon, and Arzath was indeed defenceless. He would likely die if Carmine caught up with him.


    But Everine was right as well, and there was no way he was going to convince his sister to go back. And he couldn¡¯t abandon her alone with Hawk. And he didn¡¯t want Hawk to die, either¡­


    Gods damn it! No matter how he tried to figure it out, someone was not going to survive!


    With a cry of frustration, he kicked at the pine needles. Then he scooped up the cloak and rope and, with great reluctance, followed his sister up the hill, leaving the young noblewoman to face her fate alone.


    The clearing was wide, and ringed by the oldest trees in the forest; five huge, venerable myrtles, wider than they were tall, standing in a circle like elderly folk deep in millennia-long conversation. Draped with ivy and sprouting mushrooms, they had not seen a Human or other intelligent creature in a long time ¨C perhaps ever. Perhaps they had been standing there, in that secluded pocket of the Barlakk Mountains, since the Dragons ruled.


    It was a rare grove of wild magic ¨C the trees here had auras, and thoughts. They did not move or show any other signs of sentience, but Arzath¡¯s Mind Vision revealed the truth they kept hidden.


    The sorcerer stood in the middle of the clearing, turning around slowly, regarding the trees.


    A pity that they were about to be destroyed.


    Yes, he thought. This is the place. This is where it will end.


    The trees would be witness to his final act. They would record it in their roots. Their magic and the natural passage of time would allow them to regrow, to remember. This place would remain terrible and sacred for all the years that were to come.


    Arzath reached up and unclasped his black cloak. He whirled it off his shoulders to one side, and did the same with his gloves. Then he stood for a long moment, eyes closed, feeling the cool, damp air on his face, and the living scent of the forest. Birdsong echoed around him, as though in some great cathedral.


    He was hearing them for the last time.


    It wasn¡¯t Ben¡¯s words that had brought him to this; Arzath had been moving towards this fate for years now. If it hadn¡¯t been for the girl¡¯s rude interruption at the waterfall, he wouldn¡¯t be here at all. He had been granted a short, annoying reprieve: that was all. But the obnoxious boy had brought a certain truth into stark clarity:


    Arzath was redundant. He was old, outdated and superseded by a man that was younger, quicker, more resourceful and more powerful than he was. The Age of Tyranny was over; Arzath could not rule with force and fear as he once had. He no longer even had the stomach to kill: there was a time he would have burned that boy into a charred skeleton without a second thought.


    He didn¡¯t have a Sword; Ferrian had stolen it from him, and this left him only a little less pathetic than the rest of Humankind in the face of the ever-growing demon-wraith plague. He didn¡¯t relish the prospect of spending the rest of his miserable life running from the hell-damned things like a rat! He had already been ejected from his castle by one of them.


    If there was one thing Arzath hated above all else in the world, including Requar, it was feeling helpless.


    No more.


    Opening his eyes, Arzath walked to one end of the clearing. Then he held out an arm and paced in a slow circle around the circumference. Purple runes glowed on the ground beneath his hand as he passed, just as they had at Requar¡¯s funeral.


    He had left the Sword of Healing for the girl. He had known exactly what he was doing when he did it: it was not a decision he made lightly. But he had realised that there was no point in keeping it from her; she had bonded with it already and there was no reversing that. And she would have reclaimed it from him eventually, one way or another.


    Requar¡¯s magic lived on within her: she was his legacy. She was needed in the coming days of darkness; Ferrian could not be the sole surviving sorcerer. For all his worthy attributes, Arzath had seen the boy struggling with the responsibility of replacing Requar, of trying to do too much, to save too many people: of trying to make the world a better place.


    He was repeating Requar¡¯s mistakes. The world didn¡¯t need improving; it needed to be rid of abominations. The rest would survive on its own merits.


    But Araynia was too important to lose, which was why Arzath was doing everything in his power to ensure that she survived.


    Closing the circle, he watched as the entire ring of symbols glowed once, brightly, then faded into the leaf litter. Satisfied, he took up his place in the centre of the clearing.


    As long as the girl was travelling with her foolish friends, however, she was threatened by the wraith that hunted them. Which was why he was creating a diversion.


    The thing fed on souls. A sorcerer¡¯s soul was more than it could resist; it would seek to gorge itself on his life force and magic. He had distanced himself from the others deliberately, and left an enticing trail of spells for the wraith to follow, right to this clearing.


    Kneeling in the leaves, he closed his eyes again and quietly began to prepare for the encounter. He didn¡¯t expect to kill the wraith outright, not with magic alone.


    He smiled to himself. But he sure as hell was going to give it more than it could eat.

 Chapter One Thirty One

    Within the darkness, rain and light


    Within the trees, a fateful fight.


    Araynia opened her eyes to find herself floating once more upon the blue-silvery lake, gazing upwards into an infinity of undulating cerulean light. For a few moments, she allowed herself to drift in the pleasing, wistful serenity; a welcome respite from her worries and grief, until remembrance and purpose pushed their way unceremoniously into her thoughts, demanding that she stay focussed.


    She sat up straight away.


    The floor coalesced into a hard, polished surface beneath her, glistening droplets of water falling away from her body into nothing. She looked around. Light danced across the floor, reflected from the ceiling. In the distance, soft blue mist faded away in every direction.


    Cool quietness. There was no one to be seen, save her own mirrored image below her.


    Getting to her feet, she took a deep breath and called out: Lord Requar!


    Her voice was swallowed by the vastness, without an echo. She called again. Lord Requar!


    Nothing.


    She listened, straining her ears for the slightest sound, any sound resembling footsteps, but there was only silence.


    He must be here, she thought worriedly. I know he is not merely a dream conjured by my imagination! If he was, he would have appeared by now!


    My Lord, please! I need your help!


    Mist and rippling light was her only reply. Araynia whirled in frustration¡­ only to find him standing right behind her.


    She jumped.


    There is no need to shout, my dear.


    Overawed once more by the sight of the handsome dead sorcerer, Araynia dropped meekly to her knees. I am sorry, my Lord.


    Please, do not¡­ He stepped forward, took her arm gently and helped her to her feet. I am not your master. This Sword belongs to you, now.


    Yes, my Lord, she replied breathlessly, staring down at her small brown hands clasped in front of her. Please¡­ I need your help. It is urgent.


    What is it you wish of me?


    She swallowed, embarrassed to meet his intense blue gaze. The Sword of Healing. I¡­ I do not know how to use it.


    To her surprise, he smiled, his eyes sparkling. Ah. Is that all?


    My Lord?


    He laughed softly. Turning, he paced a few steps away, his blue cloak and long white hair drifting with his movements as though in a gentle, unfelt breeze. Thinking he was mocking her, Araynia blushed in shame, wishing she could dissolve into the floor.


    She jumped again when she felt his hand on her shoulder. But his expression was kind. You do not need my help, Araynia.


    But I¡­


    Shaking his head, he stepped around in front of her. As with their previous meeting, she felt intimidated by his presence. For a spirit, he seemed so¡­ real.


    Requar sighed, as though he had just read her thoughts, which he probably could. She blushed even deeper.


    I cannot teach you how to use the Sword of Healing, he said softly. Because you already know.


    She looked perplexed.


    You possess magic already, he explained. Of this you are aware. You absorbed it from my pendant, and have likely been using it instinctively for most of your life without realising. Now, it is simply a matter of bending it to your will.


    Lifting an elegant hand, he made a flowing motion in the air between them, leaving a misty trail as he did so. Araynia watched it, mesmerised. Souls are like water, he went on. They are liquid. They flow and fill whatever channel or container will hold them. They can be directed. They can be mixed with other substances, like magic. They can be shaped and they can be split. They can be tainted and purified.


    Your soul is your life force and magic combined. To use magic, you need merely will it into the direction or form you wish it to take.


    His hand made a straight horizontal line in the air, and a ghostly image of a sword appeared. Think of your Sword as a part of your body, an extension of your arm if you like. Then imagine your magic welling up from somewhere deep inside you, flowing through your limbs like a series of cool streams merging into a silvery river ¨C down through your arm, your Sword, and merging with the living soul that you are healing. The object you are holding in this moment is irrelevant; it is no longer an object, it is a conduit, a connection between you and your patient.


    The fact that the conduit is a Sword is not important; you could achieve the same thing with an ordinary stick, or anything lying to hand, though you would find it much more difficult to do so. The Sword of Healing is specially designed to enhance your own power and encourage it to flow freely. The sapphires set within the hilt contain healing magic that will heighten your own and imbues the blade with a special property ¨C it cannot cut living flesh. The touch of silvertine bolsters positive thoughts. The symbolism and history and beauty of the Sword inspires confidence in its wielder.


    A simple desire to help someone is enough for the Sword to work, though more serious and fatal injuries will require concentration. However¡­ Requar faltered in his lecture, frowning slightly. Trigon is a different matter.


    He turned away from her then, seemingly lost in thought, looking troubled. He began to pace slowly up and down in front of her, staring at the floor, which reflected no image back at him.


    Curing a person of a trigonic infection, he went on, requires not only the utmost concentration and focus, but a complete, unwavering faith in oneself. He shook his head. There can be no hint of doubt, fear or worry: no negative emotions at all. The slightest flaw in your self-belief will cause the Sword to fail. If the crack is wide enough, the trigon will attack you and destroy you.


    He closed his eyes. I myself could not achieve such a state of mind until near the end of my life. You must be stronger than I was. In no circumstances must you attempt to fight trigon until you are absolutely certain that you have the strength and confidence to do so.


    He opened his eyes, and his look was grave. But I fear you are seeking to do exactly that.


    Araynia swallowed, unable to hide her despair. Your brother, my Lord¡­


    Requar blinked. My brother?


    He is being hunted by a wraith, and he has no means of defending himself. I am afraid that I am already too late. But there is no one else!


    Requar fell silent. He turned away from her, gazing off into the mist. He was so still and quiet for so long that Araynia became worried that she had said something awfully wrong, that she had hurt him in some unimaginably terrible way.


    When he turned back finally, his expression revealed that she had been correct. His serene composure was shattered; he seemed uncertain of what to say. Shoulders slumping, he sank to one knee on the floor, as though defeated.


    Araynia knelt beside him, her heart in her throat.


    His voice came almost in a whisper. Arzath has always chosen his own path in life, he said. He is reckless and arrogant, but not stupid. If he has put himself in danger, then he will have had a reason to do so¡­


    To protect me! Araynia blurted out heatedly, unable to suppress her frustration.


    Requar nodded, and to her surprise, his smile returned, though his eyes glimmered on the edge of tears. You must not do this, Araynia. If the demon-wraith succeeds in claiming Arzath, then something unspeakably monstrous will be created. If that does not happen, he will likely commit a Fatalis. Either way, you must not be anywhere near him. You must¡­ let Fate take its course.


    Araynia shook her head, unwilling to accept what he was telling her. Is there¡­ is there no way that you can help?


    Requar shook his head. My influence does not extend beyond this Sword and your stone. I have no power. I am¡­ a figment. A memory. Everything I was now belongs to you.


    Araynia stared at him helplessly.


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    He reached out and placed his hand over hers. I would not have bestowed my Sword upon you if I did not believe completely in your ability to use it. He held her gaze. But you have only just discovered your magic. You are not yet ready to take on something as powerful and horrific as trigon. Your life is¡­ his voice faltered. Your life is more important than my brother¡¯s. You are the future ¨C you and Ferrian. You must survive.


    Araynia was quiet for a long moment. Finally, she climbed to her feet and bowed. Thank you for your advice, my Lord.


    Then, without another word, she turned and walked away into the mist.


    It was cold, dark and raining. Araynia gasped as the chill wetness hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her body shivered uncontrollably. Her Sword was a dim grey shape clutched tightly in her hands before her, its magic now faded. She tried to wipe the water out of her face with her sleeve, but it was streaming all over her, dripping off her nose and hair. She immediately regretted leaving her cloak behind.


    The rain pounded deafeningly around her, but she could see nothing in the watery gloom. Fumbling for her pendant with numb, trembling fingers, she squeezed it until a soft blue light leaked forth.


    It illuminated little but silvery rain and glistening fern fronds.


    Araynia got unsteadily to her feet, shaking with cold or fear or both, she could not tell.


    You must survive, Lord Requar¡¯s soft voice whispered back to her. You must not do this, Araynia¡­


    She remembered the impassioned look in his eyes when he said it, and tried to control a sharp stab of panic.


    The forest was dreadfully dark. She felt terribly alone, and more deeply afraid than at any point on her ill-fated journey so far.


    But she could not go back.


    For her entire life, people had been telling her what to do. Her family had kept her sheltered and safe, as though she were a precious little thing that might break at a touch. Her mother had always insisted she knew what was best for her; had banned Araynia from visiting the infirmary at the slightest sign her daughter was showing an interest in becoming a nurse. As the youngest of three siblings, Araynia had been treated like a child, even as a woman, as though she were ignorant and na?ve: which was unfortunately true. Her sisters had been frivolous and silly, and had mocked her for being boring and stupid. Everyone had laughed at or scorned her hobbies and interests and dreams.


    Everyone but her grandmother¡­ and Luca.


    Luca.


    For the first time in her life, Araynia had made a decision that she felt was truly hers.


    She was alone now: everyone she had known or loved was gone. There was no one left to trust but her own instincts. They had led her this far ¨C if they were leading her to her death, so be it!


    My life is my own! she thought furiously, clenching her jaw to stop her teeth chattering. I am tired of others telling me how to live it! If there is to be a future for me, then I will make it or throw it away as I choose!


    Taking a firmer grip on the rain-slicked Sword, she continued onwards into the night.


    The wraith arrived with the dusk, the deep purple hues of evening swallowed by a blacker-than-black darkness that stole unsubtly around the circumference of the clearing. Arzath¡¯s eyes were closed, but he felt it come, a creeping, sickly chill like the breath of winter gone rotten.


    When he opened his eyes, finally, he was met with an unexpected sight.


    He had anticipated a monster; a thing of tentacles and claws, of twisted, ethereal features and shadowy form. But what stood before him at the entrance of the clearing was¡­ a woman.


    She was clearly no ordinary woman, of course, and he could see straight away what had claimed her. From neck to foot, she was clad in sleek, form-fitting trigonic armour, wicked and impenetrable as the shell of a deadly insect. Incongruously, over the top of the armour hung a long, dusty coat with large orange chevrons emblazoned on the hems. Arzath recognised it as a type of military uniform worn by officers in the Darorian Army. Many ages ago, his own father had taken pride in such an outfit¡­


    Arzath was taken aback by the jolt of the unwelcome memory, but he pushed it forcefully aside. The woman was obviously a soldier from the Middle Isle, which explained how she had acquired the trigonic armour. And she had apparently been wearing it for some time; there was no distinction between the trigon and her pale skin, it simply transitioned organically up her throat, tapering off into stark veins climbing the sides of her face.


    Her hair was bright crimson, framing her ghostly face, startling against the black. Her eyes were like frosted blades, but they were inquisitive, watchful, travelling slowly around the clearing.


    Arzath rose to his feet. He stretched out an arm to the side, and the ring of purple runes flared, bathing the clearing in bright violet light. The magic flickered uncertainly, but he forced more of his will into it, and it steadied. The black shadow remained as a wall beyond the border of myrtle trees.


    The woman stared at him. Arzath met her gaze unflinchingly.


    A small smile found its way onto her colourless lips. ¡°You aren¡¯t afraid of me,¡± she stated simply.


    Arzath returned her cold smile with one of his own. ¡°Afraid of you?¡± he replied, raising an eyebrow, and gave a bow and a welcoming flourish. ¡°I invited you here!¡±


    Still smiling, the wraith stepped forward over the runes. They flickered wildly and dimmed to a doleful glow. Arzath¡¯s eyes remained fixed on her as she circled him, slowly. ¡°You invited me here, to your own death?¡± she mused, tilting her head slightly to the side. ¡°Interesting¡­¡±


    Arzath said nothing, merely continued to return her smile. But inside him he stoked his magic, breaking off parts of himself to throw on the blaze; thoughts, memories, experiences, emotions. Everything that he was went onto the bonfire of his soul.


    By the time the wraith had walked a full circle around him to the entrance of the clearing, livid purple light spilled from his eyes, electricity crackling in both hands. Rain began to fall; a sudden, heavy, cold downpour pattering on the leaves. Where the drops struck the sorcerer¡¯s skin they hissed into steam.


    The wraith laughed girlishly. ¡°You want to play?¡± Holding out her own arm to the side, a long black tentacle grew sinuously from her palm. It straightened and hardened, becoming wide and flat and sharp along one edge, assuming the shape of a massive blade ¨C something like a curved cleaver with jagged edges.


    Bringing the ghastly weapon around in front of her, she gripped it with both trigon-gauntleted hands. Rain trickled over the giant dark blade in anticipation.


    Arzath¡¯s sparking magic reflected as flashes in her eerie grey eyes.


    ¡°Then let¡¯s play.¡±


    The darkness and rain were heavy. Araynia stumbled onwards, for what seemed like all night through the forest, trusting her instinct alone to lead the way. Her clothes were saturated, her feet seemed made of lead. Her pendant illuminated her surroundings only dimly.


    And then, quite suddenly, it went out.


    Araynia came to a halt. She could still feel the rain streaming over her. Taking up the stone, she willed it to produce more light.


    Nothing happened.


    She tried harder, squeezing it tightly in her free hand, but it remained dark.


    Something about the night around her felt¡­ wrong.


    She looked around, her gut tightening in familiar dread. She could see nothing at all; not the stone, nor the Sword of Healing in her hand. She clutched both of them tighter for reassurance.


    The darkness had a thick feel to it, a clammy, freezing coldness that seeped all the way through her. The rain all of a sudden felt like icy fingers trailing down her back.


    Araynia shuddered, gripped with growing fear.


    The wraith was close.


    Doubts began to assault her mind. What am I doing?! Here she was, some poor, wet, pathetic thing, lost in the forest, with a magical Sword she¡¯d never tried to use before, and she had no idea what to do if she found Carmine or Lord Arzath¡­


    But she had come too far, and it was dark, and she didn¡¯t know the way back.


    The longer she stood there, the more fearful she felt that something was going to grab her¡­


    So she kept going.


    She had only gone about ten steps further, however, when the scene in front of her changed so abruptly that she gasped in shock. It was as though she had stepped through a barrier of some kind, a surrounding wall of black shadow. All at once, she could see again ¨C light and noise crashed into her.


    She dropped into a crouch as lightning sizzled all around in dazzling, serpentine flashes, accompanied by deafening peals of thunder. A nearby grove of myrtle trees was scorched and smouldering, filling the rainy air with smoke.


    Carmine and Arzath were at the centre of the ring of trees, circling each other in deadly combat. The wraith-woman brandished the largest, most horrible sword that Araynia had ever seen: it could have cleaved a horse in two. As Araynia watched, she swung it at the sorcerer, frighteningly quick, and Araynia nearly cried out, but Arzath nimbly dodged the blow.


    He sent a ferocious barrage of lightning at her in return, but it didn¡¯t appear to affect the wraith at all.


    The two of them were so focussed on each other that neither noticed the young noblewoman cowering in the shadows.


    Araynia remained where she was, frozen with fear, mesmerised by the battle. She had never in her life imagined such power existed. It was awesome and overwhelming. She felt like a mouse caught in a raging storm.


    What could I possibly hope to do against that?! she thought in despair. If she took one step inside that circle, she would be slaughtered without a thought¡­


    Carmine pressed her attack with a flurry of rapid strikes that left trails of black mist through the air. Again, Arzath managed to narrowly avoid them, ducking and rolling out of the way¡­ but he stumbled as he rose to his feet.


    The sorcerer was tiring. Araynia could see him panting.


    Carmine, on the other hand, seemed to be growing stronger and more confident with each passing second.


    She didn¡¯t allow Arzath to recover. Noticing his stumble, she brought her sword around and down at once in a brutal, punishing blow meant to finish him¡­


    Araynia put her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming¡­


    The sword halted in the air, only inches from Arzath¡¯s face.


    He had grabbed her arms, not touching the trigon but clutching her wrists covered by the long sleeves of her coat. He held the sword back with sheer physical force, grimacing with the effort, his eyes flaring.


    But it was a losing battle. Araynia could hear his desperate grunts as he strained against the giant black blade, saw his arms shaking.


    Carmine simply stood there, pressing the sword at him almost casually, as though the powerful sorcerer was no more than a child.


    She was smiling.


    Arzath sank to his knees. The blade came deathly close to his face. His glowing purple eyes flickered¡­


    Araynia found that she had come to her feet without realising it, her heart in her throat. The sorcerer was going to be dead within seconds.


    If she was going to do something, it had to be now!


    Arzath screamed, his eyes, his hands, his entire body blazing with white light in final desperation. The sleeves of Carmine¡¯s coat caught on fire¡­


    Not knowing what she was doing, Araynia ran at the wraith-woman¡¯s back. Remembering Requar¡¯s words, she willed the Sword of Healing to life. To her surprise, it responded before the thought had even finished forming, blue-white light flaring from the sapphires and flooding down the blade.


    She felt magic course through her in an incredible, shining wave. Reaching Carmine, she lifted the Sword and swung it at the woman¡¯s back¡­


    Araynia had never swung a sword before, and it was a clumsy effort. She had been aiming for the wraith¡¯s midsection, but the blade dipped down at an angle, slicing through her right hip and leg instead.


    It went through with shocking ease. There was flash of light as it impacted the trigon, and a sound like a musical note being ripped apart. Something strange happened to the air¡­


    Carmine shrieked, stumbling off-balance. Her leg remained intact, but the trigon covering it fell away, turning into liquid as it hit the ground. She spun, furious.


    Arzath seized advantage of the lapse in his attacker¡¯s concentration. Magic blasted out of him in a shocking wave that threw both Carmine and Araynia back several yards.


    With it came a burning, searing heat. The entire clearing lit up like broad daylight.


    Some primal instinct told Araynia to run. Still dazed, gasping as the scorching air entered her lungs, she scrambled to her feet and fled blindly into the forest. Not daring to look back, she ran for her life.


    Behind her, the light grew brighter and brighter, banishing the surrounding night, picking out the trees and bushes in stark white. The heat became unbearable on her back. Electricity crawled across the forest floor, over the roots and moss like violet snakes, chasing her¡­


    One of the twisting sparks caught her foot and she fell to the ground, crying out in pain. The Sword of Healing clattered away into the ferns, but she didn¡¯t have time to retrieve it. Pushing herself up in the now blinding glare, she threw herself with a final desperate cry of terror behind the nearest tree¡­


    And then the forest ripped apart in roaring, explosive whiteness.

 Chapter One Thirty Two

    Grey the morning¡¯s ravaged cloak


    The magic gone, released in smoke.


    Araynia woke slowly to the touch of ash on her cheek, like soft, warm snow.


    When she finally opened her eyes, she was confronted by a world she didn¡¯t recognise.


    Carefully, she pushed herself up, shivering involuntarily with pain. Looking down at herself, she saw that her hands were burned and her clothes badly singed. A long piece of charred wood lay across her legs.


    But somehow, she was still alive.


    The night had retreated, replaced with a grim, grey dawn. The rain had stopped, but clouds lingered overhead, mingling with a thick, yellowish haze of smoke that drifted through the forest.


    If it could still be called a forest.


    Pushing the burnt debris off her, Araynia climbed unsteadily to her feet. The myrtle tree that she had sheltered behind was a smouldering wreck. As indeed was a large swath of rainforest in a two hundred yard radius in every direction.


    It was a wasteland of devastation. There was nothing to be heard. No life to be seen, anywhere. Nothing moved but the wafting smoke.


    The ring of ancient myrtles was obliterated, nothing left of them but huge, blackened stumps. Here and there small fires still burned as red, brooding patches in broken piles of timber.


    Two bodies lay in the centre of the wreckage.


    They did not stir.


    Off to her left, Araynia caught a glimpse of something gleaming. Limping over to it, she saw that it was the Sword of Healing, completely untouched. Reaching down, she picked it up. It was cool to the touch.


    She stood staring at the bodies for a long time before gathering the courage to approach.


    The first one was Carmine. She was lying on the charred ground half-curled up, with her arms protecting her head, hiding her face. Her coat and brilliant red hair were severely scorched. The evil black armour still covered her body, save where Araynia had cut it and part of her coat off, exposing her right leg.


    The noblewoman reeled at the sight of the gruesome limb. The flesh was grey and decomposing, but apparently, there was still enough life left in it that the Sword hadn¡¯t sliced it off completely.


    She averted her gaze quickly, fighting back a surge of nausea, focussing on the folded arms instead.


    Carmine did not move. Nevertheless, Araynia stepped around her as quietly as she could, keeping her distance and her hand tight on her Sword.


    Arzath lay face down in the very centre of the clearing. Curiously, the ground beneath him was undamaged; he rested on a bed of autumn-coloured tiny myrtle leaves. There appeared to be no injuries that she could see ¨C no burns, no wounds, no trigonic infection. But ash had settled upon his pale skin and black hair, and his eyes were open.


    They were dim, their emerald depths glittering no more. Their fire and fury were gone, their power once and for all extinguished.


    Araynia sank to her knees beside him, shaking her head in denial. ¡°No,¡± she choked. Lifting her Sword quickly, she set it on the ground in front of him. Then she took up one of his hands, placing it over the silver blade. As she did so she was struck by how elegant it was, how beautiful: just like his brother¡¯s.


    Closing her eyes, she gripped the handle of the Sword and willed it to come to life.


    Nothing happened.


    Concentrating, she remembered Lord Requar¡¯s words; that she only needed to want it to be, and so it would.


    But there was no swell of light, this time, no glorious wave of sparkling, invigorating power running through her veins. The Sword remained quiet, and the growing hole inside her remained empty.


    With a cry of frustration, she surged to her feet, swinging the Sword up and plunging it down into Arzath¡¯s back. Again she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth, gripping the handle so hard that her burned hands throbbed in torturous protest.


    It has to work! her mind screamed. It has to work!!


    Long minutes passed, and nothing happened. She felt nothing at all but her own anguish.


    With a sob of despair she opened her eyes, tears dropping from them. Through her blurry vision she saw a dark red stain spreading across Arzath¡¯s white-and-black shirt where the Sword had struck him.


    Letting go of the hilt, Araynia stumbled backwards in horror, falling to the ground. Eyes wide, she stared at the Sword of Healing, protruding from the sorcerer¡¯s back as it had from the dusty stone of the cave entrance where he had left it for her ¨C not a symbol of hope but of terrible, shocking failure.


    He¡¯s dead, she thought, stunned. I failed to save him¡­


    The Sword of Healing could not have spilled Arzath¡¯s blood if there was a trace of life left in him.


    Overcome with grief, she knelt in the ash, sobbing.


    Your life is more important than my brother¡¯s, Requar had told her in his soft, broken voice, knowing what was to come.


    Is it? she wondered. Why?


    A few yards away to her left, something moved.


    As Araynia turned to look, her horror deepened to new, unfathomable levels. Carmine¡¯s trigon-clad arm moved, coming away from her face, clutching at the scorched dirt.


    She wasn¡¯t dead!


    Forcing herself to her feet in a new rush of fear, Araynia retrieved her Sword from Arzath¡¯s body. The end of the blade came away coated in blood.


    Slowly, very slowly, Carmine pushed herself up. Her pale face was mostly undamaged; only the ends of her hair were singed.


    There was no anger there, however, nor malevolence. She sat in the ash, looking blankly around; at Araynia, at Arzath, at the ruined forest, as though not understanding.


    ¡°Where am I?¡± she whispered. Looking down at her leg, her brow furrowed. She seemed lost, confused. Putting her arms around herself like a frightened child, she began to rock back and forth. ¡°Where am I? What¡­ what has happened to me? Where¡­ where are you, father? Where are you, Hawk? Where¡­ Mekka¡­ Why? Why did you leave me? Why did everyone¡­ leave me¡­?¡± Her voice dissolved into despairing sobs.


    Araynia stared at her, tears filling her own eyes. Oh, Gods. Carmine was still Human! She still remembered her life! The shock of the explosion or perhaps the Sword of Healing seemed to have loosened the trigon¡¯s hold over her.


    For the moment, she was no longer a wraith.


    It was too horrible. I have to put an end to her, Araynia thought wretchedly. But she was rooted to the spot. She couldn¡¯t bring herself to walk over there and stab a crying woman in the back. She wasn¡¯t even sure what the Sword of Healing would do to her: would it kill her or save her? Could Araynia even make it work?


    Perhaps it¡¯s a trick, she tried to convince herself. A sly bluff to get Araynia to lower her guard¡­


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    Araynia decided to try something that she had only ever experienced by accident before:


    She attempted to see Carmine¡¯s aura.


    It took long minutes of concentration, listening to the woman¡¯s heartbroken moans, but eventually she brought it into focus.


    The aura was a dreadful thing, formed of all the dark and lurid colours of anguish and torment imaginable. It was an hypnotic mass of sickness that stretched and swirled around Carmine in a mass of tentacle-like strands, like a hideous creature, strangling her, piercing her, ripping her soul apart.


    Araynia¡¯s stomach turned. It was like watching someone being tortured.


    With a horrified sob of her own, Araynia turned and ran into the ravaged forest, not looking back.


    * * *


    The road was deserted. It curved, puddle-strewn, through high, craggy ridges to the east; to the west, it sloped gradually downwards into open farmland. Bordering the road on one side in an unbroken line of old lofty oaks and birches was the Valewood Forest, its green march stopped only by the wall of cliffs at the far end of the Barlakks, where they transitioned into the Red Mountains ¨C the home of the Grik clans.


    The sound of birdsong after the rain was rudely interrupted by a distressing metallic squeaking noise. A blackbird looked up from its foraging, then flapped away in a rush of annoyed chirping as something ungainly emerged from the forest.


    It was a wheelchair. An extremely bent and battered wheelchair, with a heavily robed and limp occupant that rocked and jounced with every movement.


    ¡°Finally¡­¡± Everine sighed. Moving to the nearest tree on the verge of the road, she plonked herself down against it, not caring that the grass was soaking wet.


    Ben sat down moodily beside the wheelchair. They were all wet. Everything was wet. The sky had remained a stubborn pale, cold grey for two days, refusing to dry anything out. Fetching a biscuit from his food sack, he nibbled on it dispiritedly. Though he was relieved that they had finally reached the road, he took no joy from the fact.


    His mind still lingered in the forest. Somewhere back there, his friend was trying to fight a demon-wraith and save a sorcerer.


    And there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it.


    Taking out his silvertine dagger, he stared at it, turning it around in his hands, looking forlornly at the masterful craftsmanship. He could have helped her¡­


    He found himself wondering, not for the first time, if he really had made the right decision. If that Legionnaire back at the inn had made the right decision.


    That one moment had changed everything.


    You will need this¡­ when the darkness comes¡­


    Ben had assumed that the Angel had been referring to the wraith-plague, but now he finally understood the grim truth of the words.


    This dagger was meant for Hawk. The Angel had spared Hawk¡¯s life on the condition that Ben have the courage to do what he had chosen not to, if the trigon-riddled man truly could not be saved.


    Like it or not, Hawk was Ben¡¯s responsibility, now.


    It took them two more days to reach Meadrun. They arrived well after sundown, the sky a mottled, unpretty swathe of clouds and stars, like a moth-eaten evening gown. The town itself was aglow with lights, bright and welcoming.


    Well¡­ welcoming for Ben and his sister, maybe.


    Definitely not for Hawk.


    Ben had been contemplating what to do about this for most of the time they¡¯d been travelling. They had already garnered a few suspicious stares from other travellers on the road, who¡¯d gone on their way giving the three of them funny looks over their shoulders. Ben and Everine had resorted to hiding in the forest at anyone¡¯s approach.


    Taking Hawk into the middle of the town was out of the question. On the way to Ferrian¡¯s castle a few weeks ago, they had skirted this town entirely, choosing to camp in the wilderness instead, despite the blood moles. But now they were both miserable and beyond exhausted, and Everine would murder Ben if the next thing she collapsed onto wasn¡¯t a comfortable bed.


    They spotted a cowshed on the edge of a field. Ben broke in through a side door, but the cows made such a ruckus as they entered that they were forced to hastily abandon that plan. The animals could sense the presence of trigon, and it terrified them.


    They were left with no other choice but to hide Hawk in the forest.


    This wasn¡¯t easy in the dark, and they dared not create a light for fear of attracting attention. So by fitful starlight and groping alone, they searched for the thickest clump of bushes and close-growing trees they could find, and shoved the entire wheelchair and Hawk into it.


    He would be safe there from wild animals, which were unlikely go near him, but they just had to hope that no early-morning hunters stumbled across him.


    It was the best they could do.


    Not feeling confident about this solution, but too tired to do any more, the two of them plodded into the town.


    Meadrun had been completely rebuilt after Ferrian¡¯s Winter had unintentionally destroyed it four years ago. Indeed, it was bigger and thriving better than ever: it had grown to the size of a small city. Walls were under construction around the perimeter, although there were no gates installed as yet. The town had seen a huge influx of immigrants from the other side of the Barlakks. The Outlanders had initially been reluctant to accept them; many of the Coastlanders were wealthy folk who had lost everything, forced to flee their properties as the wraith menace claimed almost every major town and city save Sel Varence, which was now overflowing with people. But hostility and prejudice between the two regions had eased ¨C everyone now more or less united in their common need to survive, to band together against the blackness that claimed all lives, rich and poor alike.


    Apparently, the royal family were now governing from the island continent of Enopina to the north ¨C although ¡®hiding¡¯ was perhaps a more accurate description. There had been no concerted effort to organise an army to fight back the wraiths; the whole of Daroria had been left in disarray, with people largely fending for themselves.


    Neither Siriaza nor the Centaur nation of Remast had gotten involved, preferring to watch their own borders and stay well clear of Daroria¡¯s problems.


    Arkana on the other hand¡­ well, Arkana¡¯s Governor saw the wraith attacks as a business opportunity: one that was making her extremely rich.


    Frustratingly, most people were ignorant about the nature of silvertine. If every person in the country had been given a silvertine weapon and armour, and a dedicated extermination force arranged, the demon-wraiths could have been stopped. But everyone believed that magic was needed. It was a misconception that spread faster than the plague itself. Castle Whiteshadow had been inundated with gifts; word of Ferrian¡¯s heroic vanquishing of the Dragon-wraith at Forthwhite had overtaken his more tragic exploits, and there was now a general expectation that the young sorcerer was going to step up and single-handedly save the entire country from disaster.


    Only a few years ago, Ferrian had lived in fear of a lynch mob around every corner ¨C now they loved him.


    Ben shook his head as he walked through the main street of the town, with its newly-constructed houses and shops. He had heard all this from conversations at the Hungry Deer, and from Ferrian himself. Indeed, the tavern they were now approaching ¨C a huge, overly grandiose building dominating one side of the central square ¨C was proudly named the White Horse, with a hanging sign depicting a cloaked rider on a galloping white steed, surrounded by snowflakes.


    Though the tragedy that had befallen their town had happened only four years ago, they already regarded it almost as an honour, practically a tourist attraction¡­


    Ben stopped suddenly as something outside the tavern other than the questionable signage caught his eye. Light blazed from the windows, along with raucous noise ¨C the inn was packed ¨C but in the cool shadows just to one side of the door stood a tall dark figure.


    Her glossy hide gleamed warmly in the glow, her hair pulled back into a ponytail of blonde braids, a striking contrast to her night-black skin. In her right hand she held a glorious, long silvertine spear, and a bright round badge was affixed to her cobalt left sleeve¡­


    Ben gasped. ¡°Lieutenant-Commander Raemint!¡± he cried aloud, breaking into a run.


    Noticing someone racing towards her, the Centaur grabbed her spear defensively, but lifted it in surprise as she recognised who it was. ¡°Young Ben!¡± she said in astonishment. ¡°Alon and well met! I am very glad to see that you and your sister are safe!¡±


    ¡°Define ¡®safe¡¯,¡± Everine muttered cynically as she joined them.


    Ben launched into an explanation of everything that had happened to them since the Sky Legion had arrived at their tavern to arrest Mekka. In his haste to tell the story, he stumbled over his words and skipped details ¨C Everine had to interject several times for clarification. The Centaur listened attentively, and when Ben finally finished, she was quiet for a moment, frowning.


    ¡°And Ferrian is in Arkana, you say?¡±


    Ben nodded. ¡°He¡¯ll have rescued Mekka for sure!¡± he said optimistically. ¡°He¡¯ll be back any day now!¡± His earlier glum mood had vanished, replaced with excitement and burning hope. He felt much better about their chances of survival now with that shining spear and an unkillable Centaur at their side.


    Raemint looked at them both seriously. ¡°I pray for us all that that is so.¡± She gestured at the inn. ¡°Flint and I were on our way to inform Ferrian of Carmine¡¯s escape.¡± She shook her head. ¡°She broke out of her cell in the middle of the night, catching us all unaware. We found the tavern deserted, and feared the worst for you and Hawk and Mekk¡¯Ayan.¡± She closed her eyes. ¡°On behalf of the Freeroamers, I apologise for our neglect. Carmine was our prisoner and it was our duty to ensure she cause no harm. We have failed in this task; she has left a trail of cold bodies for us to follow.¡±


    When she opened her eyes again, they glimmered with sadness. She put a hand to her chest, bowing her head. ¡°I am deeply sorry about the death of your friend. Flint and I will conduct a search for the noblewoman and Lord Arzath first thing tomorrow morning.¡±


    Ben nodded gratefully. Everine just stared at the ground, then turned and headed for the door. Raemint put a gentle hand on Ben¡¯s shoulder as he began to follow. ¡°Please, would you send Flint out here? I must speak with him.¡±


    Ben nodded again, and disappeared inside the inn after his sister.


    A few minutes later, the door cracked open and the boy stuck his head out. ¡°Erm¡­ there¡¯s a bit of a problem¡­¡±


    Raemint looked at him.


    ¡°Flint is¡­ well¡­¡± Ben scratched his head. ¡°Kind of on the floor. Under a table.¡± He paused. ¡°Covered in beer.¡±


    Raemint cursed in her native language, slamming the butt of her spear on the ground. ¡°I told him that he must not participate in drinking games!¡± She huffed furiously. ¡°He is foolish!¡±


    Ben shrugged apologetically. ¡°Well, at least no one stole his crossbow¡­¡± he hesitated. ¡°Yet.¡±


    The Centaur¡¯s glare was fierce. ¡°They are welcome to try!¡± She looked off into the darkness, fuming for a moment. ¡°Very well. I will talk to him in the morning. With more than words.¡± Her hoof pawed at the ground. ¡°I am going to patrol the town. Good rest to you.¡± With that, she trotted away, her black tail flicking in agitation.


    Ben slipped back through the door, closing it carefully. He had never seen cool-mannered Raemint angry before. She was a bit scary.


    He didn¡¯t envy Flint¡¯s beer-drenched stupidity at all.

 Chapter One Thirty Three

    A castle waits, of twin-hued stone


    To greet its master sadly home.


    Castle Whiteshadow stood empty and silent. A cold breeze slipped around its walls, cloud shadows moved furtively over ebony and alabaster stone. On the surrounding cliffs, pine trees creaked and rustled, murmuring their ancient secrets to the unlistening stone.


    Grand spires reached into the air, glittering in the sun, striving for glory like the snow-capped peaks around them. The castle was a monument to ambition, the final dream of two sorcerer brothers who had inhabited the valley for decades, mired in strife; their belated reconciliation finally realised as the newly rebuilt School of Magical Studies.


    But its hallways had only ever seen one student, and its dormitories and stairways now lay dark.


    The great white-painted oaken main doors stood open to the whims of the bluff. Leaves and sunlight spilled through; a large crow explored the foyer, its talons tapping on the polished marble.


    The crow took off with a chagrined squawk as a shadow filled the entranceway.


    Like a piece of the black walls come to life, the shadow stole silently into the foyer, leaving the crow watching curiously from the scaffolding.


    Wind rushed through Ferrian¡¯s pale blond hair as he crouched low over the Dragon¡¯s long neck. Sunlight dazzled off her bright white scales, causing him to squint. Huge wings thumped rhythmically, their feathered ends subtly adjusting lift and speed as they soared through the clouds.


    Ferrian turned to look over his shoulder. Mekka crouched behind him, his black hair and wings ruffling.


    He was smiling. The Dragon flew much faster than he could, and he was enjoying the ride immensely.


    Ferrian was pleased. His Angel friend looked much better than he had when Ferrian had rescued him. Indeed, a spark seemed to have reignited within him, as though his close brush with oblivion made everything seem newly wondrous.


    Ferrian was glad to have him back.


    Their visit to Sel Varence had been¡­ interesting. Mekka had flown ahead into the city, leaving Ferrian to enter via the main gates, along with, so it dismally appeared, the entire population of the Coastlands. The gates were firmly closed, and guarded by a line of stern Blue Watchmen.


    No one was getting in or out.


    Squeezing his way to the front of the line, Ferrian had tried asking politely, but was disdainfully ignored. Almost everyone around him was pleading, offering bribes and threats and generally demanding to get in, and the guards weren¡¯t budging. So instead, nonchalantly leaning against the rocky wall of the pass, he clicked his fingers, summoning a bit of icelight.


    It was just a tiny, silvery light flickering on his palm, nothing serious. He played with it idly, bouncing it up and down like a ball, and almost immediately, a hush rippled through the crowd and a large space opened up around him.


    Suddenly overcome with a profound change of heart, the Watchmen tripped over themselves to open the door, apologising profusely.


    Ferrian was allowed to enter the city unhindered, though he left quite a commotion behind him. He winced as the door closed at his back; he hated drawing attention to himself like that.


    But it was about to get worse¡­


    The narrow street winding down the side of the canyon was steep, and lined with tall, old, rickety buildings. Every available space ¨C alleyways, doorways, balconies, even rooftops ¨C was completely packed with people. And where there weren¡¯t people, there were carts, horses, dogs, cats, assorted other pets, and baggage. But more disturbingly, no matter how he tried to avert his gaze, folk began to recognise him.


    Instead of trying to sell him things as he sidled through what could barely be called a street, they started shoving money and goods into his face. He had gone barely twenty yards before the whole crowd began to press in eagerly, pawing at his clothing, grabbing his arms, begging him for favours ¨C everything from saving their starving children to defeating wraiths to changing the weather. Someone yelled that one of the Dragons had taken up its old residence in Ashen Cove, and could Ferrian go and kill it please, because it was blocking the sea trade route¡­


    Their voices melded into a cacophonous blur that overwhelmed him. His ears buzzed; he felt slightly dizzy. Their hot, stifling bodies pressed around him so that he couldn¡¯t move, the weight of their worries and hopes crushing him¡­


    In a rush of panic, he threw them all aside, his personal shield crackling up around him in a white sweep of magic.


    Coins and people fell to the ground, but no one dared touch him again as he walked away, leaving a trail of frosty footprints in his wake.


    Ferrian had always wondered why Arzath was so hostile towards other people; but now he understood the sad truth:


    Fear and violence worked.


    But his stomach twisted with guilt.


    For awhile, he wandered the maze of the city aimlessly, trying to keep to back streets that weren¡¯t so clogged with the suffocating heat and odour of humanity, but finding it an impossible task. Eventually, growing tired, he leaned against the side of a building in a narrow alleyway that was at least shaded from the sun, letting his shield down for a few minutes to rest.


    Almost as soon as he did so, someone shoved a piece of paper into his hands. Ferrian looked up at once, but the river of people and carts shuffling in front of him was so dense that he couldn¡¯t be sure who it was. He looked down.


    The paper was, to his disappointment, nothing interesting; just religious propaganda recruiting for a cult called the Golden Dawn. Ferrian had never heard of them. The text was strange, enigmatic nonsense; something about a glorious new era of world peace and prosperity: that the creation of ¡®New Arvanor¡¯ was imminent. There was an emblem of a winged sword upon an upside-down half-sun drawn skillfully at the bottom.


    The flyer was professionally produced with artful calligraphy on good paper, as though someone with money was backing it. No surprise the wraith-plague had inspired some opportunistic doomsayers. It was a little odd that someone was investing so much in such a scam, though. Ferrian shrugged. Crunching the paper into a ball, he was about to toss it onto the street, but felt bad about the copious amount of litter already strewn around, and shoved it into his jacket pocket instead.


    Mekka eventually found him sitting pensively by the barge-choked canal running through the centre of the city, beside the market square. The Angel had been cleaned and stitched up by the same skilled physician who had patched his eye, all those years ago. An old man Mekka knew well and trusted; someone who didn¡¯t ask questions, though his bushy eyebrow had raised quite far into his hairline at the sight of Mekka¡¯s face.


    They went next to Mekka¡¯s old apartment ¨C a tiny attic space accessed from a high window in the back of an alley ¨C where the Angel had a change of clothes and equipment. No weapons, however, save a spare bow and quiver of arrows.


    They went on a hunt through the market stalls and shops.


    It was late in the evening when they finally found a less than reputable vendor loitering near a statue, offering to sell them two silvertine daggers. Both Mekka and Ferrian were quite certain that they were stolen, but pooled what money they had and paid the exorbitant price, not wishing to make more of a fuss than they already had.


    They left the city as quickly as possible, after that.


    Now the Barlakk Mountains passed beneath them, sunlit and sharp, like row upon row of ancient grey teeth crusted with snow beneath the floating clouds. The Valley came into view quite suddenly as the Dragon banked, descending in a graceful circular sweep over Castle Whiteshadow, over the sparkling waterfall and crumbling ruins of Arzath¡¯s old keep, alighting finally on the edge of the eastern bluff before the black and white walls.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Even before he slid off the Dragon¡¯s gleaming back, Ferrian knew that something wasn¡¯t right.


    Standing on the bluff, wind playing with his hair and grey cloak, he stared up at the soaring towers. He should have felt glad to be home, but instead there was a strange uncertainty in his stomach.


    Perhaps it was the quietness of the place; without the bustle of Grik workers, the scaffolding stood oddly empty and bare, like a half-formed skeleton. It was a huge castle; he didn¡¯t really expect to encounter his guests straight away, or that they would rush out to meet him ¨C though he thought Ben at least would have spotted them coming, as the boy spent most of his time outside, fishing and hunting.


    But there was no one to be seen.


    There was nothing to be heard, either, save the distant cawing of a single crow over the cliffs.


    And the main doors stood wide open.


    They had been that way for awhile, too ¨C dead leaves were scattered over the threshold.


    Ferrian reached over his shoulder and withdrew his Sword.


    Mekka came up to stand beside him. ¡°Something wrong?¡±


    Ferrian nodded. Slowly, he walked forward until he stood before the open doors. The foyer was empty, save for sunlight casting a glorious blue and gold sunburst pattern on the floor.


    Ferrian invoked his Mind Vision, sweeping it over the castle. He took his time, making sure he checked every part of the building.


    It was completely deserted¡­


    No. Wait¡­! There, in the foyer, directly opposite him, was a living aura. It was above ground level, apparently crouched on the mezzanine. Ferrian couldn¡¯t tell who or what it was, but its aura wasn¡¯t that of anyone he recognised.


    It was brimming with fear and anticipation.


    Ferrian¡¯s eyes narrowed. A Grik? he thought. But no. The Griks were opportunistic, greedy and often incredibly stupid, but none of them were dumb enough to lay an ambush for a sorcerer¡­


    Were they?


    Banishing his Mind Sweep, he paused, considering. It isn¡¯t a wraith, at least¡­ But where were all of his guests? And where was Arzath? His master would not have tolerated a Grik or any other stranger inside the castle.


    Something had happened here. And this thing was either the cause of it, or taking advantage of the situation¡­


    Mekka had positioned himself on the other side of the entryway, in the shadows against the wall, regarding Ferrian quietly.


    ¡°Inside,¡± Ferrian murmured. ¡°On the mezzanine.¡±


    The Angel nodded.


    Gripping his Sword, Ferrian swept boldly inside. ¡°I know you¡¯re up there!¡± he declared loudly, his voice ringing through the spacious room. ¡°Whoever you are: show yourself!¡±


    Something dark moved on the balcony. There was no reply, but a curious clicking sound that etched itself unpleasantly on Ferrian¡¯s brain. He frowned. I know that sound¡­


    Mekka was poised to act, curved silver daggers in each hand, dazzling in the coloured light. At a nod from Ferrian, he spread his black wings and leapt onto the mezzanine, vaulting over the balustrade and giving chase.


    Ferrian watched him disappear into the stairwell. Not a Grik, then, he thought. It was far too quick. But whatever it was, he was confident that the Angel could handle it.


    He headed towards the dining room, noting that the door here stood open, as well.


    He made his way slowly through the long, white, high-ceilinged chamber. This room was the heart of the castle, the common room, a place for gathering and talk as well as meals. But now it was silent, gloomy and cold. No lanterns were lit. The hearth had burnt out and not been reset. A draught stirred the banners on the walls; they shifted like colourful ghosts.


    One of the dining chairs was tumbled, broken, into a corner, and a cutting knife lay on the carpet.


    Ferrian bent and picked it up. The flutter of dread in his stomach tightened into a hard, awful knot.


    Though he had already Mind Swept the entire castle and seen nothing but the single mysterious figure on the balcony, he approached the kitchen warily.


    The kitchen was cold, as well: the ovens unlit. Something had been cooking on the stove, but it had boiled down into a congealed, burnt, mouldy lump. Ingredients for a meal were set out in Luca¡¯s organised way over the workbench, most of them having dried out or gone rotten. A tuber was half-chopped on the cutting board.


    A sickening feeling rose in Ferrian¡¯s throat. Luca would never have let food go to waste like this¡­


    Placing the knife carefully back on the bench, Ferrian took his Sword in both hands and turned towards the door at the far end of the room, beside the pantry. That door led to a back corridor that accessed the garden courtyard and rear stairwell.


    The eastern stairwell: the one with a secret escape route.


    This door to the kitchen was open, too. The draught passing through it seemed chill as ice.


    Ferrian stepped through.


    He saw Luca immediately, lying on the floor halfway down the corridor, and all Ferrian¡¯s blood seemed to leave his body in a rush. No¡­


    Breaking into a run, he stumbled to his knees, his Sword clattering to the floor beside him. The Centaur lay in a huge pool of dried blood; he had been dead for some time. A gruesome wound punctured his back and chest, as though a massive spike had run him through.


    Worse than that ¨C far, far worse: the wound was oozing a black, viscous substance with an oddly metallic sheen¡­


    Oh, Gods. Trigon.


    Luca had been killed with a trigonic weapon. A wraith would have simply stolen his soul with a touch and left an undamaged body.


    Feeling sick, Ferrian dropped his head into his heads, squeezing his eyes shut to fight off a mingled wave of dizziness, nausea and disbelief.


    Luca. He had been so kind, such a gentle and considerate person. How could he have died so cruelly? Who did this to him?!


    There was a slight scuffing sound. Ferrian lifted his head to see Mekka on the stairs. The Angel¡¯s face was solemn. He came forward to kneel on the other side of Luca¡¯s body. ¡°One of your guests?¡± he whispered.


    Ferrian nodded numbly. Clutching at his Sword, he staggered to his feet. ¡°E-Everine,¡± he stammered. ¡°Ben. Araynia¡­¡±


    Hawk. A horrible, insane thought sliced through his mind. Had Hawk turned into a monster? Could he have done this?!


    ¡°Whatever happened here occurred at least a week ago,¡± Mekka was saying. Rising swiftly to his feet, the Angel went to the back of the stairwell, which was littered with broken white stone and a torn red banner. ¡°Someone smashed through the wall here. There¡¯s a passageway beyond.¡±


    Crouching at the entrance of the no-longer-hidden passage, he examined the dusty floor. ¡°Several sets of footprints, and wheelchair tracks.¡± He looked up at Ferrian. ¡°At least some of the others managed to escape.¡±


    Ferrian said nothing.


    Mekka got up and moved across the stairwell, stepping carefully around Luca¡¯s body. He put a hand on Ferrian¡¯s shoulder, his face stern. ¡°Do not blame yourself for this.¡±


    Ferrian swallowed tightly. ¡°Did you find¡­ the intruder?¡±


    Mekka shook his head, scowling in frustration. ¡°Whatever it was, it was damnably quick.¡± He folded his arms. ¡°It disappeared into the upper corridors. I found a window left open. Either it escaped, or wanted me to think it did.¡± His scowl deepened. ¡°It is playing with us.¡±


    ¡°We have to find it,¡± Ferrian said, his hand tightening on his Sword. ¡°We have to find whoever did this!¡±


    Mekka looked back at the dark, ruined opening in the stairwell wall. ¡°I am going to investigate the passage,¡± he said.


    ¡°Mekka¡­¡± Ferrian warned, sudden fear for his friend gripping him. ¡°Luca was murdered with a trigonic weapon¡­¡±


    The Angel¡¯s handsome face was grim, but unafraid. He flipped his silvertine daggers out of their sheaths. ¡°I will be careful.¡± Before Ferrian could stop him or offer to go instead, he had vanished into the black depths of the mountain.


    Staring at the hole, alone in the silence of a castle that now felt like a tomb, Ferrian backed away until he hit the wall of the corridor. He took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes again, unable to look at poor Luca¡¯s ruined corpse any longer.


    I wasn¡¯t here. The accusatory words crawled agonisingly through his mind. My friends were attacked in my own castle¡­ and yet again, I wasn¡¯t around to protect them¡­


    Ferrian used his Sword to dispose of Luca¡¯s body. It was a difficult decision to make, and took him a long time to work up the will to do it. But after what had happened to Requar, he couldn¡¯t be sure that Luca wasn¡¯t going to come back eventually as a wraith, even if buried.


    Cremation wasn¡¯t an option, as it would leave the trigon intact, and Ferrian didn¡¯t want a trace of the foul stuff lingering anywhere in the valley.


    He was left with no other option but to banish Luca from the world, from this reality.


    As though he had never existed.


    Ferrian and Mekka moved the body carefully on a makeshift stretcher, further down the valley to a secluded grove of pine trees away from the path, to carry out the sad task. With a flash of magic it was over, and the Centaur was gone. Mekka watched silently from the edge of the trees.


    Afterwards, they spent the rest of the afternoon building a cairn to mark the spot. Ferrian vowed to return one day and affix a plaque to it.


    Luca would not be forgotten.


    The Winter closed in around them as they worked. Ferrian barely noticed, until he saw Mekka hunched into his wings and covered in snowflakes as he dug stones out of the snow.


    He told his friend to go back to the castle. Mekka refused, but Ferrian insisted until he relented. He finished the cairn on his own, then sat down and stared at it, the snow piling up softly around him. Mekka and the Dragon left him alone.


    He hadn¡¯t expected to come home to this.


    I¡¯m so sorry, Araynia, he thought sorrowfully, brushing tears from his face. You came here for my help and protection, not more grief¡­


    The others probably thought he had abandoned them. Were any of them still alive? Mekka had found no more bodies in the tunnel, but he hadn¡¯t searched very far as the passage ran for miles through the mountains. Even Ferrian had never explored it to the very end.


    He hoped that Arzath was with them. He hoped the sorcerer cared enough to help his friends survive, and hadn¡¯t just left them to their fate to save his own sorry skin¡­


    A deep fear clutched him, like icy hands around his heart, forcing him suddenly to his feet. I don¡¯t have time for this! he thought angrily. I don¡¯t have time to sit here feeling sorry for myself and Luca! I have to find my friends!


    He found himself shivering, his breath puffing white before his face, the temperature plummeting as dusk settled in. The spaces beneath the trees were filled with deep blue shadow, contrasting with the snow-blanketed ground. Pulling his hood up against the self-inflicted cold, he turned and hurried into the trees, heading downhill, searching for the path.


    Gloom shrouded the pines, matching his mood. It was becoming hard to see, the trail all but obscured by snow. He stopped to summon an icelight.


    The blow caught him completely unaware, scattering his thoughts and magic, pitching him forward into snow and blackness.

 Chapter One Thirty Four

    To wake within the shadowed cold


    A place of death, and truths untold.


    Metal clinked in the darkness, accompanied by a tortured squeaking sound overlaid by a strange, hollow wail, like a lost spirit bemoaning its restless fate.


    Ferrian became aware of these noises, but his slowly waking mind could not distinguish between dream and reality, and for a few moments he floated in painful confusion. His head hurt, filled with an awful kind of throbbing pressure, and he wasn¡¯t even sure if his eyes were open, as it seemed to make no difference, and he felt all¡­ wrong.


    Gripped with sudden, bewildered panic, he tried to sit up, but his arms flailed about into empty space.


    There was no ground!


    Fear and confusion increasing, he thrashed about, and realised that his legs were bound, tied to something that creaked when he moved. He appeared to be¡­ upside down? He felt his clothes. Yes, they were all draped the wrong way, with his cloak hanging above his head.


    He tried to think what had happened. The last thing he remembered was sitting in front of Luca¡¯s grave, in the snow. Then¡­ he woke up here. For a couple more minutes he hung limply, waiting to see if he was, in fact, still dreaming.


    But the pain and the darkness and the eerie howl persisted.


    Where am I? he thought. Am I still in the valley?


    He twisted around, trying to catch some glimpse of his surroundings, but the blackness was complete. He listened, but heard nothing but the rhythmic clink of metal and the unnerving sound ¨C which he realised now with relief was the wind ¨C punctuated by his own blood hammering the inside of his skull. He felt nothing but aching pain and icy air on his face.


    It was cold. But he wasn¡¯t outside. By the sound of it, he was inside some large cavern or chamber. The wind filled it with a dull roar, like a waterfall, occasionally whistling hideously somewhere far above.


    Rather than evoking desolation, the sound reassured Ferrian, gave him energy. That storm was his. It was the Winter. It had returned in full, unstoppable force, raging around him, protecting him. No matter what uncertain predicament he found himself in, at least he had his magi--


    He paused, cursing himself for a fool.


    Bringing his hand up to his chest, he summoned an icelight.


    A small, crackling lump of silvery-white energy formed in his palm, coating his fingers with frost and sending a cool light blooming gently around him.


    There was not much to see. A few snowflakes flickered around him like tiny white moths. His ankles were manacled to a rusty chain. Other chains swayed nearby, growing upwards out of the darkness like grim metal tentacles. A couple of them still clasped ancient bones, dripping with slimy moss¡­


    I recognise these, Ferrian thought abruptly, at the same time his stomach dropped a few inches into his chest.


    He was in the Muron¡¯s Eyrie.


    Nervously, he looked around again. His light seemed to make the shadows beyond appear all the more sinister.


    He couldn¡¯t see the walls, or anything above or below him. He was floating in an ominous black sea with only skeletons for company.


    His breath puffed in front of his face. Nothing else moved, beside the chains.


    They¡¯re dead, he reminded himself fiercely, his heart hammering now as hard as his head. I banished the last of them in Grath Ardan!


    Murons had not been seen anywhere in Arvanor since that fateful day. It was absurd to think that any survivors could be hiding out in this valley; surely either he or Arzath would have noticed! Both he and his master had scoured these ruins many times, salvaging books and artefacts and anything else of value that remained. Indeed, half of Castle Whiteshadow was constructed of obsidian bricks repurposed from the old castle¡­


    But the Griks refused to go near the Eyrie.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid!¡± he said aloud, though his voice came out as a hoarse whisper. There were NO Murons in this valley!


    But someone had strung him up in here like a freshly-caught dead fish.


    Was it a prank? Someone disgruntled or jealous or otherwise had a grudge with him? The Sorcerer¡¯s Valley was hardly a secret any longer; there were visitors on a fairly regular basis seeking admittance to the School, or just sightseeing. Some had not taken well to Lord Arzath¡¯s scathing dismissal. It was no secret either that the royal family ¨C what was left of it ¨C was on uneasy terms with the new School.


    But no one had ever tried anything, or made any outright threats. Who would dare?


    Ferrian¡¯s thoughts turned to the mysterious intruder he had sensed in the castle earlier. Of poor Luca lying dead in the hallway.


    His insides turned as frigid as the Winter raging outside. What if the murderer was still here?!


    What if whoever ¨C or whatever ¨C had killed Luca had not chased after the others as he had assumed, but hid here in ambush instead, waiting for Ferrian to return, waiting to catch him off-guard?


    The wind above him shrieked.


    There were far worse things in the world than Murons¡­


    Suddenly fearing an attack at any moment, Ferrian grabbed instinctively for his Sword, but his grasping hand encountered only empty air.


    His Sword was gone.


    Of course it was.


    ¡°Gods damn it!!¡± Fighting a paralysing wave of panic, Ferrian flooded magic into his icelight, hardening it into a burning, gleaming shard. Hastily, he flung the shard at the chain binding his feet. It missed, soaring into the darkness like a silver arrow and dissolving into sparkling mist.


    Ferrian closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing. Concentrate!


    His next throw was more focussed. The shard sliced through the air with a crackling hiss, straight through the corroded chain like a blade.


    Ferrian hadn¡¯t thought through the consequences of that.


    Mercifully, the fall was over before it began, but the shattering sound of a hundred bones flying in every possible direction could have woken the Rockfather himself.


    Shocked more by the sudden cacophony than the impact of the fall, Ferrian struggled to extricate himself from the manacles. In his panic he got them free ¨C they weren¡¯t locked ¨C and tried to get to his feet. His light had gone out. Blind, panicked and on unstable footing, he found himself tumbling helplessly amid a tide of desiccated corpses that seemed determined to either bury him or wake up every predatory creature within several miles of the valley: he wasn¡¯t sure which.


    Finally sliding to a halt, the echoes of his abominable passage dying away, he stumbled to his feet, brushing away something that felt horribly like a clutching arm, and rekindled his light.


    He immediately tumbled backwards onto the pile again.


    Three Murons stood in front of him, lurking in the darkness, silently watching him, like something out of a horrendous nightmare.


    But these creatures were unlike any Murons that Ferrian had seen before.


    They were¡­ grotesque. Deformed, mutated, made up of bits and pieces of Human or Angel or Dragon or Gods-knew-what, as though whatever foul magic had brought them into being had gone horribly wrong. Fleshy, pallid skin merged with hard black scales; feathers grew from leather; humanoid features protruded here and there as though drowning in the wrong body.


    The one on his left was the worst, with half a pale Human or Angel face stretched out horribly as it melded with an elongated black lizard-like snout, its lips torn too wide, so that all its teeth were showing in a dreadful hole. Its wing on that side was a stunted mess of matted grey feathers.


    The other two had fully Muron-like heads, but the one on his right had long lanky hair that fell all the way to its ankles and no wings at all. It appeared to have a female body, its breasts almost indistinguishable from the sagging rags. Its legs ended in feet rather than claws, though its fingers were equipped with vicious talons.


    The creature directly in front of Ferrian was almost completely Muron, except that one wing was batlike and the other was feathery white and brown like a soft, speckled bird. Its eyes were not triangular yellow but round and vivid blue. The rest of it was black and clawed, scaled and lethal.


    All of them were draped in filthy, stinking remnants of clothes.


    Flashbacks of a small, ancient diary came back to Ferrian with unpleasant suddenness; full of obscene diagrams and forbidden spells, leering eyes and a frightened little Angel girl. Whether these creatures had been hiding out in Grath Ardan all this time or not, it was likely they would have evaded his spell.


    These weren¡¯t Murons: they were abominations. They were failed Murons!


    His gut wrenched now, as it had then.


    The creatures made no move to approach or grab Ferrian; they just watched him silently, as though waiting to see what he would do.


    Ferrian did likewise, remaining on the grim pile of bones, staring back at them until impatience and discomfort finally outweighed his fear and disgust. I¡¯m not a helpless kid anymore, he thought, expression hardening. They can¡¯t intimidate me! Pushing himself up, he advanced on the creatures, thrusting an arm out before him. It contained only a harmless icelight, but the creatures shuffled backwards at once, to the verge of shadow.


    Satisfaction warmed Ferrian. He was threatening someone and it was working! He stood up a little straighter. ¡°What do you want with me?¡± he demanded, adding a flash to his eyes for effect. ¡°What have you done with my Sword?¡±


    The creatures did not respond. They showed no signs of aggression, merely eyed him enigmatically from the shadows.


    Ferrian took another step towards them, waving his magic around, trying not to look at the one with the ripped face. Again, they cringed away, almost out of sight, but not quite, and then waited.


    Now Ferrian was becoming more than irritated. His head hurt, he was cold and exhausted from the day¡¯s tragic discoveries, and Mekka was probably wondering where he was by now. ¡°What the hell do you want?¡± he repeated. ¡°Why did you drag me into this disgusting place? Give me my damned Sword back NOW, or I¡¯ll summon the Winter in here and freeze every stupid thing in this godforsaken eyrie!¡±


    He wasn¡¯t bluffing, either. He was in no mood for games.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The creatures did nothing, merely looked at him.


    Ferrian glared at them. Were they too stupid to realise he was dangerous? No, they had been smart enough to confiscate his Sword. That meant they knew what it was. They knew who he was. There was intelligence in their eyes, but he couldn¡¯t read their expressions. Curiosity, maybe? Something else?


    What were they playing at? Had they strung him up for their own amusement, to see him infuriated?


    Ferrian¡¯s eyes narrowed. Fine. They had achieved what they wanted, and now they were going to regret it. Slowly, his fist closed around his icelight, the white light becoming brighter, spearing through his fingers. Frost sparkled over his hand like a glittering glove.


    ¡°Don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn--¡±


    And just like that: they were gone.


    Blinking, Ferrian whirled, shining his light in all directions. The half-Murons had vanished, silently, like cats into the night.


    Cautiously, he moved around the chamber, holding his magic ready, alert for any tricks or traps or sudden attacks. But none came. He circled the entire bone pile and the creatures were nowhere to be seen.


    Black alcoves dotted the curved walls high above his head. They were probably up there, watching him.


    Briefly, Ferrian considered conducting a Mind Sweep, but if they had retreated to the heights of the eyrie, he couldn¡¯t reach them anyway. And he was tired.


    Sighing, he rubbed at his head, his arm falling limply to his side, his magic dwindling to a simple, dim light.


    What the hell is going on?


    In the great dining hall of Castle Whiteshadow, a waning fire flickered dolefully, its light and heat becoming more feeble as time stretched on. In front of it, a dark figure paced restlessly, another shadow amongst the multitudes crowding the troubled hall.


    Mekka was becoming increasingly worried. Ferrian had been gone for hours, and it was long past sundown. Surely, he couldn¡¯t still be sitting out there by Luca¡¯s grave? He understood that the kid was bereaved and felt responsible for the Centaur¡¯s horrific death, but Ferrian was no longer immune to cold, hunger or tiredness. He should have had the sense to return by now! The weather had worsened considerably, the Winter gathering its fury all evening until now it lashed against the castle windows like a beast trying to get in.


    Ironically, that was a good sign, as it meant that Ferrian hadn¡¯t left the valley, which was Mekka¡¯s greatest fear; that he had decided in a fit of vengeance to run off after Luca¡¯s killer on his own. Ferrian wasn¡¯t as impetuous and prone to hot-tempered decisions as he used to be, but still, Mekka had to consider it. The presence of the Winter also meant that the young sorcerer wasn¡¯t dead, which was a great relief.


    But that didn¡¯t mean that he wasn¡¯t in some kind of trouble.


    Disaster followed Ferrian around as closely as the Winter did.


    Mekka tried to think through the possibilities. He wasn¡¯t especially worried about the intruder he¡¯d chased off earlier that morning. He could tell it was someone who had spent a lifetime fleeing and hiding, who knew how to trick pursuers. Mekka recognised an opportunist when he encountered one; he used to be like that himself, back in the day. Probably, they had discovered the castle abandoned and were skulking around looking for something to loot. That was an oddity, though, as Mekka had wandered the castle while waiting for Ferrian and found plenty of desirable things a thief couldn¡¯t have resisted. Indeed, Arzath¡¯s personal chambers were standing wide open, full of rare and valuable items, and none of it had been disturbed.


    But of one thing he was certain ¨C whoever was sneaking around the castle was not the person who had killed Luca.


    No. That person had been straightforward and brutal. Mekka had found evidence of a scuffle in the dining room, but otherwise no fight or resistance. Luca had likely died because he¡¯d gotten in the way. He was stabbed in the back, which suggested he¡¯d been trying to flee, unfortunately the last person attempting to enter the hidden tunnel. The others had sealed the opening behind them, but the attacker had smashed through it.


    That meant that whoever it was had both a trigonic weapon and immense strength. That ruled out a wraith. Demon-wraiths were insubstantial: they had no physical power. They killed with a touch. Whoever the murderer was seemed to be possessed by trigon but had not yet perished by it.


    That was the most dangerous stage.


    Mekka paused and shuddered as uncomfortable memories attempted to intrude on his thoughts.


    Trigon was single-minded. It put a terrible thought into your head and that thought became your entire reason for existence. The attacker was after someone, was so intent on getting to them that a solid stone castle wall couldn¡¯t stand in their way.


    There was little chance that the murderer had doubled back to the valley. They would be relentless. Everine and Ben and the others were probably still running for their lives, unless¡­ unless the worst had happened¡­


    The thought gnawed painfully at Mekka. He had hoped to get a few good hour¡¯s sleep for an early start tomorrow on the killer¡¯s trail. There wasn¡¯t much chance of that, now.


    He tried to sit down a few times, drumming his fingers on the dining table, but the wind reflected his anxiety back at him.


    Finally, he got up again, checked his weapons and strode from the hall.


    The storm buffeted Mekka back into the foyer as soon as he opened the main doors, sending a flurry of snow across the polished tiles. Raising his arm and curling his wings over his head, he pushed out into the blizzard.


    He could see nothing in the darkness but swirling snow, illuminated by the wan light of the candles in the foyer. The wind caught his wings, throwing him to and fro, and he struggled to make headway. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward, hoping not to walk right off the edge of the bluff¡­


    He came up against a cold, hard wall instead. Grasping it, he found to his relief that it wasn¡¯t the wall of the castle, but a smooth, scaly mound. He wasn¡¯t sure what part of the Dragon this was, but it was definitely the Dragon.


    He thumped the scales with his fist. ¡°Dragon!¡± he yelled. ¡°Wake up!¡±


    There was no response. Mekka shivered, hunching closer to her body, though it was freezing as polished stone. The Dragon emanated no heat. She was a creature of ice and wind; her blood had never run warm. She could sleep out here in the storm quite contentedly.


    ¡°Dragon!¡± he yelled again, kicking her this time. ¡°You overgrown ice lizard! Listen to me!¡±


    Finally, great muscles flexed beside him, and a moment later the gale lessened abruptly, as though something huge loomed over Mekka, sheltering him. ¡°What do you wish of me, Angel child?¡±


    The voice was booming and slow and eerily musical, like an ice cavern speaking. Mekka felt uncomfortably small and frail. This creature could crush him just by twitching her toe, but at least he had her attention. He squinted up into the darkness, but the light from the castle didn¡¯t reach far enough to reveal the Dragon further. ¡°Ferrian is missing! He should have returned by now!¡±


    The Dragon didn¡¯t answer. Mekka had no idea if she was looking at him, or had even heard him. He hugged himself, blinking snow from his eyes, wrapped in his wings. He couldn¡¯t stay out here much longer.


    He was on the verge of giving up, retreating back inside, when the Dragon gave a deep rumble that seemed to ripple through the entire bluff. It could have been a noise of disgruntlement, anger, or bowel problems for all Mekka knew. Then her voice filled the darkness again: ¡°He is there.¡±


    Mekka looked around in surprise. ¡°What? Where?¡±


    ¡°The castle.¡±


    Mekka peered back at Castle Whiteshadow. ¡°The castle? Are you telling me he returned without--¡±


    ¡°No. The place of old.¡±


    The place of old? Mekka frowned. ¡°You mean¡­ Arzath¡¯s ruined keep?¡± He shook his head in confusion. ¡°What the hell is he doing--¡±


    ¡°He is there.¡± The Dragon shifted beside him, mounds of snow tumbling from her hide, her scales glinting faintly. ¡°Come. We shall see.¡±


    Ferrian paused to rest at the top of the narrow stairs, leaning on the doorframe. Cobwebs wafted in the glow from his icelight.


    Thinking of a Mind Sweep had given him an idea. Not to find those damned deformed Murons, but to find his Sword. He had a feeling they¡¯d hidden it somewhere nearby.


    His Sword didn¡¯t have a consciousness¡­ well, not exactly. Silvertine and trigon were formed from the souls and emotions of once-living beings, turned to liquid and then forged into hardened metal. Something of the essence of those beings remained, and could influence living minds ¨C especially trigon. There was a vague sort of intelligence there.


    Apart from that, his Sword was linked to him, infused with part of his own spirit, and should at least emanate something of his own aura. In other words: his Sword ought to be traceable.


    His theory was confirmed when, a moment later, he stepped through the doorway and a glint of bright silver shone back at him.


    Ferrian sagged in relief.


    But why had the creatures stolen it from him and returned it here, of all places??


    It was Lord Arzath¡¯s secret workroom, the one at the top of the tower adjacent to the eyrie, accessible only by a well-concealed passageway. It was where the Sword had been created, and Ferrian had retrieved it from this very room only a few weeks earlier.


    He listened to the noise of the Winter outside, closer now in the confines of the small, draughty room. The snow had turned to sleet, which hammered on the roof and leaked as a steady dripping somewhere. One of the metal shutters was rusted permanently open; Ferrian could feel the spray as the storm spattered into the room.


    His hand closed around the hilt warily. This could still be a trap, of course. The creatures were surely smart enough to know that he would find his Sword. But he heard no suspicious sounds from the stairwell or distant eyrie.


    And if they did try to seal him up in here, he would simply use his Sword and magic to smash through whatever obstruction was in place.


    It made no sense.


    Sighing in exasperation, he took up his Sword and the sheath from the floor, and turned to leave. This was stupid. Those creatures were playing games with him! He was fed up with this nonsense¡­


    He hesitated on the threshold.


    Something was out of place.


    Turning, he shone his light around. The chamber looked even more gloomy and decrepit than the last time he was here, full of mouldering books, dusty candles and rusted apparatus. He had already searched this room and taken anything of use; what was left was just the detritus of a failed life that even Arzath wasn¡¯t interested in¡­


    The tripod had been moved.


    It was turned around from its original position. It had stood in that exact place for so long that there were rust marks on the floor, but the legs no longer aligned with them.


    Ferrian told himself that the creatures had simply knocked into it while bumbling around placing the Sword here¡­ except that the tripod stood precisely where it always had, just turned to a different orientation.


    Curiously, Ferrian walked back into the room, unsheathed his Sword and balanced it carefully back onto the tripod.


    It no longer pointed at the open shutter where Castle Whiteshadow would have been framed, if there was light to see it. Instead, the long blade faced a shadowy corner beside the door, full of cobwebs and a rickety bookshelf.


    Ferrian stared at the books. He had looked through all of them. They were boring, useless tomes about geology and history, some unused journals, some other miscellaneous texts that were now unreadable. They were all stained and falling apart; there was nothing whatsoever of interest there.


    He shook his head. I¡¯m overthinking things. There¡¯s no significance to this¡­


    But his mind kept working. What if the Sword wasn¡¯t pointing to something in the room, but outside of it? He envisioned the valley beyond. That way faced northward, towards the high cliffs and waterfall. And¡­ Lord Requar¡¯s Sword, marking the sorcerer¡¯s final resting place.


    Ferrian chewed his lip. That was an awfully big coincidence. Were those creatures trying to tell him something?


    He felt a sudden, unpleasant pang of pity. Were they suggesting he take up the Sword of Healing? Did they not understand that he couldn¡¯t, even if he wanted to? He could only be bonded to one Sword, and besides, Requar¡¯s Sword no longer possessed any magic; it was as dead as its master, just a pretty blade now.


    The Winter howled mournfully, making him feel wretched. The real Murons had tried to capture Ferrian because they wanted to save their race from extinction. They needed a sorcerer to make more Murons.


    But what if these dismal creatures didn¡¯t want to be Murons? What if they only longed to be turned back into whatever they had been before: Human or Angel?


    Ferrian scowled down at his Sword. But why tell him this in such an abstruse, roundabout way? Why knock him out and drag him into the eyrie, instead of just confronting him? Except if they couldn¡¯t speak or write, and were ashamed of their appearance¡­


    All Ferrian¡¯s anger flooded away into a depressed puddle. Dammit. That had to be it.


    Sighing, he wandered to the opposite side of the chamber and sat down on a wooden chest, which creaked under his unexpected weight. He set his face in his free hand, his icelight still burning in the other.


    Is there anyone left on Arvanor that I DON¡¯T have to help somehow? he thought miserably.


    Well, the fact of the matter was, he couldn¡¯t do anything for these creatures, at least not right now. Not with wraiths and mysterious black pyramids and trigon-wielding murderers on the loose. Not with his friends in peril. Those half-Muron mutants could join the bloody queue!


    He felt abysmally tired. He wanted nothing more than to return to the castle and fall into the nearest bed, preferably while eating something.


    Wearily, he lifted his head. His eyes caught a glint of icelight reflecting off his Sword.


    And that was when he noticed something that he hadn¡¯t before.


    Rising into a half-crouch, he peered along the blade. The Sword was pointing directly at a triangular gap between two of the books, overlooked while he was standing.


    And there was something in the gap.


    Straightening, Ferrian walked over to the books and pushed them aside.


    A piece of paper lay there, small and folded up. It was somewhat stained and discoloured, clearly an old piece of parchment, but it looked as though it had been placed there recently: it was dry and free of mould. Ferrian had definitely not seen it when he¡¯d checked these books before.


    Slowly, he took up the piece of paper and opened it.


    Mekka drifted down through the darkness, snowflakes swirling before him. Deftly he avoided the hanging chains, coming to land lightly on the floor of the eyrie.


    It was very dark down here. He lifted a lantern he¡¯d taken from the castle foyer, looking around.


    A multitude of skulls grinned back at him. A nervous rat poked its head out of one, sniffed and scurried deeper into the pile.


    ¡°Ferrian!¡± he yelled. His voice echoed back at him from the curved black walls. When the echoes had died away, he called out again.


    ¡°What¡¯s all the yelling about?¡± Ferrian yelled from the other side of the chamber.


    Half-relieved, half-furious, Mekka spread his wings and flew over the bone middens, landing in front of his friend, who had just emerged out of a solid stone wall.


    Mekka swiped his hand through the air. ¡°Dammit! What the hell are you doing out here?! I thought something had happened to you!¡±


    Ferrian rubbed the back of his head, wincing. ¡°Er. Ah. It¡­ did.¡± He waved his hand dismissively. ¡°Never mind. I¡¯ll tell you later. Look at this!¡± He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, shoving it at Mekka.


    Mekka snatched it, glaring at him. Setting his lantern down on the floor, he snapped the paper open, and glared at that as well. Then his expression slowly changed to interest. ¡°It appears to be directions of some kind,¡± he murmured, rubbing his chin. ¡°Or¡­ a map, perhaps¡­ ¡°


    Ferrian held his icelight closer, so that Mekka could see more clearly. He looked at his friend eagerly. ¡°And?¡±


    Mekka turned the paper over, then back again, and shrugged. ¡°Some text written in Ithillic. I cannot read it.¡± He made to hand it back, then hesitated.


    One edge of the paper was roughly torn, as though it had been ripped out of¡­


    He looked up at Ferrian in realisation. ¡°That little book Reeves was so precious about. It had a page missing.¡±


    Ferrian grinned at him, his silver eyes gleaming. ¡°And I think I¡¯ve just found it!¡±

 Chapter One Thirty Five

    Survivors wait in fear and pain


    The future looms, a creeping stain.


    Almost all of the space within the Angelican Embassy in Sel Varence was crowded, noisy, and filled with an oppressive atmosphere of dread. The entrance foyer was occupied, wall to curved white wall, with broken families and crying children. At one end, a tall arched doorway led to another room were food was being served. Morose looking Angels wandered out of it carrying bowls of watery soup. An argument was taking place in there, rising above the rest of the din. Every sob of sadness or cry of pain or snap of anger echoed around the lofty chamber in a cacophony of despair.


    A carved white stone reception counter stood in the middle of the room, beautifully crafted in the flowing forms of the Angelican style, gilded here and there with gold. Its opulence was a stark reminder of the Angel¡¯s beloved city, now utterly destroyed, and a rude contrast to the shattered lives sprawled around it. Most of these people had once been wealthy; now they were left with nothing, not even their loved ones.


    ¡°Lieutenant Tan¡¯Daran of the Sky Legion!¡± Tander announced to the harried Angel clerk bravely manning the counter, having to raise his voice almost to a shout to be heard above the noise. ¡°And Li¡¯Zan!¡± The clerk nodded, scribbling their names onto a piece of paper.


    ¡°Have any other members of the Zan family checked in?¡± Tander yelled.


    The clerk squinted at him through his spectacles, then set his quill aside. ¡°One moment!¡± He pulled a huge ledger in front of him, licked his finger and began flicking through the pages.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like it here,¡± he heard Li whimper beside him.


    I don¡¯t, either, Tander thought dismally. This place is a nightmare. Li huddled close to him with her hands over her ears.


    There was nowhere else for them to go, however. The entirety of Sel Varence was just as bad, full to breaking point with refugees from other parts of Daroria, escaping from demon-wraiths. There was a Human mob just outside the Embassy, protesting. Apparently, they resented their Angel neighbours taking up space and resources. News of the fall of Caer Sync had reached the city by now, but it was garnering little sympathy. On the contrary, it had caused a heightened state of panic.


    Tander could feel the beginnings of civil unrest. Everyone could; it was leaking through the walls, setting already anxious and bereaved people on edge.


    Things were about to get ugly.


    ¡°I am afraid I can find no further records of a Zan family,¡± the clerk called out to him. ¡°I am sorry.¡± He paused, adjusting his glasses. ¡°But there are three entries for the Sky Legion.¡±


    Tander shook his head, then leaned across the counter. ¡°The other members of the Sky Legion. Their names?¡±


    The clerk looked down at his ledger. ¡°Legionnaire Par¡¯Shu, Legionnaire Nix¡¯Erys and Wing Commander Re¡¯Vier.¡±


    Tander put his gauntleted hands on his head in relief. Reeves made it. Ferrian must have rescued him with that white Dragon; presumably Mekka as well.


    I owe you a debt, my friend.


    Li was tugging at his wing feathers. ¡°Can we go now?¡±


    Tander turned and crouched down in front of her, feeling awkward and out of his depth; he had no idea how to deal with children. But he had always been the type of person to say things as they were, and saw no reason not to with Li.


    He took a deep breath. ¡°Li¡­ your parents did not arrive here. They¡­ they may not show up.¡±


    Li looked at the floor. ¡°I know.¡±


    Tander blinked in surprise. ¡°You know?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Li, why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡±


    She was silent for a long moment, with the awful noise of the hall reverberating around them. Tander had to listen very hard to hear her words.


    ¡°I found them in the forest,¡± she went on, still staring at the floor. ¡°They were just lying there, under some stones. I tried to get them to move, but they wouldn¡¯t.¡± She tried to look angry, but tears filled her copper eyes. ¡°I thought Angels weren¡¯t supposed to just die! There¡¯s meant to be a big party, and they go to the Tower like Mekka did, and it¡¯s beautiful, and everyone is there and they get to meet the Goddess!¡±


    Tander felt his throat constrict, and he had to force back tears of his own. This was hardly the place to explain the realities of life and death to a ten year old kid. But he supposed he didn¡¯t have to; she had already discovered that, the hard way.


    He put his hands gently on her shoulders. ¡°Li,¡± he told her. ¡°Your parents did get to see the Goddess, I am sure of it. You don¡¯t need to go to the Tower for that.¡±


    She wiped the tears from her eyes. ¡°Really? But¡­ where is she, then? If her Tower is knocked over, where does she live?¡±


    Tander gave her a smile. ¡°She¡¯s a Goddess. She lives everywhere. Especially,¡± he tapped her forehead lightly, ¡°in here.¡±


    Li brushed at her nose with her hand.


    Tander looked around. ¡°Li, I need to go and report to my Commander,¡± he said. ¡°Will you stay here?¡±


    She shook her head firmly.


    Tander sighed, expecting as much. But he could hardly abandon her in this dreadful hall to fend for herself. He stood up, patting her shoulder ruefully. ¡°Looks as though you¡¯re stuck with me a little longer, then.¡±


    The door of the office flung open and Commander Re¡¯Vier stalked through, his long white coat and wings swishing. Halting in front of the desk, he slammed the book onto it as though attempting to flatten the whole thing into the floor.


    To his great annoyance, the Governor didn¡¯t even flinch, just sat back in her chair. She looked as she always had; short grey hair styled impeccably, matching slate-coloured suit pristine, wings folded neatly at her back. Only a single graze on her left brow betrayed evidence that she had been through any kind of ordeal.


    ¡°Is there something you want, Commander?¡± she asked with infuriating calmness.


    Is there something I want. He wanted to leap across the table and break her scrawny neck and shove that book down it. But then he would never receive any answers.


    Snatching the offending item back up, he rifled through it, then held it up for her to clearly see the incriminating evidence. ¡°What,¡± he hissed, ¡°is this?¡±


    Peering at the book, the Governor held out her hand. Reeves threw it at her. Unfazed, she straightened her spectacles and picked it up off the floor, then slowly perused it until she came to the missing page. ¡°I see,¡± she murmured.


    Reeves turned and paced the room, barely able to control his anger. He was still waiting on a new set of armour from the silvertine smith. Without it, he felt naked, weaker, drained of confidence and irritable. His eyes roamed the room, looking for something to break.


    ¡°Our contract has not been fulfilled,¡± he said tightly. ¡°I have not received the entirety of what I asked for!¡± He spun suddenly. ¡°And further to that,¡± he stalked back to the desk. ¡°I was not informed, when agreeing to arrest him, that Mekk¡¯Ayan was allied to a sorcerer and a GODDAMNED DRAGON!¡±


    He slammed his fist on the table, but it wasn¡¯t as effective without his gauntlets. It just hurt. His head hurt. He glared at the Governor.


    ¡°Those are¡­ details I was not aware of,¡± the Governor replied. ¡°My informant did not mention this, for which I apologise. However, if you have come here to accuse me of deliberately withholding information from you, then you are mistaken.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes?¡± Reeves sneered. ¡°And what of your weedy little assistant? The one who drugged me before delivering that wretched book to my apartment?¡±


    The Governor closed the book and set it carefully on her desk, clasping her wrinkled hands on top of it. ¡°That was¡­ a precaution.¡±


    Reeves swiped a hand furiously. ¡°A precaution for what?!¡±


    The Governor watched him carefully. ¡°Your reaction. She was aware that you would be¡­ ah, less than pleased with the item she had brought you.¡±


    Reeves¡¯ eyes narrowed. ¡°So you did know about the missing page!¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the Governor admitted. ¡°That, and the fact that we are unable to translate the text for you.¡±


    Reeves shook his head in disbelief. ¡°What?¡±


    The Governor ran a hand over the cover of the book. ¡°This book is very old, likely a relic from the School of Magical Studies. It is written in a language that very few can now read.¡±


    Reeves gritted his teeth. ¡°And who, pray tell, can read it?¡±


    The Governor looked thoughtful. ¡°A sorcerer, I imagine.¡±


    Reeves turned away from her, seething, putting his face in his hand. ¡°And you expect me to believe that neither you nor your assistant stole the page, despite your utmost efforts to dissuade me from my goal?¡±


    Behind him, the Governor sighed. Reeves glanced over his shoulder to see her leaning back in her chair, looking uncharacteristically weary. It was the first time he had seen her composure crack. ¡°Commander Re¡¯Vier,¡± she said quietly. ¡°I am well aware that you personally detest all forms of literature, but this is a sentiment that I and my assistant do not share. We value books highly; they are our legacy from the time of the Ancients, a source of reverence for us. We would no sooner deface one in such a manner than tear off our own wings.¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°The book was already damaged when my assistant retrieved it from Grath Ardan. She did not notice the torn page until she had already brought it up from the library, and due to your insistent demands, there was no time to cross-check the main copy for the missing information.


    ¡°There is no way of telling how long ago this was done. It may not be recent. Perhaps the previous owner of this book anticipated others seeking out this knowledge and wished to prevent exactly what you are trying to achieve.¡± She gave him a long, studious look.


    Reeves wandered to the other side of the small room and slumped down on a chair. His anger had shrunk into a hard, cold, sour ball in his stomach. He dropped his head into his hands, feeling defeated. ¡°Then it may be destroyed,¡± he muttered bitterly.


    ¡°That is a possibility,¡± the Governor agreed. She hesitated. ¡°The information still exists, of course. Grath Ardan retains the memory of all words ever written.¡± She shook her head as Reeves looked up hopefully. ¡°Regrettably, the library now lies buried under several thousand tons of stone and liquid silvertine. The wreckage is so widespread that even the secret entrances are inaccessible.¡± She sighed again, ruefully. ¡°It will take many years to excavate it, assuming Grath Ardan hasn¡¯t been irreparably damaged.¡±


    She pushed the little book across her desk, tapping it with her fingers. ¡°You had best hope, Reeves, that the knowledge you seek is contained within this book, or the missing page can be found.¡±


    Reeves sat quietly for a minute more, saying nothing. Then he got to his feet and strode towards the door, swiping the book off the desk as he went, not looking at the Governor.


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    ¡°Reeves.¡±


    He hesitated on the threshold.


    ¡°I consider your part of our deal concluded. The remainder of your reward is in the bank on the market square.¡±


    He turned slowly. ¡°Mekka escaped.¡±


    The Governor regarded him from behind her half-moon spectacles. ¡°I had no wish to see Mekk¡¯Ayan killed,¡± she said quietly. ¡°I hold no personal grudge against him. I ordered his arrest because it was my duty as Governor, and it was what the people wanted.¡± She stared down at her hands. ¡°I sought only to bring him to Arkana to face his crimes and receive justice in Caer Sync.¡± Her eyes closed. ¡°The Goddess saw fit to drop her Tower on our city. I feel that is judgement enough for all of us.¡±


    Reeves stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. ¡°Are you afraid of him, Merrill?¡±


    She picked up a quill and gathered her papers, not looking at him. ¡°Good day, Commander.¡±


    Reeves departed her office, still smiling. He was surprised to find his Lieutenant waiting for him in the gallery outside, accompanied by a small girl.


    ¡°How nice of you to finally make an appearance, Lieutenant,¡± he said sarcastically. He was in a less than welcoming mood, but he was genuinely relieved to see Tander alive. ¡°And what¡¯s this you¡¯ve dragged along with you?¡±


    Tander looked taken aback. ¡°I¡­ uh, this is Li, a survivor from Fleetfleer.¡±


    Reeves waved a hand. ¡°This entire Embassy is plagued with them. Why is this one following you around like a lost chicken?¡±


    ¡°She has lost her parents, Sir,¡± Tander explained, looking apologetic. ¡°I¡­ didn¡¯t know what else to do with her.¡±


    Reeves tucked his book back into his coat. ¡°And what do you propose I do with her? Admit her to the Legion?¡±


    The girl straightened excitedly. ¡°Can I?¡±


    Reeves glared at her. ¡°Of course not!¡± he made a shooing motion. ¡°Why don¡¯t you run along and drown yourself in the soup?¡±


    Li¡¯s expression turned into a glare of her own. ¡°I don¡¯t like you!¡±


    Reeves walked forward, crouched in front of her and ruffled her hair. ¡°What a sweet, charming little child. Do you know how to fly, yet?¡±


    And with that, he snatched her up and shoved her over the balcony.


    Tander leapt forward. ¡°Commander!¡±


    Reeves slouched onto the balustrade. ¡°Oh, what¡¯s the fuss. Look, she is making new friends already!¡±


    Down below, there was a commotion in the packed central chamber as Li flapped awkwardly into a group of people eating, spilling their soup bowls everywhere. She picked herself up and ran towards the door.


    Tander rounded on him. ¡°That was unnecessary!¡±


    ¡°We are an elite military force, Tander, not a babysitting service.¡±


    Tander sighed. Then he shook his head. ¡°Commander¡­ are you alright?¡±


    Reeves pushed himself away from the railing. ¡°Fine,¡± he snapped, though he was far from it. ¡°Our plan hasn¡¯t changed,¡± he said. ¡°But there are¡­ complications.¡±


    ¡°Complications?¡±


    ¡°We must locate a certain¡­ silver-eyed sorcerer.¡±


    Tander blinked, looking surprised. Reeves eyed him. ¡°Do you have something to say, Lieutenant?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ met him, Sir. In the forest. He saved my life. He was on his way to rescue Mekka.¡± He gestured at the hall below. ¡°He¡¯s a friend to Li. Apparently, she met them in Grath Ardan some years ago.¡± He met Reeves¡¯ eyes. ¡°They were searching for a book, she said.¡±


    Reeves stared at him, and swiped a hand in irritation. ¡°Why the hell didn¡¯t you tell me?!¡±


    ¡°Well, I hardly had a chance before you threw her over the balcony!¡±


    Reeves made a sound of disgust. ¡°Go and fetch her! Bring her to me!¡±


    Tander folded his arms. ¡°So we are a babysitting service?¡±


    Not bothering to reply, Reeves stalked away, leaving Tander standing in the gallery, staring after him.


    * * *


    Bumblebees buzzed contentedly around bright red geraniums; fuzzy, lazy visitors oblivious to anything beyond their colourful targets. Morning sunshine poured over them, flooding through the open window of the tavern and across a gleaming, varnished table.


    Ben watched them, finding their peacefulness maddening. He could barely sit still; he was on his third cup of tea, just for something to do. His heels struck up a rhythmic tapping on the floorboards. He tried to stop them, but they started up again a few seconds later.


    It was the morning of the fifth day after the Freeroamers had departed, and they had not yet returned.


    Before leaving, Raemint and Flint had moved Hawk discreetly into a tool shed at the back of the inn. They¡¯d locked it securely and gained the assurance of the innkeeper that no one, in any circumstances, was to attempt to enter it. It was confidential Freeroamer business. The innkeeper and his family readily agreed; everyone in the town liked and was grateful for the presence of Lieutenant-Commander Raemint and Sergeant Flint, and more importantly, their impressive silvertine weapons, which were currently the town¡¯s only defence against demon-wraiths. No one wanted to put a foot wrong in front of the Freeroamers.


    Now, the two seasoned fighters had gone off in search of Lady Araynia, Lord Arzath and Carmine Vandaris.


    And Ben was beginning to wish they hadn¡¯t.


    Of course, they were trained for this situation; they were hunting Carmine, had tracked her all the way from Forthwhite. They knew what they were doing. But did they know exactly what kind of monster she had become? What if she had killed Lord Arzath and eaten his soul? What if she had turned into some kind of super dark demon-wraith sorcerer, on her way towards Meadrun at this very moment, intent on devouring everyone in sight?


    No amount of training or fancy weaponry could stand against that. Only Ferrian had a chance.


    And where was Ferrian??


    Ben looked out the window at the sun-drenched town. There was a bronze statue in the middle of the main square, of an overly proud young man with his hands resting on the hilt of a fabulous sword. Ben assumed that it was meant to be Ferrian, though it didn¡¯t look like Ferrian at all. He wondered if his friend was aware that it was here, and hoped he didn¡¯t. He was fairly sure the sorcerer would not approve.


    A soft, warm breeze floated through the open casement. A brilliant blue sky soared over the shining slate rooftops. Summer had almost arrived. Winter was nowhere to be seen.


    I shouldn¡¯t have left Araynia behind, Ben thought for the millionth time. He should have ignored Everine¡¯s advice and listened to his gut, instead. But his sister would have stubbornly followed him and abandoned Hawk in the middle of the forest, and all of them would likely be dead by now. He had chosen the only sensible course of action. But it still felt wrong.


    Why did she do it? Ben thought bitterly. Why did she walk away from us like that? To save a man she barely knew and was blatantly terrified of? She had witnessed her closest companion brutally murdered right in front of her, and she had gone back to face that demon. Could she really use the Sword of Healing? Was that even possible? Why had Arzath given it to her? Why, after it was too late to save Luca?


    There were no answers to Ben¡¯s questions, only doubts, and more doubts. The more he dwelt on them, the more confused and troubled he became.


    Sitting here in this tavern, waiting and worrying, was surely killing him, only much more slowly¡­


    Finishing the dregs of his tea, he glanced over at Everine, sitting opposite him. She looked pale and tired, her blue eyes dull, dark circles beneath them as she stared out of the window, cupping her mug of untouched tea. Her curls were held back with a couple of wooden combs; she wore a simple green and white cotton dress borrowed from the innkeeper¡¯s wife, who had taken pity on their lack of possessions.


    It made her look humble and¡­ different. Not herself. She always fussed so much over her appearance: now she seemed not to care.


    Ben had woken in the night a couple of times to find his sister crying from nightmares. He had suffered a few himself. Neither of them had gotten a good night¡¯s sleep for more than a week; their flight to Meadrun had been harrowing.


    And there was still the possibility that it wasn¡¯t over yet.


    Ben had spent the past few days restlessly wandering the town, sitting for hours on a new stack of bluestone slabs by the east gate, staring down the dusty road, listening to construction work on the wall, wondering morbidly who was going to show up first: the Freeroamers or the red-haired woman.


    Not to mention their dark secret in the tool shed.


    The townsfolk were oblivious, going about their daily business and greeting Ben and Everine every day with painful cheer. They had no idea of the danger they were in. Most were aware of the recent mysterious murders about the nearby countryside, but they gossiped about them as if not believing that such a thing could happen in their town. They acted as though demon-wraiths were something that happened far away and to other people. They were Coastland problems. Even though many of them were ex-Coastlanders themselves; they seemed to feel a false sense of security in the Outlands, or maybe it was just wishful thinking¡­


    Ben rubbed at his eyes. In the slow, warm monotony of everyday life, with the sun beating down like this, sitting in a quiet tavern drinking tea, he could almost convince himself that were true. Or he could have, if Araynia¡¯s scream at Luca¡¯s death didn¡¯t echo so sharply in his mind¡­


    A sudden movement across the table caused him to look up.


    Everine had stood up, still staring out the window, but this time with purpose.


    Ben followed her gaze. Then he leapt to his feet as well. Both of them scrambled wordlessly out of their booth, rushing to the door.


    They burst out of it in front of a surprised Centaur.


    Lieutenant-Commander Raemint appeared black and incongruous in the morning light, her sleek hide gleaming. She looked weary and dusty, but to Ben and Everine¡¯s relief, otherwise fine. Her face was serious.


    ¡°We have found your friend,¡± she told them simply, gesturing with her spear. ¡°Come.¡±


    The infirmary was a long, two-storey bluestone building on the other side of town, close to the western gate. It consisted of a single large dormitory ward running the length of the ground floor, plus a few private rooms upstairs, a surgery room, kitchen and necessities in the back.


    Lady Araynia was situated in the main ward, at the beginning of the row closest to the door, enclosed with folding wooden screens for privacy. Raemint, Flint, Ben, Everine and a white-robed young nurse crowded anxiously around her bedside.


    She was unconscious, and didn¡¯t look good.


    ¡°This woman has suffered grave burns to much of her body,¡± the nurse was explaining quietly, ¡°and is severely dehydrated. We will do our best for her.¡±


    The unspoken ¡®but¡¯ hung ominously in the air between them all. Ben couldn¡¯t bear it, so he finished the sentence. ¡°But you don¡¯t think she¡¯ll survive?¡± he blurted out.


    The nurse took a slow, deep breath. ¡°We will do our best,¡± she repeated.


    Ben ran a hand through his hair, letting it flop back over his bandanna. The pitiful little figure in the bed lay unmoving, swathed in bandages and poultices. He hardly recognised her, apart from her long, dark hair.


    A hard lump had formed in his throat. Whatever had happened to Araynia in the forest, she had survived. She was clinging to life, but she wasn¡¯t gone yet.


    She stood up to Carmine and lived! She can¡¯t die now!


    Arzath had given her the Sword of Healing¡­


    ¡°Where¡¯s her Sword?¡± Ben demanded suddenly.


    The nurse looked across the bed at him, from where she was talking softly with Raemint. ¡°The Lady¡¯s possessions are being kept securely,¡± she replied. ¡°You need not concern yourselves.¡±


    Beside Ben, Flint grunted. Glancing at him with a raised eyebrow, the Freeroamer nodded at the nurse, giving her a smile. ¡°How about you go fetch ¡®em, eh?¡±


    But the nurse clasped her hands in front of her, shaking her head. ¡°Weapons are not permitted in a house of healing. The Lady may retrieve her belongings when she is fit to do so.¡±


    ¡°And what if she dies?¡± Everine stated bluntly from behind Ben, where she was leaning against the wall.


    ¡°Then her next of kin may collect them.¡± Looking around at their falling faces, the nurse¡¯s expression nevertheless remained steady. ¡°Failing that, they shall be sold to raise funds for our infirmary.¡±


    Ben¡¯s teeth gritted. I¡¯ll bet, he thought cynically. You can¡¯t wait to see how much that Sword fetches¡­


    He sighed in exasperation. ¡°It¡¯s not a weapon! It¡¯s¡­¡± he faltered. ¡°Look, we need it, alright? It could save her life!¡±


    The nurse¡¯s expression grew colder, clearly suspicious of their motives. ¡°Absolutely not. Now, if you don¡¯t mind, you are crowding the ward. Only one visitor at a time, please!¡±


    Flint settled his hat on his head, tugging the rim down sharply. ¡°¡¯Bout time we was goin¡¯, Rae,¡± he said.


    Raemint was staring at the nurse, and not in a friendly way. The Centaur was an imposing figure, towering over the young woman, who looked like a child in comparison. She stared so long that the nurse paled. Raemint¡¯s tail twitched in agitation.


    Then she turned wordlessly, and the Freeroamers left the ward, followed by Everine, and reluctantly, Ben.


    They collected their own weapons from a guarded antechamber beside the entrance, then left the building. Outside stood another statue; this one made of white marble and depicting a beautiful robed woman pouring water from an amphora over a stricken man at her feet. Lady Fate: a popular deity with the sick and injured. The water from the jug trickled into a square basin at the base of the statue, filled with lilies and other water plants. The four of them walked out of the shadow of the infirmary, regrouping in front of the sunlit statue and tinkling water.


    ¡°Lemme get this straight,¡± Flint said, strapping his huge, shining crossbow onto his back with practised effort. ¡°You¡¯re tellin¡¯ me the lass in there can use the Sword of Healin¡¯? The actual Sword of Healin¡¯? We¡¯re talkin¡¯ about ol¡¯ Requar¡¯s Sword, here?¡±


    Ben nodded. ¡°Yes. At least, she seemed to think she could use it...¡±


    Flint finished tightening the buckles and put his hands on his hips, eyeing him sceptically. ¡°I thought only one person could use them magic Swords?¡± he said. ¡°Otherwise Ferrian could use it, eh?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ I don¡¯t know!¡± Ben threw his arms up and let them flop back down. ¡°I don¡¯t know how it works! All I know is that for some reason Arzath gave his brother¡¯s Sword to her, then disappeared, then Araynia went all funny and talked about seeing things, and got really upset and chased off after him!¡± He shrugged helplessly. ¡°Maybe she¡¯s just deluded, for all I know!¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Raemint said softly. They all looked at her. ¡°Lady Araynia possesses magic. It is faint, but it is there.¡± She closed her eyes. ¡°I have felt this magic before. It brought my soul back, when I thought it stolen. It allowed me to live, when I did not deserve such an honour. The memory of it is forever sealed in my heart.¡± She shook her head. ¡°It is not similar. It is the same. It is Lord Requar¡¯s magic.¡±


    Flint scratched his stubbly beard. ¡°Don¡¯t suppose he had a daughter no one knew about?¡± he offered, but none of them had an answer to that.


    Raemint frowned. ¡°Unlikely. But she has indeed inherited his magic by some means.¡± She shook her head again. ¡°I know naught of the intricacies of magic. But perhaps a little remained in the blade, as drops are left in a cup after it is drained?¡±


    Ben looked up. ¡°From what Ferrian told me, all the magic is supposed to leave the Sword when its owner passes away. There¡¯s not meant to be anything left. The only way there would be was if¡­ well, if Lord Requar wasn¡¯t completely dead.¡±


    Flint folded his arms, snorting. ¡°Trust me, kid, he¡¯s dead. He couldn¡¯t be more dead if he tried, and damn, did he try harder than most.¡± He looked away, but Ben caught a flicker of a troubled expression cross his weathered face.


    ¡°Well, whatever. She has magic, and she can use the Sword of Healing. That means she can heal herself, right? We just need to get the Sword to her, and wake her up!¡±


    Flint looked up thoughtfully. ¡°You any good with locks, kid?¡±


    Ben rubbed his cheek. ¡°A bit? I mean, Mekka taught me some stuff, but I¡¯m not as good as he is.¡±


    Flint smiled. ¡°Better¡¯n the rest of us.¡± He nodded. ¡°Reckon I can rustle up some bits of metal that¡¯ll do the job.¡±


    Raemint looked concerned. ¡°And how do you propose we break into a civilian infirmary without causing a great disturbance? I want no one harmed. These townsfolk respect and trust us. I do not wish to jeopardise our good standing with them.¡±


    Everine, who had remained silent throughout the entire conversation, sniffed suddenly, and drew herself up. Daintily, she brushed her blonde curls away from her face and smiled her sweetest smile.


    ¡°Leave that to me.¡±

 Chapter One Thirty Six

    A quiet night; a dying light


    A Sword to save, to heal, to fight.


    It was a warm night. The interior of the infirmary was uncomfortably stuffy, smelling pungently of herbs and bitter tinctures, and bodies quietly sweating upon starched sheets. One wall was lined with tall, white-painted windows, all of them standing wide open, yet no breeze stole in to stir the linen drapes hanging beside them in limp, listless folds. Oil lamps burned here and there at bedsides, creating pools of dreary brightness and yet greater warmth blooming in the gloominess of the long hall, gleaming on the scrubbed wooden floor and blue-grey stone of the walls, illuminating the long white beams of the ceiling.


    There were only about five or six other patients currently residing in the ward, though the large room could accommodate thirty. As it was, the infirmary¡¯s newest arrival had one entire end of the ward to herself.


    This suited Ben just fine. He had turned the lamp beside Lady Araynia¡¯s bed down low, the dim light casting shadows and flickering light over the young noblewoman¡¯s eerily prone and swaddled form. Ben, restless with anxiety, felt a compulsive urge to keep checking that she was still alive: so slight was the breath from her pale lips and the thump of her struggling heart.


    Just hold on a little longer, the boy begged silently.


    The ward was very quiet, the other patients either sleeping or resting peacefully without any noise. The only sounds came from flies buzzing around the lamps, moths fluttering their small soft bodies against the wooden screens, and distant activity from the still-awake town. The nurses had completed their evening rounds, only checking in occasionally, and always from the far end of the room.


    None had approached Araynia or Ben for some time now; Ben had the distinct impression that they didn¡¯t feel inclined to offer her any more assistance, and were simply waiting for her to die so that they could clean up the bed.


    Ben took off his red bandanna and wiped his face with it. His heart was thundering with anticipation. If he and Everine¡¯s plan didn¡¯t work, the noblewoman was certainly not going to survive, perhaps not even until morning.


    Re-tying his bandanna, Ben waited with growing impatience.


    A few long minutes later, he heard the sound of someone entering the foyer behind him; hard heels rang on the stone floor, followed by a knocking sound. The door to the ward was propped slightly ajar to let in whatever fresh air could be found. Straightening in his chair, Ben half-turned, listening attentively.


    His sister¡¯s familiar voice, overly cheerful in the circumstances, floated into the ward. A door opened, and a man¡¯s voice responded. There followed a few more minutes of conversation between Everine and the guard in the room beyond. Ben sat stock still in his chair, muscles tense. Then, finally the voices starting moving, along with more footsteps in the foyer; they began to fade into the distance. As soon as Ben judged them to be far enough away, he moved.


    Peering around the screen enclosing Lady Araynia¡¯s bed, the boy searched the ward.


    There was no sign of any nurses. No one moved. A patient at the furthest end let out a hacking cough.


    Ben moved quickly. In a few silent seconds he was through the door and across the foyer. The main door to the infirmary stood wide open to the street beyond, as did the two windows. The foyer itself was well lit with wall-mounted lamps, the waiting area lined with worn wooden benches and pots of fresh lavender.


    The room was empty besides himself.


    Moving to one side of a window, Ben looked carefully out. Everine and the guard were over near the fountain, the one with the elegant marble statue of Lady Fate. His sister appeared to be back to her usual charming self ¨C curled blonde hair carefully arranged, eyes and lips enhanced attractively. She wore a pretty dress now, with a voluptuous swishing skirt of crimson and green, though not much of it could be seen in her current strategic pose, perched on the rim of the pool ¨C she may as well have been wearing nothing with all the leg visible.


    The guard ¨C a young man barely five years older than Ben ¨C had his sleeves rolled up and was leaning over the lily pads, fishing for something in the dark water. His back was turned to the infirmary. As Ben watched, Everine said something, then pointed further in, near the base of the statue. The guard drew his sword, climbed onto the rim of the pond, then started poking in the weeds with his blade.


    Careful, Everine, Ben thought, rolling his eyes. All he needed was the man to fall in and return to the building for a change of clothes!


    Wasting no more time, the boy moved to the guardroom door. Unfortunately, the guard had the presence of mind to lock it behind him, but Ben was prepared. From a pocket he removed the improvised lockpicking tools that Flint had made for him. They were a bit crude, but worked: he had practised with Mekka well enough to have the task done in short order. Slipping into the room, he closed the door quietly behind him.


    The guardroom was tiny, little more than a storage closet with a desk in the centre. Wooden shelves and cupboards lined the room, filled with buckets, mops, spare oil lamps and other mundane equipment. But the large chest at the back of the room caught Ben¡¯s attention.


    He set to work on it.


    This lock was considerably more advanced than the one on the door, as most safe-boxes were. It was going to take longer for him to break into. He¡¯d barely gotten started, however, when there came a sudden loud splash from outside, along with a woman¡¯s shriek.


    Startled, Ben fumbled a pick, dropping it to the floor.


    Dammit, Everine!


    Scrambling to reposition his tools, heart pounding, Ben tried to focus, to remember Mekka¡¯s training, to block out the increasingly alarming sounds from outside. He could hear voices growing nearer, especially Everine¡¯s, apologising profusely in her best fawning voice.


    But the guard wasn¡¯t stopping.


    They entered the foyer, Everine still babbling, doing her best to distract the guard.


    Ben concentrated. His fingers were slick with sweat, making it hard to keep his grip¡­


    A key turned in the lock, and the door handle rattled. There was a muffled sound of surprise as the guard accidentally locked a door he thought secured. Abandoning the chest, Ben jumped up, flattening himself against the opposite wall just as the door flung open, hiding the boy from sight.


    The guard opened a cupboard and rummaged around, probably searching for a towel. Ben, hardly daring to breathe in the darkness behind the door, heard the man¡¯s voice muffled by thick cloth: ¡°Look, miss, you¡¯ll have to find someone else to fetch your precious damned ring! Can¡¯t see anything in that pond in the dark!


    ¡°Or better yet,¡± he added, ¡°consider it an offering to the Lady! Bound to get some good luck out of it, eh?¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s a family heirloom!¡± Everine, still out in the foyer, wailed. ¡°Have you any idea how much it¡¯s worth? I didn¡¯t steal it from my mother¡¯s dying, shrivelled finger just to have some bitch statue steal it ba-- ohhhhh¡­¡± There was a dramatic sigh, followed by a heavy thump on the floor.


    With a gasp, the guard rushed out of the room.


    Ben, risking a glance, sidled out from his hiding place as quietly as possible, and peered carefully into the foyer. The dripping guard was trying to rouse Everine, who had collapsed spectacularly onto the stone floor, her colourful dress sprawled out around her like a blooming flower.


    Ben ducked quickly out of sight as the guard looked around desperately, shouting for help. When no one answered, he got up and opened the door to the ward, yelling for the nurses.


    There was no immediate response. The guard started back towards Everine, seemed undecided, then rushed away into the ward, crying out once more for assistance.


    As soon as he was out of sight, Everine opened first one eye, then the other, then picked herself up promptly from the floor. Glancing through the open door of the ward, she gestured to her brother that it was safe to move.


    Quickly, Ben ran across the short space of the foyer, exchanging no words with his sister, only a meaningful look ¨C then he was back inside the ward, slipping into the chair by Araynia¡¯s bedside.


    His heart was frantic now not with fear, but exultation.


    Slowly, he brought the Sword around from behind his back.


    Ben had seen a Sword like this one before, of course: the Sword belonging to Ferrian. His sorcerer friend had even allowed him to touch it, once. But the one he held now was¡­ different, somehow. He¡¯d watched Araynia carry it all through the forest from the castle. But up close, holding it in his own hands, it was¡­ mesmerising. The blade gleamed too brightly in the wan lamplight, with an almost white glow. Twin snakes, black and white, curled up from the base of the blade, just as on Ferrian¡¯s Sword, but otherwise the hilt was completely different. Embedded in place of a sinister black dagger were several exquisite sapphires, deep and blue as a summer sky.


    Ben stared at it in awe.


    The history of this Sword, the tragedy of its original owner and indeed, its current one, washed over Ben in an overwhelming wave.


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    How, Ben thought, could such a beautiful and benevolent thing be tied so inextricably to such despair and horror? How could Lord Requar have utterly failed to realise the potential of the power he carried for so long? How could such a godly thing be owned by someone so twisted, and¡­ wrong?


    If the Sword of Healing were mine, Ben thought wonderingly, I would save everyone in the world with it. Everyone. One by one¡­


    Hurried footsteps from the far end of the ward broke the trance. Hastily, Ben shoved the magnificent Sword under the bedcovers, just as the guard and three nurses rushed past. None of them spared a glance at him: all began fussing over Everine in the foyer.


    Letting out a breath, Ben retrieved one more object from his pocket: a large sapphire, identical to those in the hilt of the Sword, attached to a fine, silver chain.


    As gently as he could, Ben leaned over Araynia and fastened the pendant around her neck, tucking it into her gown and hiding it as best he could with her long hair. That done, he repositioned the Sword of Healing so that it lay upon her body lengthwise, the hilt resting upon her chest. Taking her injured hands, he placed them carefully upon it. Then he drew a blanket over her, covering the Sword away, tucking the covers in tightly around her.


    Then he slumped back in his chair, letting out another breath of relief.


    It was done.


    He had delivered to Lady Araynia the means to save herself.


    The rest was up to her.


    And perhaps, he thought rather ruefully, considering Everine¡¯s earlier comment, that statue of Lady Fate in the courtyard¡­


    She felt as though she were drowning. Drowning, and burning alive at the same time. Immersed in white light so piercing it shredded skin, bones, soul, mind alike, while crushing her fragile body with a pressure that held her lungs in a cruel grip. She could neither think nor cry nor scream; there was only the pain, so huge it was like a living thing; pain, and the all-consuming, agonising, scorching white glare.


    She was dying; she wanted to die, but it would not end. Her skin boiled, her hair burned away, her bones blackened and snapped, her organs ruptured and caught aflame in gory succession. The light devoured her, every piece of her being, yet would not let her go.


    This was eternity. She had fallen into the heart of the sun, the centre of existence itself, where nothing could exist, least of all her. She suffered, and could not die, and the suffering was so great that it ceased any longer to have meaning.


    But something did change, eventually. Nothing was truly eternal. Perhaps aeons of the world had passed unseen before it did, but the change did come: a gradually perceptible easing of the light.


    Slowly it faded¡­ so slowly, and with it the pain.


    At some point, the light was almost all gone, save for a few hazy spears of it rippling around her. She floated now in water of deepest blue.


    But by then, she was nothing.


    She was a shell, a wasted thing, unmade and abandoned. Tatters of clothing and a few remaining strands of black hair drifted around a skeletal, charred frame. Whatever was left of her was drowning still, but she no longer cared. Gently, reverently, she sank towards the dark depths.


    From the coruscating light above, a hand plunged into the water. Pale, elegant and long-fingered, it took hold of the girl¡¯s blackened arm in a firm grip.


    Then it pulled her towards the surface.


    Araynia opened her eyes to find herself floating still ¨C not underneath the water, but on top of it, staring up at wavy light patterns that reminded her of the sun reflecting off moving water. The patterns had a strange, unnatural depth to them, layered one upon another like mesmerising, twisting lace until they faded into sapphire blue infinity.


    Slowly, she sat up. As she did so, the water beneath her coalesced into a flat, mirrored surface. She was here again: the familiar, soothing blue place. But she didn¡¯t know why.


    She couldn¡¯t remember anything.


    Looking around, she found she was not alone. Lord Requar sat beside her, watching.


    Something about the sight of him scared her, though she couldn¡¯t say what caused such a feeling. She knew who he was, she knew her own name, she had a feeling she knew what this place was¡­ but nothing else. Memories lurked on the edge of her consciousness, and with them something dark, something known and yet unknown, deep and dangerous like the bottom of a lake¡­


    No. The handsome man beside her spoke softly. Reaching out, he put a hand on her shoulder. You must not try to remember. You must rest.


    Araynia frowned in confusion. But, she protested, I feel as though I have been asleep a long time. I feel as though I should know ¨C


    Rest! Gently but insistently, Requar pushed the girl until she lay back down on the floor. You have been gravely injured, he offered as some explanation. You must heal.


    But¡­


    Do not think. Heal.


    His expression allowed no argument. But for all his frightening inscrutability, there was real concern on his face. Giving in with a sigh, deciding that there would be time enough for truth later, she tried to relax, lifting her gaze once more to the silent glimmers of light above her.


    Heal.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious?!¡± Ben exclaimed in shocked disbelief. He was sitting now at a table in a large, upstairs private room of The White Horse tavern, which had been given over to the Freeroamers for the duration of their stay in Meadrun as temporary headquarters. Lieutenant-Commander Raemint stood across the table from the boy, having just explained to him, with a solemn face, an audacious plan of her own that she and Sergeant Flint had been discussing while Ben and his sister were busy in the infirmary.


    The Centaur¡¯s tail flicked at a fly buzzing around her, and her head inclined as though offended. ¡°My clan,¡± she declared proudly, ¡°does not indulge in the peculiar Human habit of stating something that they do not believe, merely for the sake of amusement.¡±


    ¡°She means you better believe it, kid,¡± Flint commented from across the room. He was slouched in a chair beside one of the windows. A small side table had been pulled into position underneath the sill; on it, and indeed overshadowing it by some margin, was Flint¡¯s huge, gleaming Eliminator crossbow; on top of that perched his hat. Flint¡¯s leg was stretched out, his booted foot resting on one remaining corner of the table. He was carefully rolling some sort of herbaceous substance into a scrap of paper. Fishing a match tin from his pocket, he removed one with his free hand and struck it alight on the sole of his boot.


    Ben frowned at him. ¡°Since when do you smoke?¡±


    Flint drew in a breath and puffed out an acrid cloud. ¡°Since I watched me best mate turn into a demon-wraith over a pint,¡± he replied poignantly. He shook his head. ¡°Can¡¯t look into another ale without seein¡¯ poor ol¡¯ Grim¡¯s face floatin¡¯ in it, grinnin¡¯ up at me.¡± He wiped his nose with the hand holding his cigarette.


    ¡°So that¡¯s why you were¨C¡± Ben started coughing as the cloud of smoke wafted towards him ¡°stone dead drunk under a table the other night¡­¡±


    Flint shrugged. ¡°Old time¡¯s sake.¡±


    ¡°Flint.¡±


    At Raemint¡¯s scowl, the ex-Bladeshifter sighed, stubbed his smoke out on the Eliminator, and flicked it out the open window.


    Ben slumped forward with his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. ¡°This is crazy,¡± he muttered. His arms flopped down onto the table in exasperation. ¡°You actually want to lure Carmine here, using Hawk as bait?¡±


    Raemint folded her lean, muscled black arms. ¡°Carmine will locate her fianc¨¦e sooner or later. This is a fact without question. She may well be very close to doing so. If we proceed to Forthwhite, a week¡¯s journey from here, she will certainly catch us in the open countryside.¡± She shook her head. ¡°We must make a stand somewhere, regardless, and I wish to make it here, where we have time to prepare for it, and solid walls at least for cover.¡± Her dark eyes were fierce. ¡°I will not be hunted down like a fleeing rabbit!¡±


    ¡°But,¡± Ben protested, ¡°this town is full of people!¡±


    Raemint gave a nod of acknowledgement. ¡°I have already made arrangements for the orderly and discreet evacuation of Meadrun. A number of families and individuals have already left, including the proprietors and guests of this tavern and several other businesses. The construction workers have been notified, and travellers are being turned away by the town guard. By this time tomorrow, the entire town should be clear.¡±


    ¡°What about the Freeroamers?¡± Ben went on, desperately. ¡°Will there be anyone arriving to back us up?¡±


    Raemint hesitated, eyeing him carefully. ¡°I sent word to the Guard House as soon as you and Everine arrived,¡± she explained quietly. ¡°But they will not be here for several days more. We shall not be able to rely on their assistance.¡± She held Ben¡¯s gaze. ¡°Further to that, you and your sister, and your noblewoman friend, will be leaving tomorrow with the evacuees.¡±


    Ben stood up sharply, his chair scraping on the wooden floorboards. ¡°Absolutely not!¡± he blurted out. ¡°No way!¡± He shook his head vehemently. ¡°Hawk is my responsibility! He was entrusted to me, and to Everine! I am not going to leave him behind!¡±


    Raemint¡¯s expression was hard. ¡°You will be leaving this town tomorrow,¡± she repeated. ¡°Or I will order the town guard to apprehend you.¡±


    A tense, awkward silence fell as the second-in-command to the Freeroamers and the sailor boy glared at each other. Ben¡¯s mind was racing, even as his heart plummeted, for a way ¨C any way ¨C around this.


    There has to be something I can do! he thought desperately. After everything he, Everine and Araynia had gone through to bring Hawk to safety, pushing his lifeless body in a rickety wheelchair all the way through the mountains, putting their own lives at risk to do so¡­


    Ben could not simply walk away and leave him now.


    It wasn¡¯t that he doubted the Freeroamer¡¯s ability to bring Carmine down ¨C they had been trained to do exactly that after all. But he didn¡¯t trust that they would do everything they could to keep a mostly-dead man alive, that they wouldn¡¯t sacrifice him the first opportunity they got. Neither Raemint or Flint knew Hawk personally. They had made no promise to Ferrian to protect him ¨C quite the opposite, in fact. Events had gone far beyond any appeal for the doomed couple¡¯s lives ¨C at least as far as the Freeroamers were concerned.


    Ben swallowed thickly, feeling rivulets of sweat rolling down his body beneath his clothes. The thought of attacking Carmine made him feel sick, scared him more than anything ever had. But Lady Araynia had intervened in a terrible battle between the red-haired wraith and Lord Arzath, all on her own, armed with nothing but the Sword of Healing. She was even less of a fighter than Ben or Everine was, and yet she had summoned the courage to do such a thing.


    If the noblewoman was brave enough to confront Carmine, then so was Ben!


    He wanted to be a part of this¡­


    Placing a hand on the Angel-forged dagger at his belt, he said stubbornly: ¡°I have a silvertine weapon. I can help you!¡±


    Raemint¡¯s expression did not change. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, yet harsh: ¡°Such a weapon will be of no use to either us or to you. If Carmine Vandaris is as dangerous as we believe her to be, then you will not come close to her. You are not a trained soldier. You will not stand a chance.¡±


    Far from discouraging or frightening Ben, her words dropped onto him like dry logs thrown on a fire. ¡°If she¡¯s so dangerous,¡± he countered, ¡°then you¡¯ll need all the help you can get!¡±


    Raemint made no reply. Instead, she walked around the table and stood in front of him.


    The Centaur was an imposing figure, towering over Ben. Her silvertine spear was slung across her back, long and bright and wicked. Despite himself, the boy took a step backwards, almost tripping on the chair he had vacated. He felt certain that she was about to seize him by the collar and throw him out the door, or the window, perhaps¡­


    Flint swore suddenly, from across the room.


    ¡°Son of a bitch!¡±


    As they both looked at him, Flint grabbed his hat and jammed it on his head. Yanking a silver crossbow bolt from its quiver, he all but threw it into the Eliminator. The muscles of his powerful arm worked as he cranked it furiously into place.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Raemint trotted over to stand at the window beside him.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± Flint said, shifting the Eliminator so that it rested upon the windowsill, ¡°hold onto yer goddamned hats. The party¡¯s startin¡¯ early¡­¡±


    Ben had rushed to the second window, which offered an unobstructed view outside. Their room faced east, overlooking a damp, shadowy and slightly derelict little courtyard formed by two crumbling, ivy covered walls, the side of the tavern and the back wall of a neighbouring building. An old toolshed ¨C that toolshed, the one no one was allowed to open ¨C stood against the northern wall, beside an overgrown woodpile. The night was muggy and overcast with a thick blanket of cloud smothering most of the town in darkness, but the sky just overhead had thinned somewhat, allowing a hazy wash of moonlight to filter through, enough to pick out the yard below.


    Directly opposite them, against the eastern wall, a black figure picked itself up off the ground.


    Ben flattened himself against the wall beside the window, his heart trying to claw its way out of his throat. Even in the uncertain light the figure was unmistakable; the insect-like glint of dark armour, the damnable blaze of crimson hair¡­


    Carmine, Ben thought in shock.


    She was here.


    She was here now.

 Chapter One Thirty Seven

    By tattered moon, a hunt resumed


    What lives, what fears to be consumed?


    ¡°Dammit!¡± Flint exclaimed. ¡°Lost her!¡±


    Raemint drew her long silver spear, twirling it with an impressive swooshing sound. ¡°We will proceed immediately with the plan as discussed,¡± she declared. ¡°Flint, cover me in the courtyard, then position yourself at the southern front window.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    The Freeroamer Lieutenant passed by Ben on her way around the table. ¡°You,¡± she told him, ¡°will return to your own quarters and stay there. You are not to leave this building for any reason until I indicate that it is safe to do so. Is that understood?¡±


    Ben didn¡¯t reply. Instead he asked: ¡°What about my sister and Araynia?¡±


    ¡°They are still at the infirmary, are they not?¡±


    Ben nodded.


    Raemint hesitated. ¡°We do not have time to warn them, and it is too dangerous to do so. The infirmary is on the other side of town. As long as they do nothing to attract Carmine¡¯s attention, they should be safe enough where they are.¡±


    Before Ben could say anything further, the Centaur was on her way to the door.


    Ben looked aside at Flint. The other man was hunched over his crossbow, deep in concentration as he watched the night, his face hidden by his large hat. Lamplight flickered off the massive, gleaming Eliminator, awesome with silvery, lethal power.


    Ben took only a moment to make a decision. He headed for the door.


    Outside the Freeroamer¡¯s quarters he hesitated, but only for a moment. To his right, down the corridor, lay the room he shared with his sister. To the left were the stairs.


    Damned if I¡¯m going to hide in my room like a little kid! he thought. Drawing his beautiful silvertine dagger, he headed after Raemint.


    The common room was deserted, the hearth burning low: the Centaur had not been wrong about everyone having left the tavern. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, save one beside the main door, leaving the large room crowded with shadows, thrown into dancing motion by the erratic flickering of the dying fire.


    The room had an eerie, abandoned feel to it, a quiet emptiness not of people sleeping, but of people gone. The taunting shadows held a sense of something waiting to happen¡­


    He burst through the main doors at a run, then took a moment to try and control his breathing and heartbeat. The square outside was empty and dark as well, though a few lights still burned on the surrounding streets. The moon was nothing but a faint fuzzy smear overhead.


    There was no sign of Lieutenant-Commander Raemint. But Ben knew where she had gone.


    Several yards to his left was a narrow alleyway beside the tavern. Finding his way by the scant light from the front windows, Ben crept around the corner and almost stumbled right into Raemint, who was in the process of attaching a tiny lantern to her belt. The Centaur spun, the tip of her spear stopping a mere inch from Ben¡¯s chest.


    Seizing the boy with one hand, she shoved him against the wall. ¡°I told you to stay inside!¡± she hissed.


    Ben was trying to regain a hold of his senses, gone pale with how close he¡¯d come to being skewered. His heart crashed around crazily in his chest. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t,¡± he managed lamely.


    Raemint glared at him, her face particularly intimidating in the lamplight.


    ¡°Well¡­ I¡¯m here now!¡± Ben whispered stubbornly. ¡°I might as well help?¡±


    Uttering a growl of exasperation, Raemint released him. ¡°Stay behind me! Do not get in my way!¡±


    Raemint¡¯s long spear led the way into the dingy courtyard. The dim moonlight illuminated only vague forms beyond the orange circle of her lantern light. ¡°We know you are here, Carmine Vandaris!¡± the Centaur called out. ¡°We know what you have come for! Show yourself!¡±


    Ben gripped his dagger tightly, sweat rolling of his wrist, turning in a slow circle as he followed Raemint.


    There was no reply.


    Nothing moved.


    In the corner to their right, a shadowy bulk resolved itself into a cluster of old barrels and a wooden cart. Guardedly, Raemint backed towards them, then kicked out with her powerful hind hooves.


    The barrels and cart splintered and flew in all directions, clattering loudly off the walls and cobbled floor. A rat scurried off into the alley.


    Nothing else.


    Raemint turned and began following the eastern wall, slowly, until she reached the spot where all three of them had seen the black figure crouching. Here she paused. ¡°It is her,¡± she confirmed darkly, a quiver passing through her gleaming hide.


    Ben could feel it, too, now: a strange patch of colder air. But it was not pleasant, it felt slimy against his skin, and there was a slightly foul smell, like stepping into a fetid pond. An involuntary knot formed in his gut, as though he had swallowed a chunk of ice.


    He stepped back, wiping his hands on his tunic.


    Raemint was following the wall again, then she turned at the far corner and crossed in front of the woodpile and the toolshed. She stopped by the shed, regarding it. To Ben it looked closed and untouched. Then she moved into the middle of the courtyard. Taking a ring of keys from her belt, she tossed them to Ben.


    ¡°Open the shed.¡±


    ¡°Wha--¡± Ben started to complain.


    ¡°You wished to help.¡± Raemint¡¯s look was almost darker than the night around her.


    Ben shut his mouth, swallowing. He stared dismally at the toolshed. As much as he wanted to protect Hawk, he couldn¡¯t think of anything he¡¯d rather do less, at this moment, in the dark, with Carmine lurking around, than open that creepy shed.


    I asked for this, he thought unhappily.


    Suddenly feeling foolish, and very afraid, Ben walked towards the shed.


    She can¡¯t be hiding in there, he tried to reassure himself. He could see that it was still secure, the padlock intact. There was no obvious damage to the shed, other than years-old rot. Carmine had broken through solid stone walls; a rickety wooden pile like this would not still be standing if she wanted in.


    Ben hesitated uncertainly. Why hadn¡¯t she broken it down already? Hawk was inside. She had been mere yards from him¡­


    He looked over his shoulder. Raemint was turning a slow circle in the middle of the yard, her spear whooshing as she twirled it, searching the darkness. Somewhere above them, Flint¡¯s Eliminator was trained silently on this spot.


    If Carmine was trying to trap them, it wasn¡¯t going to work. The Freeroamers knew what they were doing.


    R-right?


    ¡°Ben!¡± Raemint urged.


    Wiping his face on his sleeve, Ben sheathed his dagger so that he could set the key in the lock. It clicked open.


    Drawing his dagger again, he took hold of the edge of the wooden door. Pulling at it, he stepped back a few paces, letting the door swing open.


    It squeaked, long and loud, on its rusty hinges.


    The interior of the shed was nearly pitch black, save for an oblong of wan moonlight that fell inside the open door.


    Ben let his breath out in a rush. Hawk was still there. He could see the wheelchair, the dirty robes, the glint of silvertine armour.


    Silvertine. He wondered if the armour had dissuaded Carmine from taking him, and felt suddenly reassured that that must be the case.


    ¡°Bring him out,¡± Raemint ordered.


    Putting his dagger away again, Ben took hold of the arms of the chair and pulled it out of the shed. He glanced at Hawk¡¯s face as he did so, then looked quickly away again. It was him.


    ¡°Come,¡± Raemint said, gesturing with her spear. ¡°Walk ahead. Carmine is not here.¡±


    Doing as he was told, Ben grabbed the handles of the chair and, with some difficulty, began pushing it: one of the wheels kept seizing up.


    They proceeded out of the courtyard.


    Still, there was no sign of Carmine.


    ¡°Do you think she¡¯s given up?¡± Ben commented hopefully. ¡°Or come to her senses? Maybe she¡¯s afraid of us¡­¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Raemint answered simply. ¡°Place him here.¡±


    They were out in the middle of the main square now. Ben manoeuvred the wheelchair into the position Raemint wanted. Then the Centaur took Ben¡¯s place behind the chair, setting her spear down with the butt against the cobblestones.


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    ¡°Now go,¡± she told him firmly. ¡°Return to the tavern with Flint. I will handle things from here.¡±


    Ben knew that it was the most sensible suggestion, but still he lingered, frowning. ¡°But¡­ it doesn¡¯t make sense. Why hasn¡¯t she attacked us yet? She was so desperate to get to Hawk. She came all the way from Forthwhite for him!¡±


    Raemint sighed though her nose. For a long moment she said nothing, then her voice came quietly: ¡°When Flint and I found your friend Araynia on the road,¡± she said, ¡°we saw evidence of a battle. A vast plume of smoke rising in the north, over the forest, as of a great fire.¡± She paused, staring out into the night. ¡°You say that she went after Lord Arzath with the Sword of Healing, to assist him to fight Carmine, to prevent him being killed.¡± She closed her eyes. ¡°I felt it. The battle. The magic. Even at that distance. And I recognised it; such a terrible power I have felt only once before, in a place I cannot tread, a patch of ground in Forthwhite.¡±


    Ben stepped closer, staring at her. The blood drained from his face as realisation dawned. ¡°A Fatalis,¡± he whispered.


    Raemint nodded. ¡°I believe Lord Arzath to be dead. The injuries your friend sustained are consistent with such a spell. But she survived. I know not how. And so too has Carmine.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Carmine could not have stolen the soul of the sorcerer, or she would not have crept into this town like a wary mouse, but raged through it like a storm in the night, and we would not be standing here now.¡±


    She fell silent for a moment. ¡°She is weakened: perhaps injured. She bides her time, she knows that silvertine is dangerous to her. She cannot take Hawk, or us, in her present state. She must regain her power, first.¡±


    ¡°R-regain her power?¡± Ben stammered. ¡°Do you mean¡­ that she¡¯s out there in the town right now, feeding on people?¡± He looked around at the darkened buildings with renewed horror. ¡°And we¡¯re just¡­ standing here?!¡±


    Raemint sighed again, her eyes glimmering slightly. ¡°I wish it were not so,¡± she whispered. ¡°But we cannot find Carmine. She must find us.¡± Her hand tightened on her spear, her face hardening. ¡°We will be ready when she does.¡±


    Ben backed away, numbly. He didn¡¯t know what to say. The Centaur and the slumped form in the wheelchair, in their pool of lantern light, didn¡¯t seem real any longer. The darkness around him seemed like a solid wall closing him in.


    He wanted to flee, to run to the infirmary and warn Everine. But he had no idea where Carmine might be: she could be watching him at this very moment. He was afraid she might follow him. He was afraid she might already have gotten to Flint.


    Feeling wretched and useless, not knowing what else to do, he shrunk down beneath the statue of Ferrian. The hard stone of the plinth at his back was small comfort.


    He wished, with all his heart, that his sorcerer friend was here now.


    But Ferrian and his Dragon were far away, and there would be no help coming this night.


    The evening rolled on, the hours slipping silently away, leaving midnight far behind. A slight breeze picked up, stretching the clouds overhead into a dirty veil, brightening the square. Dim and sickly moonlight burnished the statue of Ferrian and highlighted the dusty cobbles. The windows of The White Horse tavern and surrounding buildings were all dark.


    Ben waited for the screams, for the alarm to be sounded, but they did not come. His body ached from the tension of expecting wraiths to leap out at him at any moment.


    But they did not.


    The township of Meadrun was quiet as the grave.


    Gradually, Ben¡¯s fear wore itself out, fading into drowsiness, and then finally into sleep.


    Raemint remained standing steadfastly by the wheelchair, periodically relighting her lantern whenever it burned low.


    The night had begun to retreat into the grey twilight before dawn when their enemy at last made her appearance.


    Ben awoke with a start, roused by some hidden survival instinct. His guts felt cold and faintly nauseous, his skin coated with some invisible slippery layer of grime, like that he had felt in the courtyard.


    Moving very carefully, he shifted his position so that he could see past Raemint.


    Carmine was there.


    She walked unhurriedly towards them from the east, silhouetted against the brightening sky and a thin mist that rose off the deserted street behind her. There was no doubt that it was Carmine, though she was almost unrecognisable. What was left of her long coat hung about her in scorched tatters; her striking red hair was burned raggedly short above her shoulders. Almost all of her body, save for the deathly pallor of her face, was cast in glistening black metal. The lower part of her right leg was also exposed, atrociously rotten, making Ben¡¯s stomach lurch, but even as he watched, trigon melted downwards to cover it, enclosing the ruined flesh away until her leg was once again wholly and horribly armoured.


    She stopped about ten paces from the wheelchair.


    ¡°You have something that belongs to me,¡± she said. Her voice was soft and surprisingly Human, at odds with her deathly visage.


    Raemint levelled her spear, her stance firm. ¡°Come and get him.¡±


    For the space of a heartbeat, nothing happened. Carmine merely smiled.


    And then everything went black.


    Flint cursed as the scene before him changed dramatically. For a panicked second he thought he¡¯d gone blind, until with some confusion he realised he could still see the room around him, grey with the encroaching dawn.


    Taking a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, Flint stared out of the window in awe and fear. Everything outside the tavern had disappeared into a pitch black void.


    No, not quite pitch black¡­ Flint leaned forward. From down in the square came an oddly-pitched clashing sound, accompanied by a burst of white light and flurry of dazzling, strange sparks that Flint couldn¡¯t quite look at, spiralling away in kaleidoscopic colours.


    Raemint¡¯s spear had connected with whatever foul weapon Carmine was wielding.


    Hands shaking, Flint fumbled together another cigarette and lit it. Just moments ago, he¡¯d been ready to take the shot as planned, his finger pressed against the trigger, when Carmine had made her move ¨C a fraction of a second before him.


    Gods, the woman was fast!


    Fast¡­ and smart.


    Now he sat, sweating and indecisive, as the battle below continued.


    You can do this, Flint!


    He had made too many mistakes in the past, stupid mistakes that should, by all rights, have led to his death. It was only by some god¡¯s twisted mercy ¨C or joke ¨C that he was still alive at all and sitting here now, entrusted with putting an end to an insanely powerful escaped demon-wraith.


    Starshadow Flint didn¡¯t make mistakes.


    Not any longer.


    Bending over his crossbow again, cigarette in his mouth streaming smoke into the quiet, empty room, Flint focussed.


    The darkness fell upon Ben so suddenly that for a few shocking, disorienting moments, he thought he¡¯d been knocked unconscious.


    But no; he could feel his heart hammering crazily in his chest, and hear his own rapid breathing, and there was no pain, as of a blow.


    Just an increasing twist of nausea in his stomach¡­


    And then the fighting started.


    Raemint¡¯s spear burst to life like a glowing brand ¨C white hot and streaming ethereal mist as it whirled around her. There was a resounding crash as it clashed, hard and violently, with something unseen, creating a burst of light and shower of weird rainbow-like sparks that spiralled away in odd directions. The Centaur was illuminated in dramatic silhouette; beyond her, light slithered off something in the darkness, sleek and quick and oily.


    Then the black returned, save for the spinning of Raemint¡¯s otherworldly weapon, tracing silvery patterns around her like a shield.


    Ben noticed something else then, too: another patch of glowing mist close to where the Freeroamer Lieutenant was standing. It took him a moment to realise that it was Hawk: the silvertine breastplate that the perishing man wore was reacting to the presence of trigon.


    Ben looked down at his own dagger ¨C he had almost forgotten he was still holding it ¨C and saw that it, too was shining pure white, the metal shimmering gloriously like a sunlit sea.


    Staring at the dagger, Ben felt a warm sort of peace wash over him, a relaxing of his tense muscles. His terror eased into a milder, more manageable fear.


    They were still alive yet.


    His thoughts cleared, his heartbeat slowed; his own survival seemed less important now than how to help Raemint, how to get at Carmine even though he couldn¡¯t see her. He didn¡¯t know how the Centaur was able to fight almost blind, but now she caught another attack on her spear, flooding the square again with a flash of brilliant light.


    Awesome as it was, Ben supposed she was surviving on some primal instinct, but it surely couldn¡¯t last long. Carmine had all the advantage.


    Only one nick from a trigonic weapon and Raemint would share Hawk¡¯s fate.


    Gripping his dagger, crouched with the reassuring stone of the statue¡¯s plinth at his back, Ben searched the blackness for some sign of that serpent-like glimmer, or hint of red¡­


    The wraith was on him almost before he knew it was there. Turning his head, Ben was confronted by a face: a grey face made of roiling smoke. A dead thing, no longer Human, features shifting and melting into each other, hideous black voids for eyes and mouth and nose and ripped flesh.


    Letting out an involuntary scream, Ben tried to pull back, but was encumbered by the statue and fell awkwardly to the ground, dropping his dagger. His stomach heaved, spilling its contents onto the ground.


    The wraith wasn¡¯t Carmine: there came another series of brutal clashes off to his right. Raemint screamed in fury as she fought. The brightness caused the dead thing to shrink away momentarily, but when darkness returned, there were more of them, and then more, at least a dozen wretched, smoky, deathly ghosts appearing out of the blackness around him.


    Demon-wraiths.


    Carmine¡¯s victims!


    Something about the sight of them caused Ben¡¯s stomach to contort violently, as though something were trying to get out of it. Fighting intense nausea, he grabbed for his dagger where it lay radiating light and mist on the cobblestones.


    Another cry from Raemint, another explosion of flashes and colourful whirling sparks. Something was wrong with Ben¡¯s vision: sometimes he could see the Centaur and sometimes he could only see parts of her.


    When the blackness returned again, Ben lunged upwards with a yell of his own, his silvertine dagger slashing though twisted limbs reaching out for him, scattering them into nothingness.


    First one wraith shrieked, then another as his blade cut into them. The sound was like nothing Ben had ever heard: a screech of agony that wavered into a such a high pitch that it hurt his teeth. Dizziness tried to claim him, his consciousness began to close in. Ben closed his eyes and trusted fully to his dagger, sweeping it around him in great arcs, and the shrieking continued¡­ he was sure some of it was his own¡­


    He opened his eyes again just in time to see something streak from the sky towards them like a miniature comet. There was an eruption of light far bigger and brighter than anything from Raemint¡¯s spear, light that filled the entire square from end to end, blasting every shadow away in an instant. His vision, his entire being now filled with a white void every bit as impenetrable as the black, Ben cowered against the statue, unable to see even the dagger in his hand. There came a woman¡¯s frightening scream, full of rage and anguish ¨C he couldn¡¯t tell whose it was ¨C and then, gradually, the light began to fade.


    When Ben could finally see again, he looked up, blinking, to a dawn town, the newly-risen sun having just crested the rooftops, spilling golden light across the square. Raemint stood a few yards away, breathing heavily, black hide slick with sweat, leaning on her spear, which had returned to its normal, metallic silver hue.


    There was no Carmine, or any other wraiths, to be seen.


    Something else had changed, as well¡­


    Ben¡¯s legs felt weak and shaky, but he forced himself up from the statue and stumbled across the square to stand beside Raemint, staring down in disbelief.


    Hawk¡¯s wheelchair had been overturned, sprawling its occupant onto his back on the stones. A long silver shaft protruded from his chest, embedded in his ornate breastplate.


    As Ben and Raemint watched, the shaft slowly became shorter, as though it were melting into him.


    Ben fell to his knees. ¡°F-Flint,¡± he stammered.


    ¡°It was¡­ part of the plan,¡± Raemint panted. ¡°If we could not¡­ take Carmine¡­ we would take¡­ her prize.¡±


    Ben just stared at Hawk in mute despair.


    Across from them, the door of the tavern opened and Flint emerged, sweeping around him with his loaded Eliminator, sunlight reflecting flashes of light off it as he did so.


    When he reached them, Ben asked, hopelessly: ¡°Is he¡­ still alive?¡±


    Setting his crossbow on the ground, Flint knelt beside Hawk. A long, anxious moment passed before he said, finally: ¡°Yeah. At least, I think so.¡± He shook his head, frowning. ¡°Hard to tell.¡±


    They all stared down at the prone body of the former Freeroamer in morbid fascination. Flint¡¯s bolt had vanished without a trace, but the armour protecting Hawk¡¯s torso had grown. It now extended to cover his neck, his arms and hands ¨C everywhere that had previously been blackened and diseased. But rather than a smooth, flawless finish like Carmine¡¯s armour, this one was intricately patterned, mimicking the design and golden tint of the original breastplate as though moulded by an incredible unseen craftsman. The sides of Hawk¡¯s face were enclosed in something resembling Angel wings.


    ¡°An angel-wraith,¡± Ben whispered, wide-eyed. He looked up at Raemint. ¡°What does this¡­¡± his question trailed off, unfinished. Getting to his feet, he stared past the Centaur, past the gleaming statue of Ferrian, to something on the other side of town.


    ¡°Smoke!¡± he gasped.


    Not demon-wraiths, this time, but real smoke, rising in a steady, dark, ominous stain into the morning sky, somewhere near the western gate.


    ¡°The infirmary!¡±


    Without another word or thought, Ben sprinted in that direction.


    He¡¯d only gone a few feet before Raemint overtook him, thundering ahead, hooves flying, shadow leading the way.

 Chapter One Thirty Eight

    Wraiths and shadows flee the night


    But horror stalks in dawn¡¯s bright light.


    Everine woke to a morning that was unusually quiet, but bright. Dawn sunshine beamed through the open windows in long, low, orange-hued shafts, heralding another warm day. Yawning and stretching, she sat up.


    She¡¯d been given the bed opposite Lady Araynia, after convincing the nurses she was too ill to go home. They had forced her to drink some kind of revolting concoction, which she had spat out as soon as no one was looking, but it must have affected her anyway, as she had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep ¨C in fact the best she¡¯d had for many weeks.


    Tossing aside a blanket, she reached for her boots and pulled them on. The nurses hadn¡¯t bothered undressing her, simply dumped her on the bed to sleep off her problems, which was fine with Everine. She was still clothed in the fine, colourful dress that she had purchased ¨C by generous donation from the Freeroamers ¨C specifically for the previous evening¡¯s act. Standing up, she fussed with her skirt and blouse, smoothing out the creases and brushing her curly hair out of her face.


    Putting her hands on her hips, she smiled. Well. Last night went quite well! She felt satisfied that some men, at least, still found her attractive enough to be distracting.


    Glancing down the ward, she hurried over to Araynia¡¯s bedside. The infirmary was silent: the other patients still asleep at this early hour. But it wouldn¡¯t be long before the nurses started the breakfast rounds. Everine had to get the noblewoman out of here by then.


    Lady Araynia was still unconscious. Everine tried to rouse her, softly calling her name, but got no response. Straightening, she put her hands on her hips again, regarding the girl.


    She had to admit, the noblewoman looked considerably better than she had the previous day, as far as Everine could tell with the bandages and dressings. Everine had given her up for dead when they¡¯d parted ways in the forest. But she could not deny that this young woman¡¯s courage was something she hadn¡¯t expected and worth deep respect: not many in this world would have chosen to interfere in a fight between a sorcerer and a demon-wraith. Everine wasn¡¯t sure she would have made the same decision in her place.


    Such a decision had cost Araynia dearly: she had almost been destroyed by what she had encountered. Everine had been convinced that she wasn¡¯t going to last another night.


    Of course, she hadn¡¯t expressed this thought to Ben, it would only have upset him. She had gone along with his plan mostly because she was curious to know if this magical Sword of Healing worked as her brother said it did.


    Carefully, Everine drew back the blanket covering Araynia. The Sword lay there, along the length of the girl¡¯s body, her small, bandaged hands resting upon the hilt. Blue light shimmered down the blade, casting a cool, flickering glow over the sheets.


    Breathless, Everine covered it quickly back up again. It was true then ¨C this little waif of a noblewoman really was a sorcerer!


    Impressed and slightly afraid, Everine sank into the chair beside the bed. But time was moving fast, and, sorcerer or no, if the damned girl didn¡¯t wake up soon, the Sword would be taken away again. Already, in her mind Everine was formulating another possible distraction¡­


    It was then that she caught a whiff of smoke.


    Blinking out of her thoughts, perturbed, Everine examined the bed again, worrying that the magic had inexplicably caught something alight.


    But nothing was amiss.


    Then she turned and saw it: grey wisps leaking beneath the door to the foyer.


    With a gasp, Everine froze. Demon-wraiths were known to take on the appearance of smoke. But the ward around her was still bright, and stiflingly warm: there was no sign of any dark shadows.


    Hastening to the door, Everine touched the handle, only to jump back with a yelp.


    It was scorching hot.


    Smoke was rapidly coiling around her feet.


    Fire!


    Whirling, Everine took off down the ward. ¡°FIRE!¡± she screamed. ¡°SMOKE! FIRE! EVERYONE OUT!!¡±


    The patients were slow to respond. Everine grabbed the first person she came to, a frail old man, physically dragging him out of his bed and shoving his crutches at him, she almost threw him out into the aisle. Looking back, she saw that the far end of the ward was now a haze of smoke and horribly bright flickers of light could be seen between cracks in the door, as though the dawn sun herself was trying to force her way in.


    Running the other way, towards the interior of the building, Everine burst into the hallway, screaming again. Several nurses appeared, some running towards her, others sending out the alarm.


    Barging back into the ward, past a throng of confused and now panicking patients, Everine raced to the end of the room, lifting an arm to cover her face as she plunged into the smoke.


    She could hear it now, a terrifying crackling roar, as of something impossibly angry seeking to consume her. She could feel the heat of it radiating through the wall. Reaching Araynia¡¯s bedside, coughing as the smoke wormed its way into her lungs and eyes, she threw off the covers again and, with only a moment¡¯s hesitation, snatched up the Sword of Healing and shoved it into her belt, its magic fading as she did so. The blade was so long it dragged on the floor and sliced through her new skirt. Heedless, Everine gathered up the recovering girl in both arms and hurried back out into the aisle.


    She had barely gone five paces, however, when the door behind her exploded, throwing burning chunks of wood in all directions, striking her back and setting her dress on fire.


    Everine tumbled to the floor, girl, Sword and all. Rolling frantically, she managed to extinguish the flames from her clothes, but then she grew rigid with horror.


    A woman walked calmly out of the inferno gushing through the door. At least, the black shape had the basic figure of a woman, but was more like something risen up out of the depths of Caer Sync¡¯s netherwordly Pit.


    Everine had survived many life-threatening situations in her time, had always believed that there was a way through anything. She had never allowed herself the luxury of hope, but had simply gotten on with things, of the opinion that they would work out or they wouldn¡¯t, and that you made your own luck.


    But this was different. Now, as she lay on the floor with the world burning around her, she felt her heart sink away into bitter, cold despair.


    There was no escaping this demon. She would hunt Everine, and her brother, and her friends to the end of Arvanor. She was unstoppable.


    Now, here, today, it was all going to end.


    This is where I am going to die.


    It was all Everine could do to get to her feet, but she forced herself to do it. The Sword had come loose and was lying a couple of feet away. Lady Araynia was sprawled like a rag nearby, where Everine had dropped her.


    Staring bleakly at the girl, something sparked in the sailor woman¡¯s chest, spurred on by the heat rushing towards her.


    After all that girl has been through!


    Bending down, she picked up the Sword of Healing, glancing unhappily at the now dim gemstones. Everine was no sorcerer, she couldn¡¯t use the magic. But this was a silvertine blade¡­


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    Taking the handle in both hands, she took up a defensive stance in front of the fallen noblewoman.


    Carmine walked forward unhurriedly and stood about three feet from the end of the blade. She appeared wholly unharmed from her passage through the flames, though remnants of her clothing and brilliant red hair were alight.


    ¡°Give me the girl,¡± she said simply. ¡°And the Sword. And perhaps you will have a chance to escape.¡±


    Everine¡¯s eyes stung and swam with smoke and tears as she thought of Ben. Carmine would have had to pass through the entire town to get to this building. What had she done along the way? Had she found the others? What of Hawk? Had she taken him already?


    Carmine¡¯s trigonic armour seethed with reflections. Her remaining skin was bone white, framed with clutching black veins. Her grey eyes pierced Everine¡¯s, predatory and emotionless, like a wolf¡¯s.


    How could this¡­ thing ever have been the person she once knew as a friend?


    ¡°What has happened to you?¡± she whispered.


    Carmine didn¡¯t reply. Instead, she came forward again, step by step, until her chest was a mere inch from the tip of the Sword.


    Everine swallowed. She could usually handle herself in a fight, but not with someone of Carmine¡¯s calibre. Not against a girl who had run off to join the army at the age of five¡­


    ¡°Give me the girl,¡± the demon-woman repeated. ¡°And the Sword. And tell me where Mekka is.¡±


    ¡°MEKKA IS GONE!!¡± Everine screamed.


    A ceiling beam collapsed to one side, sending up a shower of sparks and broken wood, feeding the ravenous fire. ¡°The Angels took him! They took him and cast him into the Pit at Caer Sync!¡± Tears slipped from her eyes, drying instantly on her cheeks.


    Carmine stared back at her dispassionately. ¡°You lie.¡±


    ¡°WHY WOULD I LIE??¡± Fury, mixed with despair, ravaged Everine¡¯s insides. ¡°You¡¯ve lost him! You¡¯ve lost Hawk, and your father, and everyone you ever cared about! Nothing you do will bring them back! Wherever they¡¯ve gone to is a place you¡¯ll never reach!¡±


    Carmine continued to regard her, saying nothing. Then, slowly, she smiled.


    ¡°You are afraid,¡± she whispered. ¡°So, so afraid.¡± She lifted her right arm. ¡°Let me take your fear from you.¡±


    And before Everine could react or respond, the demon-woman¡¯s fingers elongated in a rush of sweeping tendrils, snatching up her wrists, binding them in an instant in a freezing, terrible grip.


    Gasping in shock, her hands going numb, Everine dropped her weapon.


    Carmine kicked at the Sword. It spun across the wooden floor, bounced off a burning screen and away into the rubble.


    The first thing Araynia became aware of as her consciousness finally returned to her was the heat.


    Heat, and light, and the choking tang of smoke.


    She awoke coughing.


    A few chaotic seconds of confusion overwhelmed her as she tried to figure out what was happening. She was in some kind of building, and it was burning, and she was lying on the floor¡­ Where was her Sword?


    Coughing, she looked around, but couldn¡¯t see it anywhere¡­


    Then all the breath left her lungs in horror.


    Carmine was there, and Everine, only a few feet away, the two of them locked in a cruel and demonic embrace. Serpentine tentacles ensnared the blonde-haired woman, coiled around her waist, her chest, her throat. Whimpering, gasping noises emanated from the woman¡¯s throat.


    Carmine was completely fixated on her prey, ignoring Araynia entirely.


    Memories of Luca slammed back into the noblewoman¡¯s mind ¨C those same black tentacles, bursting through his chest, snatching his life away¡­ Araynia shoved the memory away in distress, choking and gasping, her gut twisting.


    Panic flooding through her, she tried in vain to calm herself.


    Where is my Sword?!


    As though in answer to her frantic, silent cry, she saw it. The Sword of Healing lay several yards away, off to one side behind Carmine, its bright gleam almost obscured by flames.


    Araynia knelt on the floor staring at it in horrified dismay. Even if she could make it past the demon-woman, she would be burned alive trying to get to it¡­


    More memories assaulted her in an ugly conflagration.


    ¡­ pain, and the all-consuming, agonising, scorching white glare¡­


    ¡­ she suffered, and could not die, and the suffering was so great that it ceased any longer to have meaning¡­


    She screamed.


    Not again! Not again!!


    Clutching at her head, flames licking out at her, Araynia fought to stay sane.


    Lord Requar, help me!!


    If the dead sorcerer heard her, she never knew. Letting out a wrenching sob, through a blur of tears she raised her hand in the direction of the Sword, so close and yet beyond her reach¡­


    It was a gesture of utter hopelessness and defeat¡­ and yet¡­ she felt something. A faint, cool rush through her fingers, like a wash of pleasant water on her skin.


    She blinked, staring at her hand. She had felt such a sensation before, but usually only when holding her pendant¡­


    Lifting her left hand to her throat, she found that the stone was there, and clutched it as though her very life were contained within. Straightening her right arm again, she concentrated on the spot where she had seen her Sword.


    The blade was invisible now, consumed in the roaring blaze.


    She focussed all her will on it, all her strength. Nothing mattered now but the Sword¡­


    Everine had gone ominously quiet. Dark mist streamed off Carmine¡¯s body, mingling with the smoke. The demon-woman¡¯s gaze turned now to Araynia.


    The young noblewoman filled her mind with the Sword, summoned it with everything she had, trying to ignore the heat and smoke which were becoming unbearable, soon to destroy her, as they had done once already¡­


    In her peripheral vision, she saw Carmine release Everine, tentacles whipping into the air, writhing.


    Araynia¡¯s hand shook with desperation and effort, tears and sweat rolling over her face. PLEASE!


    And the Sword, at last, responded. Quite suddenly, it leapt out of the flames like a glorious, sharp and silvery bird. With a final cry of desperation, Araynia surged to her feet, sweeping her arm to the side as she did so.


    The Sword followed the movement, whirling through the burning air and plunging deep into Carmine¡¯s back.


    The reaction was instantaneous. There was a flash of light far brighter than the inferno around them, causing Araynia to shield her face, and Carmine screamed.


    The scream was a long, terrible, gut-wrenching shriek, as of someone being torn apart.


    A sound of thunder came from behind Araynia and she cowered, then screamed again as something seized her, pulling her to her feet.


    Her struggles were in vain. Looking up, she saw to her astonishment a huge female Centaur, black as coal save for a white flash on her right leg and a streak of blonde in her long braided hair.


    ¡°Get astride me!¡± she ordered, dropping to her knees.


    Araynia did as she was told, too fearful to do anything else. Then the Centaur rose, scooped Everine up in her arms, turned and galloped through the flames, leaping over debris and bearing them all from the burning building.


    Carmine¡¯s scream dwindled and was quickly lost in the rage of the fire.


    They gathered at a safe distance from the fire: scattered groups of survivors and onlookers, watching great black billows of smoke rise into the morning sky. Sunlight cast a dirty yellow hue over the almost deserted town. Flames soared and snapped unchecked: the entire large building was fully ablaze. Fortunately, the infirmary stood on its own, occupying one side of a square close to the town wall, and the conflagration had not spread to any surrounding structures. There was no wind to fan the flames.


    One group stood apart from the others, a little closer to the fire, three of its members brandishing silvertine weapons. They observed the fiery wreckage with intense, mute vigilance.


    Nothing moved within the raging depths, however, save for disintegrating masonry.


    At some point, Lieutenant Raemint left them, going to order what remained of Meadrun¡¯s citizenry to leave.


    The small crowd complied with little argument, sombrely accepting that their town was lost to wraiths, and filtered morosely out of the western gate.


    ¡°The rest of you are to leave with them,¡± the Centaur announced as she returned. A fine grey horse, fully harnessed, accompanied her obediently.


    Both Ben and Araynia turned to her in protest.


    ¡°I cannot abandon my Sword!¡± the Lady insisted.


    ¡°We are NOT going to leave!¡± Ben put in. The boy looked pale and stricken over what had happened to his sister, but was managing to hold himself together. His brown eyes were fierce, his hand tight on his dagger.


    Raemint came right up to him, her expression weary, but hard. ¡°You will not disobey me, this time,¡± she growled. She gestured to Everine, who was lying on the cobblestones, unconscious but alive. ¡°Your sister is afflicted and all of you need rest. If Carmine still lives, you will not survive another battle with her in such condition. I will not be able to protect you.¡± She held Ben¡¯s furious gaze. ¡°Sergeant Flint will escort you to the nearest village, which I believe is Hillbank.¡±


    Flint, for his part, looked less than impressed with the pronouncement, but sighed, grumbled a bit and nodded dutifully.


    ¡°But you said yourself, we have to make a stand here!¡± Ben continued, his voice edging close to a whine as his resolve began to crumble.


    Turning away, Raemint set her spear firmly. ¡°As I intend to do.¡± Her expression was immovable as iron. ¡°Alone.¡±


    Ben gave up, seemingly too tired to maintain an argument. Flint, lowering his crossbow carefully to the ground, walked over to Everine and hauled her onto the back of the grey mare like a sack. Then he headed for Hawk, who slumped silently in his wheelchair behind them all, resplendent in his new shining armour, like a fallen general.


    Sighing in frustration, Ben nevertheless went to help him.


    Araynia stood staring at the fire, looking and feeling like a lost child. ¡°My Sword,¡± she whispered.


    The Freeroamer Lieutenant came to stand beside her. ¡°I will retrieve your Sword and return it to you,¡± she said softly. ¡°It will not be lost. I will do so whatever it takes from me. You have my word.¡±


    Araynia looked up at her, at the Centaur¡¯s fierce and graceful dark face, at her stance full of the passion of a warrior, and knew that she believed her word to be true.


    Araynia wanted to believe it, too.


    She wanted to believe that Carmine was dead.


    ¡°Alright folks, move out!¡± Flint called from behind them, Eliminator in hand once more. Ben, taking up the reins of the beautiful mare ¨C now burdened with two fallen companions ¨C exchanged a hopeless glance with Araynia, then grudgingly followed.


    Araynia lingered, gazing not at the fire now, but at the ash drifting across the empty square, just as it had on the morning she had discovered Lord Arzath dead, consumed by his own spell, and almost Carmine and herself with him.


    Almost.


    Slowly, she turned and trailed after the others. They were nearly at the gate when Araynia looked back.


    The black Centaur stood there beneath the wafting smoke where they had left her, resolutely facing the flames with her long silver spear at her side, alone in a town now occupied only by the dead.


    Then they passed through the wall and she was gone.

 Chapter One Thirty Nine

    An anxious search, a cloudy flight


    Within the woods, a saddening sight.


    White wings appeared like a huge, silent ghost, gliding through the drifting gloom. Heavy clouds had banked up against the southern edge of the Barlakk Mountains, obscuring all the land below and sharp peaks above for many miles. The White Dragon sailed effortlessly through it, a graceful spirit of ice, her keen silver eyes like mirrors reflecting the mist.


    Ferrian sat astride her long, pearlescent neck, cloak and hair flapping in the wet breeze, periodically invoking his own Mind Vision to aid in the search. His magic could not reach far, however, and was incredibly draining, so mostly he trusted to the Dragon¡¯s superior senses. Now and then Mekka slipped off the Dragon¡¯s back and spiralled down beneath the cloud cover for closer observation.


    They had already found evidence of their friends¡¯ passage. In a sandy cave mouth, where one of the secret tunnels from Castle Whiteshadow exited, they found clear tracks from a wheelchair and several sets of Human footprints. The tracks continued down through a boulder field and into a dense, gnarly stretch of ancient forest, which all three were intent on now, observing from the air, though the dark green canopy faded in and out of existence in the greyness.


    So far, Ferrian had seen no trace of a living person ¨C or a wraith ¨C only bright flashes of birds, small animals and a couple of silently skulking firewolves, their auras clearly visible to his magical sight. They had come far enough that he was sure they must be approaching the road leading to Meadrun. He allowed his magic to fade off as his thoughts began to drift, sailing ahead of him towards the not-too-distant town. The misty clouds were replaced with a vision of a homely, welcoming inn, where his friends might well be waiting for him¡­


    And if they weren¡¯t?


    The homely image darkened and disintegrated. If they weren¡¯t, if they had never made it out of the forest¡­


    The Dragon let out a scream, so sudden and high-pitched that her passengers flinched in shock. She began to writhe in the air, as though in pain.


    Ferrian drew his Sword in an instant, searching the sky around them for whatever might be attacking, then Mekka said from behind him: ¡°She has found something!¡± and disappeared in an instant.


    Confused and alarmed, Ferrian continued looking this way and that for the source of the disturbance, but could see nothing but clouds in every direction. They were not flying high, only just above the canopy, but both forest and ground were invisible.


    ¡°Dragon, what¡¯s wrong?¡± he yelled.


    She didn¡¯t reply, her shriek dwindling into a quavering, flute-like whine.


    Still gripping his Sword, Ferrian climbed precariously along her sleek white neck, trying not to slip as it twisted back and forth. Using her crystalline spines as hand-holds he finally reached her head, stopping just short of the wicked horns sweeping like icicles from the back of her huge skull.


    And then he felt what the Dragon felt. It hit him like a physical blow, so hard that he gasped and almost fell from her back.


    Grief; a sense of profound loss communicated from the Dragon¡¯s vast mind to his, and it was painfully, wretchedly familiar. At once he was transported back four years to a younger, more foolish version of himself, to the exact moment when he had discovered that Lord Requar ¨C the man who had raised him and loved him, if not his true father ¨C lay dead, and he had lost his Winter in one fell swoop, and it felt as though his entire sense of self had cracked and fallen apart¡­


    And with these memories came a vicious burning sensation, as though they had flown though a pocket of superheated air. Ferrian¡¯s skin felt as though it was boiling, his veins were filled with a sizzling fire that ripped through his body, tearing it apart from within like paper¡­


    He let out a scream of his own.


    Frost flooded out of him in response, trying to quench the invisible flames eating him alive. The Dragon¡¯s scales were impervious to the ice; she didn¡¯t even feel it. Ferrian came back to himself, hugging one of her spines, tears frozen to his face.


    He knew now what had happened down there, knew that it was the thing he had feared for a long time, and he didn¡¯t want to see it. He couldn¡¯t. Nevertheless, he said hoarsely to the Dragon: ¡°Let me down.¡±


    The Dragon knew, too. She squirmed in a restless figure-of-eight like a fish caught in a bowl, her great feathers beating the mist to shreds, delicate butterfly wings shivering in agitation.


    ¡°LET ME DOWN NOW!¡±


    With a final musical whine of sorrow and defeat, the White Dragon did as she was commanded and bore her Human companion down to the horror that lay below.


    Mekka sat on a charred log in the middle of the wasteland. The clouds hunkered low overhead, so thick and dark they shrouded the clearing in a grim colourless twilight, with no trace of sun to be seen. Mekka had already flown the circumference of the massive circular clearing several times and found nothing living, and no corpses save those of small animals and birds, so charred they disintegrated at a touch from his boot.


    Except of course, for the single Human body that lay at the very centre of all this devastation.


    The Angel stared bleakly at Ferrian, who knelt on the ground some fifty yards away beside his fallen master. His friend hadn¡¯t uttered a word or sound since landing with the Dragon, just dropped to his knees and had remained there since. Mekka kept his distance, allowing Ferrian some space.


    The clearing was deathly still and silent. No birds called in the surrounding trees. No rustle of leaves. Not a breath of wind.


    It was as though the very world had stopped, in this place, when Lord Arzath did.


    The White Dragon had taken herself off into the forest, unable to bear the taste of death. After some initial crashing of timber and foliage, she now grieved in silence, like the rest of them.


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    Mekka felt as black and hollowed out as the burned stumps surrounding him, just another wasted and useless piece of scenery. The manner of Arzath¡¯s death made little sense. The sorcerer had made a final stand here against someone, or something. He had been stabbed in the back by an exceedingly sharp blade, but there was no sign of trigonis infection. No demon-touched blackness anywhere on his body. His soul had not been stolen, which may be of some comfort to Ferrian. Arzath had cast a Fatalis spell at the end of his life, presumably in a last-ditch effort to obliterate his attacker.


    Who else could it have been, but Luca¡¯s murderer? The intruder from the castle, who had driven Ferrian¡¯s guests and friends into this forest and was seemingly killing them one by one?


    If Arzath had been felled so effectively, Mekka held out little hope for the others, who possessed neither magic or silvertine weapons.


    His mind was too dull with shock and horror to piece it all together completely. But Arzath¡¯s death wasn¡¯t the worst of it, wasn¡¯t the thing that had sent Mekka spinning back into maddening despair and banished all hope into a cloud of dust.


    The clearing hadn¡¯t been without evidence.


    Mekka¡¯s right hand rested on his knee, loosely holding a swathe of dirty cloth that he had picked up from the ash close to Arzath¡¯s body. He didn¡¯t look at it, instead staring off into the mist gathering in the distant living trees, his dark eyes glimmering with tears. The piece of cloth slid from his unresisting fingers to land softly on the ground at his feet.


    It was beige in colour, with a bright orange stripe along one edge.


    Mekka was still sitting alone on his stump as night fell. The hours lengthened sombrely into pitch blackness and Winter descended, not with a roar but in soft, chilly silence. The ravaged landscape was hidden away, made pure again under a glowing blanket of pristine white snow.


    There was a fire now. Wordlessly, Mekka had helped Ferrian gather sticks and branches from the forest to build it, then retreated again. The sorcerer had scratched a series of magical symbols into the ground with the point of his Sword, which came to life with a mysterious white light as he passed them. Slowly, Ferrian walked around the pyre, the blazing flames glinting off his drawn Sword, snowflakes whirling and being devoured by the fire, along with the body it contained at its raging heart. Mekka was sure that he was whispering under his breath as well, though the Angel couldn¡¯t make out the words.


    So it continued, a seemingly endless vigil long into the midnight hours. A circle of flame and frost, of life and death, of horror and beauty and tragedy, all that remained of the world in a vast and fathomless void unwitnessed by moon or stars.


    It was a secret ritual, a private passing for an individual that, during his long life had affected the world in a myriad of ways, most of which were bad. He had been the last of the Sorcerer Tyrants who had subjugated Arvanor for centuries, and despite a world now plagued with wraiths, it was arguably better off. Mekka shed no tears for Arzath, and he doubted many would, but for Ferrian a deep connection had been severed, and for this Mekka was truly regretful.


    But Mekka wasn¡¯t a part of this reverent scene, he couldn¡¯t share it: he was an outcast sitting at the very edge of the light where the flames barely warmed him. A lost shadow not yet ready to be claimed by the dark. Yet he watched, and his thoughts circled lonely in the night, and the cold sank into his bones.


    He was beginning to become lethargic, a strange sort of peace settling over him, the cold wrapping him up in a comforting cloak, when some warning instinct at the back of his brain gave him a start. He shook himself out of his stupor, tried to move his hands and realised he could hardly feel them.


    It was time, then.


    Huffing breath into his hands to warm them, Mekka stood up stiffly, shaking ice out of his wings and hair. For a moment he hesitated, taking a final look at the pyre and his friend pacing around it, lost in his grey hood and cloak and the numbing ritual.


    Ferrian was no longer a boy; he was the last true sorcerer, now. Arzath had taken him far, but his path from here was all his own, and the dawn would be a long time coming.


    But he could take care of himself. He was the Master of Winter. He possessed a Sword that could affect reality in ways that hadn¡¯t yet been put to the test.


    Ferrian had a future, whatever that turned out to be. Whatever he made it to be.


    Forcing himself to turn away, Mekka gathered his belongings ¨C his bow and quiver and small pack ¨C and secured them all in place. He tightened the daggers at his belt. Then he hugged himself, sighed his breath out in a white cloud, shoved his hands in his armpits, and headed out to meet the endless darkness.


    He had only gone about ten steps when the White Dragon appeared in front of him.


    In spite of himself, Mekka jumped, almost tripping on debris hidden in the snow, but caught himself in a half-crouch, hands at once on his daggers.


    The Dragon stared down at him, her massive head filling his vision, horns as clear as ice-cave crystal, eyes like polished holes reflecting the night. The flames from the pyre danced in them, twisting and taunting. Her mother-of-pearl scales glowed with a peculiar inner light like something from the deep sea; a giant glorious phantom in the blackness, the Goddess of Winter herself, huge and sad and majestic.


    Mekka realised he had stopped breathing. Carefully he straightened, keeping his hands warily on his weapons. As far as he was aware, the Dragon disdained violence, but the Angel was prepared to fight anything that stood in his way, if it came to that.


    ¡°Stand aside, Dragon,¡± he said finally, in a low voice.


    The Dragon regarded him, snow falling quietly around them.


    You seek to leave.


    The voice spoke straight into his mind, clear as a bell. Once again, Mekka was taken aback: the Dragon had never spoken to him so personally before.


    What of it? he challenged her back. I answer to no one.


    You would abandon your friendship with Ferrian so readily?


    Mekka swallowed and set his jaw, forcing back a sudden flood of emotion. ¡°It is¡­ already lost.¡±


    The Dragon stared at him.


    The Angel turned and walked away from her intense gaze, her judgement worse than that from the Seraphim. But again, he found his way blocked; a huge paw stretched out almost languidly, like a cat¡¯s, talons flexing and carving furrows into the snow.


    Mekka halted. He could fly away, of course. But he had no doubt that the Dragon would swat him down like a mosquito.


    He whirled on her, eyes flaring. ¡°You should never have rescued me!¡± he burst out bitterly. ¡°But since you took it upon yourself to do so, at least let me correct my mistake!¡±


    The Dragon said nothing.


    ¡°Dammit, Dragon! What happened here is my fault! She was supposed to be my responsibility! I left her in the Freeroamer¡¯s care! I thought her secure: I thought her safe! I¡­¡±


    I forgot about Carmine, his thought finished, crushingly. I was so obsessed with my own guilt, my own need for death, that I forgot anything else mattered¡­


    His legs collapsed of their own accord. Tears trickled down his face, hot against his frozen skin. ¡°Now she¡¯s a¡­ a demon...¡± He shook his head, closing his eyes against the pain of his own words. ¡°I must kill her. I must do so before Ferrian finds out. Before she murders anyone else. He will not forgive me¡­ for this.¡± He let out a choked sob.


    ¡°Angel Child.¡± The voice rang in the night with melodic sorrow. ¡°You must not leave.¡±


    He looked up at her.


    The Dragon said nothing more, simply looked down at him for a long, long moment. The gaze of a Dragon was unfathomable to him, full of ancient secrets, but there was something regretful about it, something terribly fateful.


    It sent a chill through Mekka, deeper and far more lasting than the icy air that clutched at him.


    The Dragon turned away then, sliding her paw from his path, pushing herself to her feet. As she walked away, she limped heavily, her left back leg dragging through the snow. The scales there were dead and unglowing, as grey and flaky as old stone.


    Mekka got to his feet in sudden, horrified realisation. ¡°You¡¯re leaving!¡± he exclaimed aloud.


    The Dragon did not reply. Her glow diminished as she retreated into the darkness, her long spiked tail slithering after.


    ¡°You¡­ you can¡¯t!¡± Mekka ran forward a few steps. ¡°Dragon, you cannot leave! Ferrian needs you!¡± He tried to throw the hypocrisy of her words back in her face, but they flew around and stung him, instead. ¡°Dragon!¡±


    Goodnight, Angel Child. May the stars be ever bright.


    Then she was gone, vanished like the fading moon in the mist, leaving the black-winged Angel staring after her, lost for words.

 Chapter One Forty

    The last one stands, amid the snow


    A Sword to use, to test, to know.


    Morning arrived with grim reluctance, the black velvet hood of night slipping away to reveal the pallid visage of a frozen day. Sun and sky remained hidden beyond a layer of listless cloud. One or two sounds made tentative intrusions upon the deeply packed silence; a mournful bird called, far off in the forest, answered a few seconds later by another. Then the hush returned, as though even that small disturbance was a blasphemy upon the wasted mausoleum of the ruined clearing.


    Ferrian awoke more slowly still, his body dragging him from mindless, dreamless oblivion into the light. He resisted, wanting to sink back into nothingness, but thoughts and sensations gathered like tiny creatures scrabbling inside his skull, until they could no longer be ignored.


    He was lying on the cold ground, but he made no effort to get up. It was some time before he bothered to open his eyes. When he did, his blurred and groggy vision saw only charred wood and smouldering ash.


    Lord Arzath was dead.


    An empty sickness rolled through him. He had known this was coming, of course. But the knowledge was bitter consolation.


    Groaning, he rolled over onto his back, gazing up at the pale, uncaring face of the sky. It wasn¡¯t as though he and Arzath had been close: they hadn¡¯t even liked each other. But for all his callousness and cruelty, his master had never caused Ferrian any real harm. He had shared his knowledge of magic freely, indeed insistently, as though determined that his student learn absolutely everything there was to learn, all at once.


    At first, Ferrian had felt overwhelmed, confused and resentful, until he came to realise that this was just Arzath¡¯s way. And underlying it all, there had existed a strange, unspoken bond between them, of shared grief for a man that both of them had hated, yet had influenced their lives in maddening and irrevocable ways that they had only belatedly come to understand.


    Requar¡¯s death had affected them both more deeply and painfully than either wished to admit.


    Ferrian forced back a tightness in his throat that threatened tears. Now Arzath was gone as well. Any remaining questions Ferrian might have wanted to ask were forever without answers.


    And now it is just me.


    The last sorcerer.


    Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his muscles. Reaching out, he grabbed his Sword and used it to push himself up.


    He looked around for Mekka and the Dragon, but they were nowhere to be seen.


    Ferrian¡¯s breath puffed out before him in a sigh. It wasn¡¯t unusual for either of them to go missing for lengthy periods of time. Hobbling over to a rock scarred with blackened lichen, he sat down on it, wincing. His legs and feet ached from walking in circles all night, and he felt abominably tired: the Vigilance ritual had taken a lot out of him.


    Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his temple, trying to think through a brain that seemed to have turned into thick porridge.


    Why had Arzath chosen this particular spot to finally end his long and terrible life? This lonely, random patch of forest? Had he taken the opportunity to do so because he was far enough away from the castle, and all other civilisation?


    Something monstrous had entered Castle Whiteshadow, had slaughtered poor Luca, and Arzath had fled along with Ferrian¡¯s guests. Had Arzath then abandoned them all, merely to destroy himself? Or¡­


    Opening his eyes, Ferrian stared at the distant, gnarled trees crowded around the edge of the clearing like pensive mourners at the scene of a tragedy.


    Or had this been some sort of a defence? A last stand, a final, desperate attempt to take his pursuer down with him?


    Was it... was it actually possible that Lord Arzath had been trying to protect the others, to provide a distraction so that they could get away?


    Ferrian¡¯s throat felt tight again. Will I ever know the answer to that? he thought sadly.


    He looked around the clearing again. There was little to be seen in any direction save a thick blanket of snow with the shattered, burnt carcasses of once venerable ancient trees protruding from it. If anyone else had fallen here with Arzath, their bodies were effectively hidden.


    He assumed that that was what Mekka was doing right now; searching for evidence, a trail, anything to indicate whether anyone might have escaped Arzath¡¯s Fatalis spell.


    Ferrian sighed and closed his eyes again. There was nothing to do but wait until his Angel friend returned.


    Ferrian woke with a start, to a world that was considerably greyer than it had been. An icy wind had picked up, blowing the snow into drifts that covered his feet and the end of his Sword, which was still gripped loosely in his right hand. Peculiarly, there was a bare circle around the site of Arzath¡¯s ashes, the Winter avoiding that spot as though in deference.


    The clouds overhead were slate grey, swirling sluggishly. The pure white snow around Ferrian almost seemed to glow in the murky, twilight gloom.


    Ferrian blinked the bleariness out of his eyes: he must have dozed off. Night was drawing in.


    There was no White Dragon.


    And no Mekka.


    He stood up abruptly and cursed as he almost fell into the snow.


    His feet were numb. Sitting back heavily onto the rock, he shook the ice off his boots and placed his hands on first one leg, then the other, taking some time to carefully draw the cold out of his extremities.


    Ferrian might have regained control over the Winter, but he wasn¡¯t immune to its effects. It was a dangerous, unwieldy beast, and he could succumb to it just like any other person. That had already been put to the test four years ago, he reminded himself soberly, when the Winter had killed him.


    It had killed a lot of other people too, whilst he had been wrapped up in its trance.


    I must not become complacent like I once did, he thought, shivering with the memory. I must be aware of its power at all times.


    When he was done with the spell, and could move his toes and fingers freely, he stood up again, more slowly this time. Retrieving his Sword, he held it tightly. Wind whipped his grey cloak around, and there was a strange, tight knot in his stomach.


    Something felt¡­ wrong.


    It wasn¡¯t just that Arzath was dead or that his companions were missing, or that the Winter was oddly agitated. There was an ominous sense to the air, as though the rapidly descending darkness was bringing with it something terrible¡­


    He threw out a Mind Sweep, turning in a full circle, scanning as far into the forest as he could.


    He saw nothing. Absolutely nothing at all ¨C not even birds, or mice.


    That¡­ wasn¡¯t right.


    A terrifying thought occurred to him, then.


    What if the monster ¨C the demon-wraith ¨C whatever it was, what if¡­


    What if Lord Arzath hadn¡¯t killed it??


    Letting his Mind Vision fade away, Ferrian continued to search the darkness for any glimpse of a shadow, blacker than black, that might be lurking on the edge of the clearing, watchful.


    But he saw only swirling snow and the restless shifting of the trees.


    He shook his head in denial, even as his heart beat rapidly and the first stirrings of panic fluttered in his gut.


    No, he thought determinedly, trying to reason with his fear. It was not possible that the wraith was still here. It couldn¡¯t have¡­ it could not have got to Mekka and the Dragon. The Dragon would have raised an alarm. He would have heard her scream¡­


    And yet¡­


    Where were they??


    Ferrian began to pace up and down, his boots scrunching in the snow, his Sword a liquid silver gleam at his side. He wasn¡¯t aware of how tightly he was gripping it until his hand began to hurt.


    Looking down at it, he stopped in shock.


    Black mist was leaking out of the trigonic dagger, twisting and warping to avoid coming into contact with the glittering silver mist wafting from the Sword. Ferrian stared at the twin vapours, mesmerised, ignoring the throbbing ache in his hand, then suddenly looked up.


    There was still nothing out there to be seen. No demon-wraiths, no terrible and beautiful silvertine Angel ghosts.


    Nothing.


    What, then??


    In frustration, he looked back at his Sword. What was¡­?


    He went very still then, all of a sudden, as realisation buffeted him with the wind.


    It wasn¡¯t a warning.


    It was¡­


    Beckoning??


    It wants me to use it! Ferrian thought in astonishment. The throbbing in his hand grew stronger, making him wince. Perhaps it was a trick of the dim light, but the dagger embedded in the hilt seemed to move, to liquefy. He thought he could feel its influence, coldly seeping through his skin, into his bones and blood, travelling up his arm and into his thoughts, a seductive, chilling whisper.


    You can change things, it breathed.


    You do not have to accept this reality¡­


    It was the very thing he had vowed never to do, from the moment he had become aware of the immense power the Sword of Mirrors held within it. He had thought such a power obscene, and had tried valiantly to be responsible with its use.


    But his resolve was crumbling now under a siege of confusion, fear, anguish and fatigue, and his shoulders slumped, the Sword slicing into the snow.


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    What did it matter, any more? If all of his friends truly were gone¡­ then what else did he have to lose? What could he possibly do to this world to make it worse than it already was?


    And what if there was a chance to make it better?


    I have to know the true potential of this Sword, he thought. At some point, I HAVE to test it, have to know what it is capable of, otherwise, I¡¯m just a clueless kid waving a dangerous magic stick around!


    Was he a sorcerer, or wasn¡¯t he?


    Before Ferrian quite knew what he was doing, his feet were carrying him onto the bare, leaf-strewn circle of ground surrounding the undisturbed ashes of the pyre.


    It was oddly calm here. Snow continued to dance around the circumference of the circle, but inside it, Ferrian¡¯s cloak fell still and the wind seemed distant, and the air felt warm, as though he had stepped into a peaceful dwelling.


    He looked down at the ash.


    Slowly, he lowered his Sword point downward into it, positioning both of his hands firmly around the hilt. Then he took a deep, steadying breath, closed his eyes and concentrated.


    As usual, his consciousness split in two, so that he was partly aware of standing in the clearing with his Sword, and at the same time he was inside his Sword, in the middle of a vast hall of mirrors. This time, however, he didn¡¯t want to throw something into them: he wanted to bring something out.


    He wanted to merge another world with his own.


    Stretching his arms out to his sides ¨C a thousand reflections mimicking his action ¨C he slowly brought his hands together. In response, the mirrors moved; warping, melting into silvery puddles. Those puddles converged, shrinking as they did so until the whole of the mirrored space had coalesced into a single giant, swirling, gleaming sphere in the centre of endless darkness.


    For a moment, Ferrian almost forgot who and where he was. All versions of him ¨C of everything ¨C were inside the sphere, and he was outside of it: separate and mighty. A surge of euphoria flooded him, nearly overwhelmed him; it was as though he had suddenly been transformed into a God ¨C the God of all Gods ¨C and was standing at the centre of existence, with everything ever created ¨C or yet to be ¨C at his command. He could do whatever he wanted, shape this silver globe of infinite life however he pleased ¨C or indeed, destroy it utterly¡­ and there was no one to stop him.


    He laughed at the thrill of such a realisation, and his laugh caused silver globules to detach themselves from the sphere and burst like bubbles, causing nebulas of reality to bloom around him in breathtaking colours, teeming with life. Stars scattered themselves across the void like so much fine, glittering sand on a dark beach¡­ he felt that he could walk across them, scoop them up in his hands¡­


    Had he been a little less trained than he was, Ferrian might have been lost, then, absorbed into the vast, incomprehensible power of the Universe, obsessed with his own, glorious, fact of being. But the long hours of discipline kicked the back of his brain, reminding him of his essential Human-ness, his smallness, that one minuscule speck of dust in infinity that was nevertheless impossibly important¡­ Regaining perspective was difficult; it was devastating. The part of himself that was Godlike resisted, howled at the knowledge of his frailty, his insignificance¡­


    But Ferrian had learned how to accept his own power, his whole self, no matter how terrifying or wondrous it might seem.


    An awareness of himself standing in the clearing with his Sword returned. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the tight feeling of heartache in his chest, he forced his consciousness back together, bringing his Godlike Self like a burning piece of the sun with him.


    When he opened his eyes, the clearing was silver.


    Spreading out all around him was a reflective plain, lumpen with the shapes of fallen trees and rocks, like a warped mirror. The sky overhead was a featureless dark grey, with no moon, stars or clouds.


    And rising between quicksilver ground and empty sky was the ghost of a forest.


    Huge myrtles surrounded Ferrian, pale and translucent, lifting once more from their shiny stumps. Their mighty, gnarled boughs intertwined with the other trees of the forest, which crowded round like an army of inquisitive grandparents. As Ferrian watched, things... changed in a curious way. Trees disappeared, only to reappear somewhere else; bushes and ferns and flowers were there, and then weren¡¯t. Animals ran about, vanishing or changing into something else mid-leap; birds were glowing, flickering smears upon the twilight air, their songs haunting echoes in his mind.


    Ferrian waited, wonderstruck and silent.


    People appeared, briefly and randomly, and were gone again. Hunters stalking with bare feet, clad in nothing but furs and drawing back sturdy bows¡­ a group of a dozen robed and hooded figures, all clutching long swords, who converged around Ferrian in a circle, chanting¡­ Centaur children, frolicking in the dappled shadows¡­


    Many more, people and creatures and even buildings, the shades of a hundred other worlds passed by, flickering in and out of existence. They were colourless and ethereal, yet all as real as each other.


    Ferrian¡¯s Godlike Self raged with impatience, and he concentrated harder.


    And there he was, quite suddenly, striding out of the trees to Ferrian¡¯s left, all misty white but clearly recognisable.


    Lord Arzath.


    Ferrian watched the sorcerer pause just in front of him, discarding his cloak and gloves, contemplating the circle of ancient myrtles for long moments. Then he moved purposefully to the edge of the clearing, held out a hand and walked slowly around the circumference, enclosing the clearing in a ring of bright runes that glowed upon the ground.


    When it was finished, he surveyed his work, then returned to the centre and knelt there, quietly waiting.


    There followed a long pause, in which nothing happened. The image of Arzath flickered now and then into different positions: sometimes kneeling, sometimes standing, sometimes pacing around, but always in the same approximate spot. Ferrian¡¯s Godlike Self flared again, and he willed the scene to progress more quickly.


    Finally, there was further movement within the ghostly trees. Another figure approached the clearing, from the same direction Arzath had arrived. It was a woman with shoulder-length hair, clad in something pitch black beneath an oversized military long coat. Ferrian didn¡¯t recogni--


    Wait.


    The whole scene shimmered precariously, going dark as a bolt of shock passed through Ferrian¡¯s veins.


    Carmine Vandaris.


    The women the Freeroamers were supposed to have locked up at the Guard House.


    Hawk¡¯s fianc¨¦e.


    Sirannor¡¯s daughter.


    Mekka¡¯s secret love¡­


    Ferrian¡¯s Godlike Self surged with anger and ecstasy, wanting to rip the woman to shreds. He struggled to keep it under control, while a flood of different emotions and questions rushed through him in a torrent of disbelief.


    No, no, he couldn¡¯t answer them right now, he had to regain concentration...


    With great effort, he forced himself to look down at his hands gripped on his Sword, and  His Godlike Self and other emotions subsided, though the allure of Universal power lingered within tantalising reach of his consciousness.


    He did not want to witness the rest of the scene, but he had to. He had to know exactly how and why Lord Arzath had died.


    Those questions, at least, were soon answered.


    Once the scene had stabilised again, Ferrian steeled himself as he watched Carmine advance to the ring of protective runes and stop. She exchanged a few words with Arzath, though their conversation was a dim echo that Ferrian couldn¡¯t quite make out. Then she stepped across the ring as though it was nothing and held out a hand. A monstrous blade grew from it like an extended limb, and she attacked Arzath.


    There followed a breathtaking fight. Arzath used his magic, bombarded the clearing with lightning bolts, but it was completely ineffectual. Carmine slashed at him with quick, agile, expert movements. Having no weapon of his own, the sorcerer could do nothing else but dodge.


    Ferrian could only watch, holding back horror.


    Then, unexpectedly, a third figure appeared from out of the trees.


    Lady Araynia??


    Horror was replaced with sheer astonishment. She was carrying a long, exquisite blade, instantly recognisable as a Sword of the Gods by the black and white snakes curling around the hilt.


    There were no other Swords of the Gods beside his own Sword of Mirrors, except, obviously...


    What¡­??


    Again, pushing aside the absurdity, he watched the scene progress.


    Araynia lingered for a moment, watching the battle, clearly as horrified as Ferrian was. Then, quite suddenly, she darted forward and swung her Sword at Carmine.


    It was a clumsy swing, carving a low arc through the woman¡¯s right leg, though the limb remained unharmed, enhancing Ferrian¡¯s disbelieving suspicion. Part of Carmine¡¯s black armour fell away and melted.


    Carmine rounded on Araynia, furious.


    Ferrian¡¯s stomach quivered, but before Carmine had a chance to attack the noblewoman, Arzath activated his Fatalis spell.


    White light engulfed the scene, brighter than anything imaginable, though dimmed for Ferrian by time and magic. When it subsided, the clearing was in its current ruined state, and three bodies lay on the ground.


    There was another long, ominous pause.


    Only Arzath was lying here, the thought travelled through Ferrian¡¯s mind. Something else must have happened¡­


    He continued watching.


    To his immense relief, Lady Araynia stirred and got up, though she looked in bad condition. That she survived a Fatalis at all was a miracle¡­ He watched her stagger over to Arzath and try to use her Sword on him.


    It IS the Sword of Healing! Ferrian thought, astounded.


    The Sword didn¡¯t work, however. Araynia collapsed, sobbing. The ghost of her crying was heart-wrenching, echoing through eternity.


    Then Carmine slowly sat up, and hugged herself, looking bewildered. Araynia stared at her for a minute, then bolted into the forest.


    Carmine rocked back and forth on the ground for awhile, crying. Then finally, she got up, stared silently at Arzath¡¯s body, then limped into the forest after the girl.


    Nothing further happened.


    Ferrian waited.


    Nothing.


    No¡­ he physically shook his head. No, this is what DID happen. In just one reality!


    He felt his hands tightening on his Sword. But it didn¡¯t have to be like this!


    His Godlike Self filled him, blazing bright and eager, and he let it. His eyes glowed with light.


    He replayed the entire scene, from the beginning, but demanded a different version. This time, Carmine attacked and slew Arzath almost straight away, beheading him with her vicious black sword.


    No!


    Again.


    Carmine attacked, and they did battle as before. Carmine killed the sorcerer again, just as Lady Araynia showed up. She charged at the noblewoman, deftly dodged the swing of her Sword, and cleaved her horribly in two¡­


    No!!


    Ferrian replayed the scene several times more. Carmine slaughtered Arzath, or Araynia, or both, in every one.


    In another, after the Fatalis spell, all three of them remained sprawled and burnt on the ground, dead.


    In yet another, a fourth figure showed up.


    Ben.


    Carmine and Arzath did battle. Araynia attacked with her Sword, wounding Carmine¡¯s leg. Ben rushed forward with a silver dagger¡­


    The Fatalis spell erupted, and all four were knocked down.


    Only Ben climbed to his feet, this time. Seeing the fate of the others, he let out a cry of anguish, snatched up the Sword and rushed towards Carmine. He beheaded her just as she sat up, then fell to his knees, sobbing. After long moments, he stood, went to Araynia and pulled her up on his shoulder, then dragged her with him into the forest.


    Ferrian quivered. In this version, Carmine was dead¡­ but so was Arzath and perhaps Araynia as well.


    No.


    His Godlike Self was weakening; he could feel his energy rapidly dwindling. He wouldn¡¯t be able to sustain this magic for much longer. He could feel the cold bite of the Winter on his skin; the connection was fading¡­


    No, no¡­


    He tried to continue. He had glimpsed the Universe and it was infinite, there were many more realities to go through, he just had to find the right one¡­


    His Godlike Self surged hard and fast and incandescent through the possibilities. Dozens more ghostly scenes flashed past, then scores, then hundreds¡­


    They were all as horrific as the first, or worse¡­


    His magic crashed without warning. A wave of intense dizziness blinded him and his Godlike Self lost its grip, screaming in a blaze of righteous fury, and Ferrian collapsed panting into soft ash. He tried to push himself back up, but his muscles wouldn¡¯t respond and he spiralled into oblivion.


    When next he awoke, it was to a bright, silver-white gleam. At once, Ferrian thought he was back in the Hall of Mirrors, or the Universal Void, but he didn¡¯t feel like an Almighty Being. Quite the opposite, in fact. Blinking, the gleam gradually came into focus.


    It was his Sword, its power spent, reflecting the moonlight, rising above him like a cold totem.


    Realising his failure, he closed his eyes, despair swallowing him.


    Remembering what it was he was lying in, Ferrian forced himself to his knees. The air was still and warm, and strangely heavy, and the sky was clear, revealing a pristine slice of moon and stars that now seemed like expensive jewels, far out of his reach.


    His face was wet, and he wiped it with his hand.


    Tears. They trickled down through the ash stuck to his cheeks.


    He had felt so powerful. He had found out what his Sword was capable of, and it was both frightening and exhilarating, as he had expected. He knew he could have changed things, but he had found no reality in which Lord Arzath survived past this clearing.


    The sorcerer was supposed to die here. He had wanted to die.


    Perhaps Lady Fate had the final say, after all. Perhaps, as Godlike as he was, he was a mere child compared to her.


    I know I can do it! his mind rebelled stubbornly. I¡¯ll try again. I¡¯ll rest, recover my energy, then try again¡­


    But how long would that take? He could try for days, or weeks, or years, and still never bring Arzath back¡­


    His stomach clenched suddenly in nauseating pain, and he gasped, doubling over. It wasn¡¯t his dire thoughts that had triggered it, though, it was something else¡­


    Confused, he looked around, but there was nothing to be seen but patches of melting snow amid the charred, moon-washed wreckage of trees. Cold crept over him, then, and it was not the Winter returning. It was not the crisp, invigorating cold of ice, but the chill of a fever, the sweat of a nightmare¡­


    A shadow passed over his Sword, dimming it to steel grey. Slowly, Ferrian looked up.


    An immense black thing sailed in absolute silence over his head, blocking out the night sky. Ferrian saw a mass of gigantic, jumbled shards like metal, the moonlight sliding over their lethal edges. A single long shard, a hundred feet long, protruded from the underside of the thing, its knife-like point ending only two feet off the ground. As the shard passed in front of Ferrian, only a yard or so away, he saw his own reflection in its polished, oil-dark surface, leering at him strangely¡­


    Without a thought Ferrian leapt to his feet, grabbed his Sword and swung it with all his might at the shard¡­


    The Sword bounced off with a loud ringing sound and a shower of white sparks, sending Ferrian reeling.


    Ferrian stared at it, eyes going wide in disbelief.


    As the thing continued moving slowly across the clearing, completely unmarred by his attack, Ferrian looked up again, and up even further, craning his neck. Far above the twisted mass of metal ¨C of trigon ¨C a smooth-sided, perfect triangular shape came into view¡­


    The Black Pyramid.


    The thing that had toppled Caer Sync onto the Angel city of Fleetfleer.


    The thing that had spilled an entire Pit of trigon into the northern ocean, creating whale-wraiths and demon fish and gods-knew-what else¡­


    It was here.


    Ferrian did the only sensible thing he could think to do in that moment.


    He turned and ran.

 Chapter One Forty One

    A killer loose, and dead ahead


    Or imperilled friend, instead?


    Mekka sat on a mossy log, brooding. The sun was low on the horizon, sending long streamers of misty light through the woods. A cloud of mosquitoes danced erratically nearby; around his black boots were scattered dozens of tiny purple orchids. The forest was brimming with life, shimmering leaves and a warm, golden-green glow.


    He had passed beyond the Winter¡¯s influence. Somewhere behind him lay a cold, blasted wreckage: the violent end of a violent life.


    Except that he hadn¡¯t really left the Winter behind, he reflected moodily. He was carrying it with him.


    He put his face in his hands, overwhelmed with grief and shame. He had a responsibility to put an end to Carmine. It had been he who had convinced the Freeroamers to keep her at the Guard House, at the entire town¡¯s expense. He had organised the elaborate set of locks that bound her cell. He couldn¡¯t fathom how she had escaped ¨C he had taken great care to see to it that that wasn¡¯t possible. No-one could have let her out, even if she had convinced them to; only Mekka knew where the keys were hidden, only he understood how to operate the complicated mechanism.


    Or was it more simple than that? Had she become truly wraith-like, turned to smoke and slipped through the bars?


    However she had achieved it, the consequences were likely to have been dire. Mekka was in no doubt that she had murdered others besides Luca and Lord Arzath. She must have killed at least some of the Freeroamers.


    And what of Everine, and Ben?


    And¡­ Hawk.


    An intense part of him was desperate to find her before she stole the souls of someone else. The thought pained him more than anything ever had, but he knew now that the woman he had befriended, trained and cared for deeply was gone. She was part of another era, a past that seemed so long ago that it felt like it belonged to someone else. Carmine Vandaris no longer existed ¨C she was a monster, now: he had finally come to accept that. For years he had watched her approach such a fate, had known it from the first moment he had found her on the Middle Isle, wearing the trigonic armour. And yet¡­


    He looked up at the sunset in despair. He understood why the White Dragon had left. She was infected and considered herself a danger to Ferrian and everyone else. She had chosen to distance herself, most likely taken herself back to her cave in the Snowranges. She knew that it would take Ferrian a long time to find her there.


    But she had trusted Mekka to look after him. She knew that the young sorcerer had no-one else to do so.


    The Angel sighed.


    I don¡¯t know how to be a friend.


    Every attempt at it so far had gone horribly wrong.


    He closed his eyes. His chest and the still-tender wound in his side ached with an old pain.


    Aari¡¯Zan.


    He had walked away from a friend before ¨C his first and best friend ¨C and¡­ and look what had happened.


    Sometimes it felt as though his entire life was a series of catastrophes, one after another. And there was still no end to them!


    For long moments, he sat in stillness while the warmth of the sun gradually faded. When he opened his eyes again, he knew, heart sinking with the day¡¯s end, the decision he had to make.


    The Dragon was right; he could not walk away from a friend again. Not ever again. No matter the consequences. Even if Ferrian ended up hating him, as Aari had done.


    His dark green eyes shimmered with tears. Swallowing heavily, he blinked them away before they could take hold. Leaping to his feet, he spun, launched himself off the mossy log and shot away into the darkening forest.


    Night had fallen dramatically by the time Mekka approached the clearing. The sky was dazzlingly clear and full of stars; a scythe moon gilded the tops of the trees with silver. Not a breath of wind stirred, save the soft rush of black feathers as the Angel passed close above the ancient boughs.


    The sky was so beautiful that Mekka would have been taken aback ¨C except that something else drew his attention.


    Something exceedingly odd, blocking out a large swathe of the stars.


    He had noticed it from some distance away, but could at first make no sense of what he was seeing. The Barlakk Mountains loomed ahead to his left, white-tipped and sharp like the jaw of an immense beast, stark in the moonlight. Beside them was something like a dark, pointed outcropping, rising up out of the sea of trees.


    Mekka frowned. He had not noticed any such geological feature on the way here; it didn¡¯t look like something that he could have missed¡­


    Cold nausea hit him like a gust of frigid air, raising the hairs all over his body, so sudden that he gasped. A crowd of indistinct whispers invaded his ears, floating into him out of the night ether, eerily familiar as though he ought to know who the voices belonged to, but couldn¡¯t quite remember. It was as though the stars themselves were trying to speak to him¡­


    For a fleeting moment, panic gripped him, and a wild desire to flee. He floundered in the air, disoriented. Then his eyes widened as the Seraphim¡¯s vision flooded unbidden into his mind.


    ¡­and now Mekka was staring at the black city on fire, the elegant flower-like buildings shattered, the dead lights spitting sparks into the air. From the centre of the destruction, within a boiling column of smoke a huge object could be glimpsed ¨C as though the rubble of the city had re-formed itself into a jagged mass topped with a dark, sleek pyramid. It rose slowly, turning as it did so to reveal lights rippling across its smooth sides like electric water and a large, brilliant blue semblance of an eye¡­


    The Black Pyramid!


    Had it followed Ferrian all the way from Arkana?


    No, he realised with a sudden shock of realisation. An extremely powerful spell had been cast here, a huge outpouring of magic. Could Arzath¡¯s Fatalis have drawn the Pyramid, like a hungry wraith seeking to devour the source of such bright and blazing power?


    If so, then Ferrian was in incredible danger¡­


    Gritting his teeth, trying to ignore the insistent whispers, Mekka sped on over the forest.


    He reached the edge of the clearing a few minutes later, and dropped into a crouch on the top branch of a tree. Before him, once again, spread a wide black circle of wasted forest, its floor stubbled with burned and shattered stumps and branches. The Winter had dissipated; only a few patches of bright, rapidly melting snow remained dotted about.


    The Black Pyramid hung suspended in the air above the clearing, fully revealed like a majestic and terrible sculpture, both jagged and sleek; otherworldly.


    Mekka couldn¡¯t help but stare in mingled horror and awe.


    A giant light, shaped like an electric blue eye, winked suddenly into existence on one smooth black side of the Pyramid, facing him. It caught his gaze and fixed it there, pinning him like an insect. The voices became louder, almost deafening. There was a discordant, melodic tone to them, like a weird chant that drummed a rhythm in his mind, and the eye blazed into him, setting his soul alight with blue fire¡­


    A flash of silver caught the edge of his vision, and he tore his eyes away from the Pyramid. There was a series of bright gleams below him. He watched them for a long, dazed moment before realising that it was Ferrian, slashing his Sword at something.


    Springing into the air, Mekka folded his wings and fell into a dive.


    Ferrian¡¯s Sword cut long, gleaming arcs through the moonlight, trailing silver and black mist as it swung this way and that. Black spikes had erupted out of the ground all around him, barring his way; a shiny and lethal forest. The spikes twisted into tentacles, lashing at him from all directions like snakes. Unlike the giant shard of the Pyramid, his Sword cut through them easily, dissolving them into clouds of inky mist, but new ones kept replacing them.


    Gritting his teeth, he spun and demolished a spike that struck at him from behind, his grey cloak whirling. He panted with the effort, tiring quickly, not yet fully recovered from his failed attempt to master his Sword. His arms ached and his legs felt shaky. His Winter had fled, and sweat trickled over his skin beneath his clothes. Every swing of his Sword felt harder than the last.


    He had no magic left to banish anything. Only the pure silvertine was keeping him alive.


    Dammit, he thought in dismay. I¡¯m not going to survive this¡­


    He didn¡¯t know what the hell that giant Pyramid thing was, and had no time to consider why it was here.


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    All he knew in this moment was that it was trying to kill him.


    He cut down another tentacle, then another: but this time, stumbled and fell to his knees with the effort. His weariness saved him as a third spike shot past his head, almost grazing his cheek.


    His heart hammered crazily in fright. The barest scrape from one of those things was enough to doom him¡­


    But his arms felt like lumps of lead; his Sword had dropped into the ash and he could barely lift it¡­


    His shoulders slumped; he felt light-headed. The tentacles swayed around him like a ghoulish creature that had ensnared its prey.


    Ferrian let out a last sigh. I can¡¯t¡­


    And then something exploded into his sight in a whirl of black feathers and blazing silver blades. It danced around him, nimble as a shadow, and black tendrils disappeared into swathes of coiling mist in its wake.


    Ferrian gasped. Mekka!


    The black-winged Angel spun around him with impossible athletic grace, and in seconds the entire mass of spikes was gone, and only Mekka was left crouching there, his raven wings gilded with moonlight and twin silvertine daggers extended.


    He rose, sheathed his weapons and came at once to Ferrian¡¯s side. ¡°Ferrian! Are you alright?¡±


    Exhausted, Ferrian nodded.


    Seeing his expression, Mekka frowned. ¡°You don¡¯t look alright.¡±


    Ferrian gave him a wry smile. ¡°I¡¯m alive, aren¡¯t I? Isn¡¯t that good enough?¡±


    Snorting, Mekka took his arm and helped him to his feet, then glanced up at the Pyramid.


    Ferrian looked up as well. A vast black wreck of shards rose above them into the night. Much higher up, like a second moon, glowed a bright blue light.


    Staring down at them.


    Ferrian shuddered. The Pyramid remained motionless. Nothing moved on its surface or in the clearing around them. Everything was deathly still.


    ¡°We have to get out of here,¡± Mekka said grimly.


    Ferrian turned back to him. ¡°You don¡¯t need to tell¡ª¡± He gave a start, taking an involuntary step backwards.


    Something extraordinary had appeared to encompass his friend¡¯s head; a kind of elaborate, ethereal headdress made of electric blue light. It somewhat resembled the helmets worn by the Sky Legion, though this one was vastly more impressive, adorned with six elegant feathered wings ¨C the largest pair reaching upwards imperiously on each side, at least two feet into the air, with two smaller pairs of wings fanned out below. Suspended in between the wings was a strange, delicately thin metallic ring, rotating slowly on all its axes, reflecting the blue light in circular arcs.


    Almost too stunned to move, Ferrian forced his arm to lift and point at Mekka. ¡°What,¡± he whispered, ¡°is that?¡±


    Mekka looked all about himself and then at Ferrian in confusion. ¡°What is what?¡±


    Gripping the hilt of his Sword with both hands, Ferrian swung it upright so that Mekka could see his reflection in its polished surface.


    Letting out a strangled gasp, the Angel leaped backwards like a kicked animal. He scrabbled at his head, messing up his hair, and spun around in circles like a crazed thing, kicking up clouds of dust. Finally he hunched on the ground, pale and panting, his dark eyes wide.


    The eerie headgear had vanished.


    For a moment they were both still and silent, shocked.


    Ferrian glanced up again at the looming, ominous Pyramid, but nothing had changed. ¡°What¡­ what¡¯s happening?!¡±


    Mekka looked down at his hands, which were visibly shaking. He seemed to struggle with his emotions. ¡°I¡­ I know why it¡¯s here,¡± he said, his voice barely above a whisper, so that Ferrian had to move closer to hear. ¡°The Black Pyramid. I know what it wants!¡±


    Slowly, he rose to his feet and ran his hands through his hair, stared at them again as though contaminated with something horrible, then gesticulated wildly at the burnt ash that was Arzath¡¯s pyre. ¡°It didn¡¯t come here for him,¡± he went on, half to himself, as though revelations were throwing themselves into his face. ¡°Or you! It didn¡¯t come here for magic at all!¡±


    All of a sudden he spun, gripping Ferrian¡¯s arms, his eyes full of dark terror as they bored into Ferrian¡¯s: ¡°It came here for ME!¡±


    Ferrian just stared at him, the words passing through his weary mind and leaving no comprehension in their wake. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    Mekka searched his face, as though desperate for him to understand. ¡°The Seraphim showed me a vision!¡± he continued. ¡°When I was trapped in the Sanctuary at Caer Sync! They showed me a city in the sky full of ancient black-winged Angels, and a Black Pyramid rising from it! The Angels wore head pieces exactly like what you just showed me!¡±


    Ferrian took a deep breath, wondering if he had, in fact, changed something with his Sword. This reality he was experiencing seemed to have twisted in on itself.


    ¡°Are you saying¡­¡± he shook his head in disbelief. ¡°Mekka, are you trying to tell me you¡¯re an Ancient?¡±


    The blood drained from the Angel¡¯s face, as though he hadn¡¯t truly believed it himself until Ferrian had spoken the words aloud.


    The spikes chose that moment to make another appearance, bursting out of the ground all around them in showers of ash and burnt wood, making them both jump.


    Mekka threw Ferrian roughly to the ground and crouched over him, black wings spread protectively, like a shield. Ferrian heard the shing of his daggers unsheathing above his back.


    Ferrian gripped his Sword tightly, tensing for an attack. The tentacles swayed languorously around them, like weeds in a dark, loathsome sea, their gleaming surfaces twisting the moonlight into odd, sickening colours. He fought back another wave of cold nausea, breathing in the smell of scorched dirt and trying not to retch or faint again.


    But the spikes held their distance.


    Could it be true? Ferrian thought in awe, catching another glimpse of blue light reflected in his Sword. Could Mekka really be an Ancient?!


    ¡°I¡¯m going to clear a path,¡± the Angel¡¯s voice growled from above. ¡°As soon as you get a chance, run.¡±


    Ferrian shook his head at once. ¡°No. Mekka, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ferrian!¡± Mekka hissed. ¡°Just do it!¡±


    Ferrian sighed, wanting to argue, but he was too tired. Mekka, not waiting for him to respond, bounded over him and threw himself into the swarm of spikes.


    He watched with a mixture of fear and awe as Mekka whirled among the glistening trigonic mass. The blue head piece had reappeared, radiating a mysterious power, as though his friend were some wondrous fantastical combination of demon and Angel and something unfathomably alien¡­


    But this time, the spikes retreated from his assault; disappearing into the ground and reappearing somewhere else. No matter how swiftly Mekka slashed at them, the spikes evaded him, and did not strike.


    No such luck for Ferrian, however; a tentacle slipped past Mekka¡¯s blades and whipped out across the ground at him.


    With a gasp, Ferrian managed to roll aside and avoid it. Scrambling to his feet, he snatched up his Sword and cleaved it into mist, then parried two more spikes that lashed at him from the side.


    Then Mekka crashed into him, but instead of bearing him to the ground, Ferrian was carried aloft, over the tips of the grasping black tentacles. The Angel beat upwards steadily, speeding them away from the Pyramid, towards the forest.


    ¡°I told you to run!¡± Mekka snapped.


    Ferrian just shook his head stubbornly.


    The ravaged clearing passed below them in a wash of silver and black. The moon was like a blade overhead, but offered no assistance. There was no sound but Mekka¡¯s strained breathing and the heavy thump of his wings. Ferrian clung to him with one arm around his neck, the other grasping his Sword. He tried to look back to see what was happening with the Pyramid. It loomed behind them like a hill in the sky, its huge blue eye blazing horribly.


    ¡°Dammit, Dragon!¡± Ferrian cried aloud. ¡°Where are you? We could use your help right now!¡±


    There was no sign of her, no white wings beating against the stars, but the lack of a mental response frightened him most. ¡°Mekka!¡± he said. ¡°Have you seen the Dragon? Do you know where she¡¯s gone?¡±


    The Angel did not reply. He seemed all of a sudden to be struggling, panting as though the burden of carrying him was too much. Ferrian shook his head. ¡°Put me down!¡±


    They descended until they were low enough that Ferrian could drop to his feet. Mekka landed as well, but immediately staggered backwards, almost overbalancing as though something had yanked him from behind. With a gasp, he drew his daggers.


    Ferrian felt it as well. A strong force propelled him forwards, like a shove in the back, though no breath of wind stirred his hair or cloak, and the Winter was entirely absent. The force grew stronger, pulling at them both inexorably, as though they were caught in an invisible current.


    Mekka stabbed both his daggers into the ground and clung to them. ¡°The Pyramid!¡± he cried. ¡°It¡¯s pulling us back!¡±


    Fighting a surge of wild panic, Ferrian did the same with his own Sword, ramming it into the charred soil, wrapping his arms tightly around the hilt, feeling the strain rapidly increasing. ¡°Why?! What does it want with us?!¡±


    Mekka was grimacing with the effort of holding on. His impressive helmet had disappeared and there was a sheen of sweat on his face, his black hair sticking to it. ¡°Either I¡¯m an Ancient,¡± he replied, ¡°or that¡­ Pyramid thing¡­ thinks I am! You?¡± he shook his head. ¡°Perhaps it thinks¡­ you¡¯re a threat!¡±


    ¡°A threat? My Sword just¡­ bounced off it!¡±


    Mekka glared at him. ¡°You¡¯ve¡­ banished wraiths with it! You can¡­ alter reality, dammit! Use¡­ your magic!¡±


    Ferrian shook his head in exasperation. His chest hurt with the pressure, and his hands were slipping. He gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the ground, trying to brace his sliding boots. ¡°I¡­ tried already! Before that Pyramid showed up! It¡­ didn¡¯t work!¡± He shook his head again in despair. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter anyway¡­ I¡¯ve¡­ got no energy¡­ left!¡±


    There was a moment of silence, in which they both struggled futilely against the monstrous alien power that gripped them. The edge of the clearing lay just ahead, mere yards away, crowded with huge, elderly, moss-haired myrtle trees; mute witnesses to the peculiar battle. Ferrian stared at them in furious helplessness; he and Mekka would never have been able to get away, even if they had made it into the forest ¨C not without the Dragon¡¯s help. ¡°You¡­ tried?¡± Ferrian heard Mekka say, incredulously. ¡°What did you¡ª¡±


    He never finished the sentence. His daggers slipped free of the ash and, with a cry, the Angel tumbled away over the clearing, like a leaf tossed in a storm.


    ¡°No!¡± Distracted by Mekka¡¯s fate, Ferrian¡¯s Sword jerked free as well, and he was thrown heavily to the ground, bouncing in an undignified tangle after his friend.


    In a painful, chaotic whirl of bright stars and black ground, of bitter clouds of ash choking his mouth and eyes, Ferrian desperately clutched for anything he could hold; but everything was a charred husk and crumbled in his hand¡­


    His fingers brushed a rock, but he could get no purchase. He tried to jam his Sword in the ground, but his limbs flailed everywhere and it was all he could do to hold on to it¡­


    Blood and terror thundered through his body, along with a sudden rush of ice across his skin and flurry of snowflakes as his Winter instinctively awakened, trying to protect him. At any moment, he expected to be smashed to pieces or impaled on a gleaming black spike¡­


    And then the ground fell away, and the battering mercifully stopped, replaced with a soothing rush of wind in his ears. Relief soared through him, joyous but dropping like a stone into horror when he realised it wasn¡¯t Mekka who had dragged him into the sky this time.


    Twisting in midair, he saw that he was being pulled upwards by an invisible, silent power, towards the sheer black face of the Pyramid. Mekka was a short way ahead of him, flapping his wings in vain, equally helpless under the Pyramid¡¯s mighty influence.


    Struggling was useless. He could do nothing but let himself be carried higher ¨C dangerously high ¨C the massive nest of black shards passing beneath him.


    Ferrian was paralysed with terror, looking down into those angular, razor-edged chasms. All the Pyramid needed to do was drop him¡­


    It didn¡¯t. A huge triangular opening had materialised in one smooth, slanted side. There was nothing to be seen within it but impenetrable blackness.


    The blackness was so black it was like a solid object rather than a hole, like an unreal thing that shouldn¡¯t and couldn¡¯t exist. So black it absorbed all of his senses, all of his courage, his reason, his sanity¡­


    A kind of primeval terror clawed at the back of his mind. Something between a sob and a scream welled up inside him, but he couldn¡¯t tear his eyes away¡­


    The snowflakes that had been floating around him twisted and fled as he approached, as though repelled, and his skin prickled with something that was not frost, but far more repugnant¡­


    I have to do something, he thought frantically, desperately. I have to use my Sword, like Mekka said¡­ He had to scrape up some shred of his magic, no matter how pitiful, before it was too late¡­


    But he couldn¡¯t seem to move.


    Mekka was swallowed by the impossible maw of shadow. And then he, too, was consumed by it.


    In his panicked disorientation Ferrian managed to turn himself about, and found no longer a black hole, but instead a white-gilded triangular shape awash with stars, that shrank as he watched.


    Smaller and smaller it became, diminishing like a lovely jewel dropped into a well, until finally it was gone, and there was nothing but unending darkness drawing him and his Angel friend ever deeper into the unfathomable bowels of the Black Pyramid.

 Chapter One Forty Two

    A slow escape, but trouble grows


    A stranger met upon the road.


    The trees lining the road swayed in a restless wind, stirred into agitation by the passing of an indecisive Spring, who scattered petals petulantly in her wake and sent clouds skimming across the blue sky: some white and fluffy, some heavy-laden and grey. The oppressive heat of a few days before was washed away by frequent silvery showers that left the landscape glittering and chill in their wake, and puddles strewn across the muddy path.


    Along the road trailed a long line of refugees, their boots and cloaks dirty, their possessions meagre. They were largely silent save for the occasional cries and complaints of infants and children, their heads downcast, faces turned away from rain and sun alike, as they trudged towards an unknown fate.


    Some way behind the slowest of the survivors, a much smaller group ambled, their progress tediously slow with the need to stay discreet from the rest. They had been travelling for two days now and should have reached Hillbank, but were instead barely half way. Flint refused to increase their pace, insisting that they keep out of sight as much as possible ¨C avoiding attention was imperative if they were to get their two infected companions to safety. He assured Ben and Lady Araynia that they would make better speed once they passed the village, where he had decided not to stay due to the crowds, but to leave the highway and cut through the forest, heading directly south to Forthwhite.


    They were in need of supplies for such a long journey, however, so Flint was forced to hail a passing merchant or two to buy clothes, blankets and food. He starkly warned the traders ¨C and any other travellers that happened along ¨C of the grim tragedy that lay ahead on the road east; some took heed and hastily turned around, some simply ignored him and continued on regardless.


    Flint could do little but watch them go, shaking his head.


    Ben felt restless as he walked. The wind snapped at his cloak and tossed the mane of the silver mare beside him in all directions. A blanket had been tossed over her back, covering the two passengers slumped there, and tied down with rope.


    Ben didn¡¯t like this arrangement: it looked as though they were transporting corpses.


    ¡°That¡¯s the idea of it,¡± Flint had told him brusquely as he secured them in place. ¡°Should stop pesky folk stickin¡¯ their noses in. If anyone asks, these¡¯re two Freeroamers fallen in the course ¡®o duty, and we¡¯re takin¡¯ ¡®em back to Forthwhite for a proper burial.¡± Pulling his hat down on his head, he muttered: ¡°And ain¡¯t that half the truth...¡±


    Ben knew the reason, but it still made him uncomfortable to see them like that. Unlike Flint, he steadfastly believed that Hawk and Everine were not dead, and could yet be saved.


    He ought to feel lower in spirits than he did, he reflected, considering his sister was now infected with trigon in the same way that Hawk was. Of course, worry for her followed him around like a second cloak, constantly whispering at his back. But Lady Araynia¡¯s miraculous recovery had filled his heart with a surge of hope that outshone the shadows.


    The young noblewoman had been so near to death, yet had managed to use the Sword of Healing on herself, even while unconscious.


    If she can do that, Ben thought in fierce determination, she can do anything! He was more certain than ever that she would be able to heal Everine, and Sergeant Hawk, and anyone else who was sick or injured or infected with trigon.


    Lady Araynia really was a sorcerer!


    Ben glanced over his shoulder at the noblewoman.


    She trailed quietly at the back of their group. Her flimsy nightgown had been replaced with a simple linen blouse, brown skirt edged with yellow and red embroidered flowers, a good pair of boots, and a long cloak. Her hair was tied back in a rough bun, though the wind had pulled much of it loose to whip around her face. She seemed to be completely healed from her devastating burns: not a mark remained on her clear brown skin.


    And something about her had changed, subtly. Gone was the haunting despair that had crippled her with its cold fist since the terrible events at the castle; now she held herself a little straighter, and there was a resolute look to her expression. There was fear in her dark blue eyes ¨C none of them were free from that ¨C but she was refusing to let it overwhelm her. Something of the silent dignity and elegance of a noble lady had been restored to her.


    Ben tried not to stare at her in awe. He was burning to know what she had experienced after they had parted ways in the ancient forest ¨C and what had happened in the infirmary, too ¨C but he held his tongue, wishing to give her space.


    Lady Araynia had been through a lot.


    Now and then, though, he thought he heard soft sighs from behind him, and sounds of frustration, almost lost in the wind.


    Eventually, concern got the better of him. Handing the reins of the horse over to Flint, he dropped back to walk beside her.


    ¡°Um...¡± he ventured. ¡°Is... everything alright?¡±


    Araynia fidgeted with her sapphire pendant, a frown on her face, not looking at him. She didn¡¯t reply for so long that Ben was about to leave her in peace, when she said suddenly: ¡°My pendant won¡¯t respond.¡±


    Turning back, Ben stared at her quizzically.


    She looked at him, finally. ¡°This gemstone...¡± she hesitated, as though unsure how to explain what was bothering her. ¡°It¡­ it is of the same type set in the Sword of Healing,¡± she continued. ¡°Its magic is connected to the Sword. I should be able to use it to sense where the Sword is, but¡­¡± She looked back down at the stone. ¡°It no longer reacts to my touch.¡±


    Ben looked at her worriedly. ¡°You¡¯ve lost your magic?¡±


    Araynia shook her head. ¡°No. Not completely.¡± She stared ahead at Flint and the horse walking in front of them. ¡°I can still see¡­ the auras of things, if I concentrate hard enough. I feel that there is some magic still within me. But...¡± she ran her thumb over the smooth, glittering stone. ¡°The pendant is dead.¡±


    Ben thought for a moment, and shrugged. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re just tired.¡±


    Araynia shook her head again.


    ¡°Maybe¡­ you¡¯re too far away from the Sword?¡±


    Araynia looked at him. ¡°It called me all the way from Crystaltina.¡±


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    They walked on for a few minutes in silence.


    ¡°I fear...¡± Araynia said softly, ¡°that something has happened to the Sword.¡±


    Ben waved a hand dismissively. ¡°What could have happened to it? The Sword is indestructible! It¡¯s not as though the fire could have damaged it.¡±


    The noblewoman said nothing. Then, falteringly, she described what had happened in the infirmary.


    ¡°I¡­ threw the Sword at Carmine,¡± she said. ¡°It struck her. She screamed¡­¡± She closed her eyes, a shudder passing through her. ¡°The most terrible scream I have ever heard.¡±


    Ben felt goosebumps pass over him, as well. ¡°You killed her?¡±


    Araynia looked sad. ¡°I do not know.¡±


    Ben felt the goosebumps turn into something more unpleasant, a dark feeling in his gut. Both Mekka and Ferrian had explained to him what happened when silvertine came violently into contact with trigon. But he thought that now was probably not the best time to start mentioning holes being ripped in the fabric of reality. He swallowed, feeling slightly queasy.


    So, Carmine is either alive or dead or¡­ what??


    The only answers that came back to him were leering, and full of dread.


    Taking a deep breath, he shoved them aside. ¡°Well, whatever happened, Raemint will retrieve your Sword and bring it back to you,¡± he said confidently. ¡°She should catch up to us any day now!¡±


    Araynia said nothing. They continued their journey in troubled silence.


    On the fourth day out from Meadrun, the grey clouds won their battle for the sky. They settled themselves in, blocking the sun from view. The wind kept up, rushing through the forest in energetic gusts. The air grew colder, damper and clammy, and smelled of wet leaves and wet horse, but the rain held off for awhile.


    Flint¡¯s party stopped for lunch by a footpath that trailed off the main road into a stand of dense, shadowy pines. The path was a shortcut to Hillbank; some of the refugees had gone that way, others continued along the road.


    They ate a cold meal of hard biscuits and old cheese, sitting under the sheltering boughs of the trees, making no conversation: each keeping their thoughts to themselves. They had just finished packing up, ready to start down the muddy path into the forest, when a man approached them from out of the gloom.


    All three of them stepped aside to let him pass, but the stranger stopped as he reached them, giving an elegant bow. ¡°Good day, gentlemen, m¡¯lady!¡±


    The man was well-groomed and fashionably dressed, in a red brocaded waistcoat over a beige shirt and matching red trousers, knee-high, polished black boots and an expensive-looking green velvet cloak draped over one shoulder. Completing the ensemble was a wide-brimmed, floppy hat similar to Flint¡¯s but in much better condition, with one side pinned up and sporting an exotic flush of colourful, spectacular feathers.


    He carried nothing but a small rucksack slung over one shoulder.


    Flint leaned on the Eliminator, eyeing the man suspiciously. ¡°What d¡¯you want?¡± he said gruffly.


    The stranger was unfazed by the Freeroamer¡¯s rudeness. ¡°Ah!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°A fellow hat aficionado!¡±


    Flint took hold of his crossbow and hefted it up to point at the man.


    ¡°And a crossbow enthusiast, too!¡± He clasped his hands together. ¡°How delightful!¡±


    Flint¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I said,¡± he growled, ¡°state yer business, or git movin¡¯!¡±


    The man smiled benignly at them all, beneath a meticulous moustache. ¡°Ah, yes, my business.¡± He cleared his throat dramatically. ¡°To the point, then!¡±


    He pointed at the grey mare. ¡°That horse,¡± he declared, ¡°belongs to me.¡±


    A deep silence fell, disturbed only by the wind in the trees, and the ominous flick of the safety catch releasing on Flint¡¯s bow. The Freeroamer lifted the Eliminator higher, sighting down its length.


    ¡°I think you¡¯ll find,¡± the man went on patiently, undaunted, ¡°that her name is Mirrormere. It is inscribed on her harness.¡±


    Ben stepped up to the horse to check. She nuzzled his shoulder, wanting more food. Flint¡¯s gaze never left the strange man. Nor did he lower his crossbow, which glimmered between them like a huge, silvery bird of prey waiting to strike.


    ¡°Uh...¡± Ben said after a few moments. ¡°Flint. He¡¯s right.¡±


    Another awkward silence fell.


    Flint grunted as his shifted the Eliminator to his shoulder and dug in his pocket for a leather pouch, which he threw to Ben. ¡°Give the man a gruble.¡±


    Ben did as he was told, taking out a single large, gold coin and tossing it to the stranger, who caught it deftly.


    The man stood looking down at the coin, turning it over in his thin fingers.


    ¡°This horse has been requisitioned for use by the Freeroamers,¡± Flint stated. ¡°You got a problem with that, take it up with Commander Cairan at the Guard House.¡±


    The man pursed his lips. He looked at each of them carefully in turn, then finally back at Flint, and his smile returned. His teeth were disarmingly white and gleaming. ¡°Well!¡± he said, slipping the coin away in a pocket. ¡°This is a regrettable turn of affairs, but¡­ so be it! Farewell, then!¡±


    With a theatrical whirl he started to walk away, but suddenly, quick as a striking snake, his arm lashed out, spraying bright orange powder in one arc ¨C then two ¨C directly into their faces.


    Ben went to his knees at once, choking, gasping for breath as his lungs, nose and eyes filled with fire. Through blurry, deteriorating vision, he saw Flint crumple in a heap, then Araynia.


    Then he, too, plunged into searing, agonising blackness.


    Ben awoke groggily to the steady, soft patter of droplets on his face, and the scent of pine needles. His eyes stung when he forced them open, and his throat felt raw and parched. Swallowing painfully, he pushed himself up, brushed the needles and mud off his cheek, and tried to get his bearings.


    The rain had returned, though the thick canopy of the pine trees kept most of it at bay. Heavy shadows crowded around them, and Ben couldn¡¯t tell if it was mid-afternoon or evening. Flint was awake as well, peering dazedly about. The older man reached for his hat, pulling it towards him from where it had fallen, then suddenly froze and cursed hoarsely.


    The Eliminator was gone.


    As was the horse.


    And Hawk and Everine.


    And all of their supplies.


    And the strange man was nowhere to be seen.


    Leaping to his feet, Ben¡¯s hand went to the Angelican dagger at his side.


    Gone.


    He cursed, as well.


    Quickly, he went to rouse Lady Araynia. She woke with a start, coughing, and Ben helped her to sit up. Her hand went to her throat, only to find the pendant missing. She gasped, eyes going wide. ¡°Ben!¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Ben sighed, pulling his bandanna off in dismay. ¡°We¡¯ve been robbed.¡±


    Flint kicked a tree, showering them all with water, pine needles and a bombardment of pine cones.


    The Freeroamer paced furiously back and forth as Ben got up and crouched to examine the path. Despite Flint¡¯s tramping around, clear imprints of hooves and boots could be seen in the sodden ground. They led deeper into the forest.


    ¡°Well, he left in a hurry,¡± Ben said, ¡°not bothering to conceal his tracks.¡± He frowned. ¡°Surely, he¡¯s not heading for the village?¡±


    ¡°If he is,¡± Flint growled, ¡°he¡¯s as stupid as he looks. He won¡¯t sell the Eliminator there!¡±


    Ben knew what he meant. The Eliminator was an extremely distinctive weapon; one of a kind, in fact. There was hardly a person in the Outlands who wouldn¡¯t recognise it immediately as belonging to Sergeant Flint of the Freeroamers.


    The boy stared into the gloom of the pine forest in mingled fury and despair. Who was that man? And did that horse ¨C Mirrormere ¨C actually belong to him? Had this been a chance encounter, the man on his way to retrieve the mare, perhaps ¨C and had seized upon the opportunity to steal her back, robbing them of all their possessions as well for good measure??


    ¡°Why take Hawk and Everine?¡± he thought aloud.


    Flint stopped pacing. ¡°Hawk¡¯s got some mighty fancy armour, on ¡®im,¡± he said. ¡°And Everine¡­¡± he shook his head grimly. ¡°Prob¡¯ly dumped her somewhere out in the bush once he got a look at what she¡¯s infected with.¡±


    Ben stood up and re-tied his bandanna firmly. ¡°Well, let¡¯s get after them, then!¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± Flint replied. ¡°You kids head on to the town, I¡¯ll¨C¡±


    ¡°No way!¡± Ben cut him off, stepping forward. ¡°My sister is out there!¡±


    Araynia came and stood beside him. ¡°I want my pendant back!¡±


    Flint scowled. ¡°A squad of Freeroamers is gonna be comin¡¯ this way any minute now. Or Lieutenant Raemint will. Someone¡¯s gotta be here to tell ¡®em what happened!¡±


    Lady Araynia folded her arms defiantly. ¡°It is not going to be me!¡±


    Ben nodded in support. ¡°Araynia stood up to a demon-wraith,¡± he pointed out. ¡°Twice!¡±


    Flint put his hands on his hips. ¡°An¡¯ she had a magic Sword when she did it!¡±


    Ben waved a hand at him stubbornly. ¡°And you¡¯re bristling with weapons, right?¡±


    They glared at each other.


    All at once, the anger seemed to drain out of the Freeroamer and he sighed, his muscled shoulders sagging. His face scrunched up like an old man¡¯s, and he rubbed it with his hands. He looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed and watery from the stranger¡¯s powdery attack. Without saying anything more, he started forward, and Ben and Araynia stepped aside to let him pass. Picking up a large stick from the ground, he removed his Freeroamer badge from his sleeve and fastened it to the wood. Then he rammed it into the loamy embankment beside the road.


    For a few moments he paused, looking up and down the deserted, misty roadway, as though in final, vain hope his fellow Freeroamers would appear.


    But nothing moved except the rain splashing in puddles, and the glistening whisper of leaves.


    Finally, he turned and started up the forest path.


    Ben and Araynia followed close behind.

 Chapter One Forty Three

    All stands quiet, life has fled


    Tracking footsteps of the dead.


    ¡°Not a little... ostentatious,¡± Parsh remarked dryly.


    The remaining members of the fabled Sky Legion ¨C four men and one ten-year-old Angel child ¨C stood as a glittering group upon a grassy, windswept bluff, facing a monumental black and white piece of architecture.


    Reeves was inclined to agree; leaning on his spear, he regarded Castle Whiteshadow with a curious mixture of distaste and awe. He had to concede that the building style was elegant yet dominant, diverging boldly from the usual boring Darorian standard, but far too melodramatic for his taste. Multitudes of slender, lofty windows set in delicate wrought iron frames peered down at them ¨C but they were all glassy, cold and dark.


    The commanding effect was further diminished by a mess of scaffolding sprawled against the black side of the castle like the exposed ribcage of a beast that had been slaughtered and left to the wilderness.


    Raising a newly-gauntleted hand, he directed Nix to proceed.


    The young Legionnaire looked sullen, but obeyed without question. They all watched, in mingled tension and amusement, as their green-winged compatriot edged through the softly rippling grass, spear extended guardedly.


    Nix reached the porch without incident. Looking visibly relieved, he straightened to attention, awaiting his Commander¡¯s next orders.


    Reeves set his own spear to his shoulder and strolled towards the castle, eyeing the building as he did so, but there was no sign of life to be seen anywhere around it save a few rooks high up on the roof, squabbling amongst themselves.


    He came to stand beside Nix, and looked back the way he had come. No magical defences? he thought, raising an eyebrow. Interesting.


    Turning back to the porch, he studied it carefully. It was bordered by tall white pillars, with gold, white and black tiles set in a geometric star-shaped pattern covering the walls and floor. Tall double doors of sturdy, iron-bound oak were set in an arched stone frame; one painted black, the other white. Dead leaves clustered in corners beside a couple of badly neglected plants in urns.


    Nothing looked out of place.


    Ascending the short steps, he rapped on the door with the butt of his spear.


    The sound echoed through a cavernous chamber beyond, and faded into silence.


    No one appeared.


    Reeves tried again, with the same result. He grasped one of the gilded handles.


    It was locked.


    ¡°Shall I¡­ pick the lock?¡± Nix offered, nervously.


    Reeves shook his head. There was nothing he desired in this ridiculous failed monstrosity of a school. Whirling, his white coat swishing out behind him, feathers ruffling in pique, he strode back across the bluff.


    ¡°No one is here!¡± he snapped, glaring pointedly at Li as he did so.


    He knew full well that the girl had never left Arkana before and was unlikely to know anything about Ferrian¡¯s whereabouts, but he needed to direct his ire at someone and he resented bringing a child along with them. For some utterly unfathomable reason, Tander had taken the wretched little thing under his protection and Reeves had better things to do than argue with his Lieutenant. Besides, Li was apparently a friend to both Mekka and the detestable silver-eyed sorcerer, and was therefore a useful bargaining chip should the need arise.


    It was the only reason he tolerated her horrible little presence.


    To her credit, Li fearlessly returned his glare with one of her own, and the Wing Commander¡¯s lips twitched almost into a smile. She might one day be Legion material, after all¡­


    Tander was contemplating the deserted castle. ¡°Ferrian must have had a good reason to leave this place abandoned,¡± he mused.


    Of course he does, Reeves sneered to himself. Striding out to the edge of the bluff, he stood in the long grass and wildflowers, staring out over the sunlit valley. An ominous, black round tower stood on the opposite side, amid the sprawling, ivy-choked ruins of some older fortress, also of black stone. To his right, a spectacular waterfall dropped off the cliffs into sparkling, rainbow-streaked mist and a wide river that meandered its way in shadowed tinkling music down the valley. The wind was cool and crisp, reminding him with a brief wistful pang of the Snowranges, in a distant country far to the east and south.


    I know he has the damned page! Reeves fumed privately. He could not figure out how the sorcerer could possibly have managed to acquire it, or how he had even learned of the existence of the Book in the first place, but Reeves knew, with every thundering pound of blood in his veins, that it was so.


    And Mekka!


    His hand tightened on his spear, so hard that it hurt. Had that black-feathered piece of scum torn the page out when he had picked the book up during their meeting in the field, then feigned ignorance? Had he been mocking Reeves the whole time??


    He clutched at his helmet, feeling a dull ache begin to form in his forehead. He had been wrong to distrust Governor Merrill. He realised now that she was honest to the point of deception, that in business matters she was above treachery, and that she was exactly the sort of person to regard a slab of ancient dead text in far higher esteem than her fellow living beings. He believed that she had not betrayed him, in spite of her disapproval.


    But someone had.


    Fear seeped slowly through his veins, like a deadly poison. He had been so careful to hide the exact nature of his mission from everyone who could potentially undermine it; even his own men in the Sky Legion were oblivious as to the true revelation that was to come. They knew only that he had founded a mysterious cult in the Goldenwood, and had been discreetly recruiting members to it for years. Only Merrill and the Twin Emperors were privileged to know the details, and then only because he needed their assistance¡­


    And now, cruelly, he needed the help of one other.


    The only person on Arvanor with the power to stop him¡­


    ¡°Well, someone must have seen him!¡± Parsh was complaining behind him. ¡°He¡¯s riding about on a bloody Dragon!¡±


    He turned. Parsh and Nix were quarrelling like the old rooks up on the towers. Tander was consulting a large map unrolled in his hands, which he had purchased in Sel Varence and was the only one of them who could read it. Li peered curiously over his elbow.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± Reeves barked at the Legionnaires, marching over to his Lieutenant, who could at least be relied upon for competent advice.


    ¡°There is a town on the other side of these mountains,¡± Tander explained, tapping a silvertine-sheathed finger on the map. ¡°Just past the foothills to the south, around two days direct flight. Someone there may know Ferrian or be able to give us information on his movements.¡±


    Reeves didn¡¯t bother to feign interest in the drawing; the mess of lines and squiggly symbols meant nothing to him. ¡°Fine,¡± he replied curtly, and indicated to the others that they should move out.


    They took to the air.


    Several hours later, as the sun dipped into a blazing pit on their right, gilding wings and armour red-gold; as they were searching for a suitable resting place to spend the night, the Sky Legion came across something vast and disturbing.


    A clearing opened up below them, a huge hole blasted into the middle of the forest, as though something massive had exploded there.


    They circled over it watchfully, but nothing could be seen moving.


    Commander Re¡¯Vier ordered them to descend.


    They roamed carefully about the clearing, poking now and then with their spears at the ash, but found not a single trace of life: not even a mosquito or an ant. Everything had been thoroughly obliterated. A strong fragrance of burnt wood suffused the air, which was very still and had an incongruous icy chill to it. Patches of snow lingered in the shadows of charred logs.


    Reeves recalled that Ferrian was supposed to have command of powerful Winter magic, and his skin prickled uncomfortably, but his heart rate also quickened at the thought: the silver-eyed sorcerer had been here, and recently.


    The sun had almost disappeared over the treeline, sending her final dying rays across the wasteland like an eerie echo of the conflagration that had engulfed this place. Reeves made his way over to Tander and Li, who were examining marks in the burned dirt.


    Tander rose at the approach of his Commander. ¡°There are tracks all over the place,¡± he said, gesturing around at the clearing. ¡°Several different people have been here. The imprints are clear, and happened after the event. And some are unquestionably those of a Dragon.¡±


    Reeves inclined his head. ¡°This is Ferrian¡¯s handiwork, then?¡±


    Tander hesitated. ¡°I cannot say for sure. He was certainly here.¡± He pointed towards the centre of the clearing. ¡°There¡¯s evidence of a pyre, that was created in the aftermath.¡± He shook his head, looking sombre. ¡°At least one person perished here, maybe more than one. And someone was left alive to carry out funeral rites.¡±


    Reeves stared at Nix kicking the remains of the pyre with a silver boot. Goddess¡¯ mercy, how he hoped it was Mekka, lying in that ash¡­


    ¡°There is, uh, something else, Commander¡­¡±


    Reeves followed his Lieutenant towards the pyre. A few yards away from it, Tander stopped abruptly, and pointed with his spear at something on the ground.


    Nix came over to look as well, then brought himself up and backed away hurriedly.


    It was a dark, metallic, oily-coloured puddle.


    The sun had hidden herself away, and the air had grown much colder, and much darker.


    Marvellous, Reeves thought in dismay. Now we have demon-wraiths to deal with, as well¡­


    Unpleasantly, he remembered Tander¡¯s description of a gigantic pyramid-shaped trigonic thing that Ferrian had related to him at the collapse of Caer Sync. Reeves tried carefully to put it out of his mind, as thoughts of it made his chest go tight and he couldn¡¯t afford to panic over unknown monsters.


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    He took up his spear. ¡°Be on your guard,¡± he told his men. ¡°There are wraiths about.¡± Turning away quickly, so that no one would see his troubled expression, he launched himself into the air.


    The others followed in apprehensive silence.


    It was past dusk of the following evening when the Sky Legion finally arrived at the township of Meadrun.


    They could tell instantly that something was wrong here, too.


    The entire town was pitch dark. No lanterns or lights bloomed; there was no one to be seen walking the streets or travelling on the main road leading east and west. Carts and market stalls stood abandoned, some with food still rotting in crates, and milk souring in pails. There were no animals either; no wandering dogs or chickens, no cats on the roofs, no sparrows or pigeons in the plazas.


    No smoke from the chimneys. No sound from the taverns.


    Not even crickets.


    No one. Nothing.


    Just an incredible, otherworldly silence.


    The Legionnaires alighted quietly on the cobblestones before the arched entrance of the town. Scaffolding crawled its way along a partially constructed stone block wall, along with a mess of masonry and builder¡¯s equipment, and carts covered with tarps, all undisturbed, with tools still sitting where they were placed. Within the town, a thick fog curled low about the buildings in a languorous fashion, lit to a bright glow by a sharp-eyed moon.


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet my arse-feathers there are wraiths in there,¡± Nix muttered, spear held in a defensive position.


    Even Parsh was too disquieted to make a snarky comment.


    They all stood staring uncertainly at the deathly quiet town.


    To everyone¡¯s astonishment, Li strode forward, stood in the middle of the archway, and faced them.


    ¡°Ferrian might be here!¡± she declared, hands on her hips, small wings white and fiery red in the moonlight. ¡°And Mekka!¡± She regarded them all sternly. ¡°I¡¯m going to find them!¡±


    And with that, she spun on her heel and walked off boldly into the mist.


    Tander stepped forward in alarm. ¡°Li!¡±


    Reeves burst out laughing. Twirling his spear in a gleaming flourish, he sauntered off after her, whistling a jaunty marching tune.


    Tander sighed and followed at once.


    Parsh and Nix exchanged glances. Then they both raced each other to catch up.


    No one wanted to be shown up for a coward by a young girl.


    Grey stone houses rose, double-storied, out of the luminous mist to either side, accented with colourfully-painted shutters and frames, and windowsill boxes drooping with wilted summer blooms. All of the neat little diamond-paned windows were dark. Here and there, doors stood open carelessly to the night air, revealing disconcertingly black pits within what should have been cosy homes.


    Tander¡¯s skin crawled. He was overcome with a queer feeling, as he walked, that the group of Angels he was with now were the only living beings left in the world.


    They had seen no one else for more than a week, since leaving Sel Varence behind. It had been a cold and lonely flight across the mountains after the stifling madness of the overcrowded Embassy, with all of them still haunted from the events in Arkana. They had arrived at Ferrian¡¯s castle and found it deserted, then discovered the patch of desolation in the forest, and now this eerie abandoned township.


    What is going on? he thought anxiously.


    Nothing had gone right since they had arrived in Fleetfleer. Strange and terrible events were happening, spreading throughout Arvanor. He had an awful feeling that Caer Sync was just the beginning¡­


    There is some sort of black pyramid thing¡­ made out of trigon¡­ Ferrian¡¯s words echoed back to him uncomfortably, like a newly-remembered detail of a nightmare.


    What did that mean?


    And where was Ferrian?


    Despite Li¡¯s assertion, Tander was almost certain that neither the sorcerer nor his magnificent Dragon, nor Mekka ¨C or indeed, anyone ¨C were to be found here. The place was too quiet. He would have said it was like a graveyard, but it was not in the slightest. He had been to Human cemeteries before, and quite liked them; they were quaint, serene places to contemplate life.


    This town was no peaceful repose for the dead. This was like the shiver of unsettled water at the bottom of a disused well¡­


    Reeves was still whistling behind him, making his nerves dance around weirdly.


    He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.


    Li marched ahead undaunted at the head of the group, without weapon or armour. Tander was impressed at her bravery, and wondered if the Commander felt the same or was furious that the girl had taken the initiative before anyone else had.


    He smiled a little despite himself. Most likely both.


    He made sure to stay close to her, spear at the ready.


    They walked on. The air felt cold and clammy, smelling faintly of rotten meat and something burnt. At some point, Reeves stopped whistling, but the silence was even more unnerving.


    Nothing moved, save the mist swirling around them.


    None of the Legionnaires had fought demon-wraiths before; though they had been warned of their presence in Daroria, they had assumed the plague confined to the cities along the western coast. They knew Queen Minoa had exiled herself to the northern continent of Enopina, due to the royal palace at Crystaltina being overrun, and the Darorian Army had all been lost to wraiths, leaving the entire kingdom defenceless and governless.


    Now Arkana had fallen as well, and the wraiths had evidently already crossed the Barlakks¡­


    The mist began to darken, quite suddenly. Tander looked up to see the moon and stars disappear, smothered in fog. The darkness deepened rapidly, washing over them all in a heavy, freezing, oppressive black tide.


    Reeves called a halt. Tander reached out and grabbed Li¡¯s shoulder, stopping her.


    The Commander attempted to light a small lantern, then cursed as it flickered and immediately died. At the same moment, all of their armour and weapons lit up with a dim silvery phosphorescence.


    It wasn¡¯t enough to see their way by, but at least they could make each other out. It was not, however, an encouraging sign¡­


    ¡°Brace yourselves,¡± Reeves ordered, and they all took up defensive positions.


    The wraiths swarmed them in shocking silence. The silvertine radiance illuminated twisting, grotesque humanoid forms that slid out of the darkness like coiling smoke. Their spears whirled and shredded the wraiths with ease, but more poured out of the nothingness behind them, an endless swirling flood of the damned.


    Tander tried to ignore a sickening pain in his gut and a flood of nausea that threatened to bring him to his knees. His skin broke out in an icy sweat. Behind him, he heard Li half-retching, half-sobbing.


    ¡°Do not look at them, Li!¡± he cried. ¡°Keep your eyes closed!¡±


    His spear ripped through the maddening face of a wraith, and he panted with the effort of fighting his own primal instinct to flee. He demolished another wave that came at him, his spinning weapon leaving glittering trails of silver motes in the air, and risked a glance over his shoulder¡­


    ¡­ just in time to see Parsh fall.


    The Angel collapsed gracefully mid-swing, falling like a dancer onto the pavement.


    ¡°Parsh!!¡± Nix cried.


    ¡°Into the air!¡± Reeves screamed.


    Tander was frozen in a moment of stunned horror, halfway between obeying Reeves and staring at his fallen comrade, when the sound of thunder broke his trance.


    It took him a second to realise it was hoofbeats, echoing down the street.


    A silver streak approached, whirling through the darkness, and a moment later something huge and black lunged into view.


    Tander reacted on instinct, stabbing out with his spear, only to have it thrust aside.


    ¡°Come with me!¡± a female voice bellowed, and without waiting for any of them to react, turned and charged away again into shadow.


    Reeves sprang into the air and flew after her.


    Nix and Tander hesitated, looking down at Parsh. A black, oily, smokelike substance poured out of his eyes and mouth.


    Nix uttered a furious cry, slashed a final time at the wraiths, and fled after Reeves.


    Tander gulped down a knot of horror, scooped Li up under his free arm, and joined them.


    They flew speedily through the darkness, which fell away after a short time, revealing moonlit fog once again, and the galloping shape of a black Centaur armed with a silvertine spear. They followed her along the main street, finally emerging into a large square with a bronze statue at its centre, depicting a young, noble sorcerer with his hands resting on a sword.


    The statue, bright in the moonlight, watched impassively as the Centaur swerved to the right, heading towards a large building aglow with lanterns, their warm, inviting light burning through the mist.


    The remaining members of the Sky Legion descended, running after the Centaur as she barged through the front door, kicking it open roughly with her powerful front hooves.


    When they were all inside, she slammed the door closed and barred it, then went to the nearest window to be sure they weren¡¯t being followed.


    When she was satisfied there were no wraiths to be seen out in the night, she turned to face them.


    ¡°It is not safe here,¡± she declared bluntly, though in a soft voice. ¡°But the wraiths are slow and their memories short. They will search for a time where we fought them. If we do not wander, they will forget that we exist.¡± She gestured around the room, at the lit lanterns. ¡°When the light dims, we will know of their coming.¡±


    Nix was pacing up and down, distraught, the light catching on his colourful feathers. ¡°We can¡¯t just leave him out there! That is no way for an Angel to die!¡±


    ¡°Nix,¡± Tander sighed. Slumping into a chair, he put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. ¡°There is no Tower to bring him back to.¡±


    They all fell deathly silent.


    When Tander opened his eyes again, the Centaur was frowning at him in confusion. ¡°What say you of the Tower?¡±


    No one responded.


    Reeves, who was sitting on a bar stool, took his helmet off and slammed it onto the counter. ¡°Fetch me a drink,¡± he demanded.


    The Centaur drew herself up impressively, her dark-skinned expression glowering. ¡°I am not a bartender,¡± she replied. ¡°I am Lieutenant-Commander Raemint of the Freeroamers!¡± She regarded them all suspiciously. ¡°And who are you? What brings you to this town?¡±


    Reeves didn¡¯t answer. Instead, he slipped off his stool and made his own way around the bar.


    Tander looked up at the Centaur. ¡°We are the Sky Legion,¡± he told her quietly. ¡°We are¡­ searching for a sorcerer named Ferrian. I don¡¯t suppose you have seen him pass this way?¡±


    Raemint looked surprised. ¡°No. I have not.¡± Her shoulders slumped a little in weariness, and she shook her head. ¡°I only wish that I had.¡± She looked as grim and troubled as Tander felt.


    The silence was broken by the explosive sound of Reeves spitting liquid across the tavern floor. It was followed by a fit of coughing so violent that Tander half-stood in alarm.


    ¡°What,¡± Reeves wheezed, clutching at the bar for support, slamming a bottle onto the counter, ¡°in all Hell is this? Demon piss?¡± He continued to glare at the beverage as though it had personally insulted him.


    Then he took another swig.


    Ignoring his Commander attempting to kill himself behind the bar, Tander settled into his seat again. Li sat on the floor beside him, knees pulled up to her chest, looking pale. Nix, taking inspiration from the Commander, went and helped himself to a random bottle, as well.


    Tander took his helmet off, set it on the table beside him and rubbed at his face. He could hardly blame them. He couldn¡¯t get the chilling image of Par¡¯Shu¡¯s death out of his head.


    The Sky Legion was down to three, now.


    Lieutenant Raemint came and stood before him. ¡°I am deeply sorry for the loss of your Legionnaire,¡± she said, and looked as though she meant it. ¡°I have seen too many lost in this town.¡± She closed her eyes sadly. ¡°I¡­ I tried to prevent it, but could not.¡±


    Tander looked up at her in astonishment and awe. ¡°You have been defending this town against demon-wraiths¡­ on your own?¡±


    Raemint regarded him sombrely. ¡°There were others. I¡­ sent them away, for their own safety.¡± She shook her head. ¡°A squad of Freeroamers was due to arrive, but I have not seen them. I have had no word of Ferrian or Mekk¡¯Ayan.¡± She paused, eyeing him, then the Commander and Nix. ¡°It is my understanding that it was the Sky Legion who apprehended Mekk¡¯Ayan, and took him to the Holy Tower for Judgement,¡± she said. ¡°Is this correct?¡±


    Tander was silent for a moment, then nodded. He stared out at the mist lurking beyond the tavern windows. Then he related everything that had happened since they had arrested Mekka in Forthwhite.


    He tried to be succinct, but it took a long time to tell. Raemint stood listening quietly, without interruption.


    There was a long pause after he had finished. ¡°That is¡­ astonishing and grave,¡± the Centaur whispered finally. ¡°I¡­ I have no words.¡± She took a deep breath and let it out again. ¡°Caer Sync has fallen. I can hardly believe that such a thing is true.¡±


    Tander could hardly believe most of the things that he had seen either, as though he had witnessed it all through someone else¡¯s eyes.


    Raemint was frowning. ¡°Ferrian should have arrived here. I do not understand where he has gone.¡± She shook her head. ¡°But that is not the only mystery to be solved¡­¡±


    Tander looked at her uncertainly. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°The one who desolated this village. The monster who created this plague of demon-wraiths. She is¡­ still here.¡±


    Tander looked dismayed. ¡°Lieutenant, if you expect us to help you fight this thing¡ª¡±


    Raemint shook her head. ¡°No. That is not it¡­¡± Her brow creased as she struggled to find the right words. ¡°I¡­ cannot explain it to you. It is¡­ impossible to describe. I must show you.¡±


    Tander frowned. ¡°Now?¡±


    Raemint nodded. ¡°The wraiths are distracted, and our destination lies on the other side of the town. We shall be safe until they begin roaming again.¡±


    Tander glanced over at Reeves and Nix, who were both wholly occupied sampling the contents of the bar; neither looked in any condition to go anywhere, except for the floor.


    Reluctantly, he nodded, and got up. Approaching the counter, he said: ¡°Commander Re¡¯Vier. Sir? I am going out with Lieutenant Raemint to investigate something. I will be back shortly.¡±


    Reeves was peering at the label on a black-glassed bottle. ¡°I wonder¡­¡± he slurred, ¡°if this¡¯s¡­ actually¡­ rat poison¡­¡±


    ¡°No Sir!¡± Nix declared, waving a bottle of his own. ¡°I¡¯ve got¡­ that one¡­¡± Swaying, he staggered against a wall and slid down it.


    Tander sighed. Turning away, he went over to Li and crouched before her.


    ¡°There are some nice rooms upstairs, Li. How about you go and find the best one before Commander Reeves gets it first, hmm?¡±


    The little Angel just stared up at him, gloomily.


    His throat felt tight. The poor girl had been through so much already, and now he had dragged her into a demon-infested town. He put a hand on her shoulder. ¡°It¡¯s all right, Li,¡± he assured her. ¡°I will not be gone long. If you get scared, fly up onto the roof and wait for me there, all right?¡±


    She got up and hugged him. ¡°Please come back!¡± she said.


    Tander fought back a dangerous surge of emotion, and hugged her back. ¡°I will come back, Li, I promise!¡±


    The girl nodded into his shoulder. Then she pulled away and ran off up the stairs.


    Tander watched her go. Then he retrieved his spear and helmet, nodded to Raemint, and they went out once more into the mist-shrouded night.

 Chapter One Forty Four

    A villain found in strangest state


    A chase to stop a dire fate.


    Tander thought something had gone wrong with his vision. He rubbed at his tired eyes, trying to make sense out of what he was seeing.


    He stood with Lieutenant-Commander Raemint in the grim interior of a burnt-out ruin. The Centaur had informed him that, up until a few days ago, it had been an infirmary. There was little left now apart from blackened stone walls and burned ceiling beams and ash. Some twisted iron bed frames were the only indication of the building¡¯s original purpose.


    Rain had extinguished the fire, and the air smelled strongly of damp ash; the source of the smell that Tander had noticed earlier.


    Moonlight and fog spilled in dramatic shafts through the skeletal remains of the roof, illuminating something¡­ strange.


    Tander at first thought it was a trick of light, shadows and mist, but the more he looked at it, the more unsettled he felt. He now understood why Raemint had been at a loss to describe it.


    There was what appeared to be a woman, kneeling amongst the wreckage. She was clad in something gleaming black and sinister; insect-like, beneath the remnants of a severely scorched beige-coloured garment. There was a glimpse of vivid red hair, also badly singed.


    Her face¡­ Tander was unsure, because it kept changing. It flickered constantly between a grotesquely burned skull and a pale, deathly-white visage in a series of horrifying expressions. The whole outline of the woman was vaguely blurry and transparent and uncertain, like she was an image projected onto the air.


    There was one thing more.


    A long sword, exquisitely bright and beautiful, was impaled in the woman¡¯s back up to the hilt, the blade extending fully four feet out from her chest.


    Tander didn¡¯t know what to say.


    ¡°Who¡­ what¡­ is she?¡± he whispered finally.


    ¡°Her name is Carmine Vandaris,¡± Raemint replied softly, her dark eyes roaming the shadows of the ruin, ever watchful. ¡°Four years ago, she went to the Middle Isle to rescue her father, the famous but disgraced hero Captain Sirannor, who was due to be executed by a Dragon. She donned herself in trigonic armour, disguising herself successfully as a soldier, but nevertheless failed to save him. He was slain by General Dreikan.


    ¡°Mekk¡¯Ayan brought her back in a crazed and grief-stricken state, and she was placed into the care and watch of the Freeroamers, safely locked away in our Guard House.¡±


    She stared at the woman sadly. ¡°Or so we had thought. Carmine escaped, however, and went on to wreak havoc.¡± The Centaur closed her eyes. ¡°She has caused many deaths, including that of a powerful sorcerer: Lord Arzath, Ferrian¡¯s master.¡±


    Tander stared at the horrible flickering image, trying to ignore the cold queasiness lodged firmly in his belly. The burnt-out clearing, he thought.


    Raemint¡¯s expression turned hard. ¡°The Freeroamers have failed in our duty. I vowed to stay here until I had put an end to her.¡±


    Tander regarded her quizzically. ¡°Why have you not?¡±


    ¡°A simple reason.¡± Taking up her spear, Raemint trotted forward and thrust it at the woman.


    Her spear went straight through, unobstructed. She swept the silver weapon through the space the ruined woman occupied a couple of times, but it was as though neither she or the sword existed.


    Tander walked forward as well, slowly circling the gruesome mirage. ¡°That sword,¡± he gestured. ¡°It looks very like the one Ferrian carries. Is it his?¡±


    Raemint shook her head. ¡°No. The sword you see here is the Sword of Healing. It belongs to a young noblewoman by the name of Lady Araynia. It was she who has put Carmine into this strange state.¡±


    Tander looked up at her in surprise. ¡°There is another sorcerer?¡±


    The Centaur hesitated, then nodded. ¡°Yes. But she has only become aware of her power recently.¡±


    Interesting, Tander thought, raising an eyebrow. Reeves will want to know of this¡­


    ¡°And this noblewoman,¡± Tander said. ¡°Where is she now?¡±


    Raemint gave him a calculating look before answering. ¡°I sent her away,¡± she replied finally. ¡°With Sergeant Flint and the rest of the townsfolk. I felt it was too dangerous to remain here. They have returned to Forthwhite.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Tander murmured.


    The Centaur was still regarding him. She was an intimidating shadowy figure against the moonlit fog, her eyes sharp and bright in her dark face. ¡°May I ask what need you have of a sorcerer?¡± she asked quietly.


    Tander didn¡¯t reply at once, watching the mist swirl around them, taking a moment to carefully compile an answer. ¡°My Commander¡­ has a book he would like translated,¡± he told her finally. ¡°It is very important to him, but it is written in a dead language known only to sorcerers, so I am told.¡±


    Raemint inclined her head. ¡°Then you may find no assistance from the Lady. She has not studied magic in the usual fashion. She is unlikely to be familiar with such a language.¡±


    Tander¡¯s heart sank. ¡°Is that so.¡± He couldn¡¯t keep the disappointment from his voice.


    Raemint gave him a guarded smile. ¡°We are both in need of Ferrian¡¯s assistance, so it seems,¡± she said.


    Tander forced a smile in return. ¡°So it seems.¡±


    The girl lay on her back in the long silver grass, dreaming. The shimmering stems were topped with white downy seed fluff, swaying in a gentle breeze that felt cool against her skin. Above her curved a clear blue sky, with a beautiful pattern dancing across it, like sunlight reflecting off pure water.


    The girl knew she was dreaming, but that didn¡¯t matter. It was a wonderful dream, peaceful and comforting. She was right where she was supposed to be, and would stay here forever.


    After a time, tiring of the lovely sky, she got up. She was wearing her best yellow dress, bound with a red sash. Vaguely, she remembered that she wasn¡¯t supposed to get it dirty, but she hadn¡¯t been able to resist running out into the field with it. It was light and airy, and she liked the way it swished around her legs.


    She spun in a circle, happily, delighting in the brightness of the sunlight that wasn¡¯t there. The field of silver-white grass continued to the horizon in every direction, for eternity.


    But as she spun, she saw that there was something else.


    A low hill rose above the plain. On top of the hill stood a single tree: huge and silver-barked and fantastically gnarled. The tree was abloom with gigantic white flowers as big as her head; their sweet perfume drifted towards the girl invitingly.


    She took off running towards the tree.


    The roots of the tree clutched the hill like old fingers dug into the grass. The girl had to climb over them to reach the trunk. Gleefully she took hold of the lower branches and climbed up, finding a comfortable perch amid the sturdy boughs.


    Bright blue butterflies fluttered around her as she sat like a princess in a flower-filled castle. She giggled as the butterflies landed on her hands and hair.


    After a time, though, she noticed that there was something down at the base of the tree, just glimpsed between the silver branches.


    A carven stone.


    The girl frowned slightly. Something about the stone didn¡¯t seem quite right. It wasn¡¯t ancient, like the tree ¨C it was a new, polished slab of white marble, standing upright.


    Intrigued, the girl descended from the tree.


    She had to climb over more roots to get to the stone, which was cradled in a shadowy hollow, but the white marble stood out vividly. Ivy grew around it, and had begun to climb up the sides of the stone.


    There was an inscription on its surface.


    An odd feeling passed through the girl as she stared at the stone. She felt suddenly that she didn¡¯t want to look at it any more, that she didn¡¯t want to know what was written there. Somehow, she knew that if she dared to read the words, that she would never be the same again¡­


    Almost, she turned away. But the need to know burned in her mind like fire.


    It was, after all, just a stone¡­


    Creeping closer, quietly, as though the stone were something that could be awakened by her presence, she crouched down to read the inscription.


    It read:


    HERE LIES


    CARMINE VANDARIS


    DAUGHTER OF


    SERETH MYER


    AND


    SIRANNOR VANDARIS


    The world changed, then, in the space between breaths. The wind picked up, becoming stronger and colder. The boughs of the tree creaked in protest, the huge flowers shivering and shedding petals which tumbled against the trunk and roots. The sky above turned pallid grey, like a winter¡¯s dawn.


    Something dark seemed to be creeping up on the girl, and she spun in fear, but saw nothing save the silver grass thrashing in the wind.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Those names.


    She knew them¡­


    Against her better judgement, she turned back and looked at the stone again.


    The letters of the word CARMINE darkened, welling up with a liquid substance that was red, like blood from an open wound. It spilled out and leaked down the face of the white stone, tracing out the letters below them...


    The girl backed away in horror.


    Soft things began pattering against her, like rain. The wind tossed them around the bowl of the hollow, tattered scraps of bright blue.


    They were dead butterflies.


    She screamed.


    Hush.


    The voice was gentle yet commanding, and the world fell silent.


    The girl opened her eyes to find the tree standing peaceful once more, and the sky a splendid blue. The butterflies fluttered around her serenely, and full of life.


    The white marble gravestone was gone.


    She looked around for the source of the voice, peering up into the branches of the tree, then stepping over one of the protruding roots to see around the trunk.


    A beautiful man sat there, leaning with his back against the tree and his arm resting on one knee. His hair was very long and snowy white, tied in a braid that fell below his waist, with lengths of it framing his noble face. His clothing was elegant and his eyes were as sparkling blue as the sky.


    Is this your tree? he asked. It is very pretty.


    The girl frowned. It¡¯s my tree, she replied. You¡¯re not supposed to be here!


    He laughed softly, but looked sad. I am not supposed to be anywhere, he answered. And yet, here I am.


    Her scowl remained. This is MY dream! You¡¯re ruining it!


    Am I? Oh. I¡¯m terribly sorry, I thought you were frightened, a moment ago¡­


    I was not!


    He paused, then got to his feet and dusted himself off, shaking out his glorious blue cloak. Ah. Well. I suppose it was just me who was, then.


    He gave her a bow. Good day, m¡¯lady. Then he set off down the hill, into the tall grass.


    The girl chewed at her lip, watching him go. Who are you? she called out, finally.


    He stopped, waist deep in the undulating white fronds, and gave her that sad smile again. Oh, no one of any consequence, he replied. You may call me Requar, if you wish.


    Then he turned and walked away, his image going pale and transforming into mist, which blew away on the wind.


    The girl went and sat down in the place he had occupied. Everything seemed serene once more, but her heart did not feel as light as it had.


    The memory of the gravestone remained.


    * * *


    They found Everine the next morning, discarded like a piece of colourful litter in a patch of ferns, sunshine streaming down upon her. Her red and blue dress stood out vividly amongst the verdant spring foliage, like an exotic flower. A few curious bumblebees investigated, but went away disappointed.


    Ben raced forward with a cry, falling to his knees in the wet grass beside her. To his relief, she appeared to be unharmed, save for the ugly, violently dark bruise at her throat where Carmine had half-strangled her.


    Swallowing tightly at the sight of it, a shiver passing through him, he took up the blanket which had been tossed away with her, and started bundling her up in it. Lady Araynia hurried over to help.


    For an hour afterwards, they searched the small clearing and surrounding forest for any sign of their belongings ¨C or Hawk ¨C but, predictably, found nothing else.


    ¡°Why not leave Hawk as well?¡± Ben said aloud, even though he knew the answer ¨C he just wanted to vent his frustration. ¡°He won¡¯t get far carrying a body around!¡±


    Flint snorted. ¡°An¡¯ who¡¯s gonna¡¯ stop ¡®im?¡± The Freeroamer got up from where he had been inspecting hoofprints in the leaf litter. He shook his head. ¡°The Freeroamers¡¯re spread too thin. Most of us¡¯re out chasin¡¯ after Carmine!¡± He scowled.


    ¡°Someone will notice!¡± Ben insisted. ¡°And anyway, a body will weigh him down. He must know we¡¯re coming after him!¡±


    Flint nodded. ¡°Aye. But he prob¡¯ly couldn¡¯t figure out how to get that armour off.¡± He rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. ¡°He might try an¡¯ get it off another way, though.¡± He stared off into the sunlit forest, expression darkening. ¡°But he¡¯ll need to stop an¡¯ make a fire...¡±


    Ben looked at him in alarm. ¡°A fire?¡±


    Flint shrugged. ¡°Flesh burns. Silvertine don¡¯t.¡±


    Both Ben and Araynia stared at him in horror.


    ¡°But¡­ Hawk¡¯s still alive!¡± Ben said, aghast.


    Flint put his hands on his hips. ¡°That piece of rat don¡¯t know that,¡± he said. ¡°To him, Hawk¡¯s just a corpse in shinin¡¯ armour.¡±


    Ben paced around the tiny clearing in agitation. He was tired, damp and hungry ¨C as were they all ¨C after spending a miserable night in the pine forest without food or blankets. His eyes and throat still hurt and he felt light-headed. He fought a sudden surge of nausea that threatened to make him retch. Lady Araynia looked up at him from where she sat beside Everine: her face looked as sick and haunted as he felt.


    ¡°We have to get after him!¡± Ben kicked at a newly unfurling fern frond. ¡°Dammit. He¡¯s got a horse and we don¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get a horse, kid,¡± Flint assured him. Moving over to Everine, he hauled her up and slung her over his broad shoulders with little effort.


    ¡°You mean ¡®requisition¡¯ one?¡±


    Flint touched the brim of his hat, giving Ben a small smile. ¡°Too right.¡±


    They arrived at the edge of the Valewood Forest around midday. The sun was a bright, scorching hole in a pale, hazy sky. Before them, open farmland spread across low hills like a rumpled patchwork quilt, as far as they could see to the east, south and west, disappearing into the shimmering distance. Behind them, the forest continued on both sides along a gently sloping ridgeline, with the grey wall of the Barlakk Mountains rising jagged and mighty at their backs.


    Leaning on a tree, Ben took his bandanna off and wiped his face and neck with it, though it was already sodden. The air in the forest was hot and humid, but he wasn¡¯t looking forward to a long trek across exposed countryside without any water. Araynia slumped onto a boulder, her face a sheen of sweat.


    Flint stood surveying the land ahead, with Everine still draped over his shoulders. ¡°There¡¯s a farmhouse down there,¡± he announced, pointing, ¡° ¡®bout a mile. C¡¯mon.¡± Without waiting for anyone, he tromped off down the hill.


    Ben sighed. Araynia gave him a look of dismay, but neither of them complained. It had been their choice to come along, after all. Wearily, they followed.


    The trail led them along a disused farm track, overgrown with wildflowers. Bees, dragonflies and other insects swarmed amongst them in profusion. To either side were untilled fields burgeoning with gorse and daisies. The wooden fencing was ancient, rotting and painted with lichen. The soil here was dry and prints hard to make out, but the road ran straight and it seemed unlikely that the thief had veered off across the scrubby paddocks.


    Sergeant Flint kept a brutal pace, and Ben managed to keep up ¨C just ¨C but Lady Araynia lagged behind. Worried that she was having doubts again, Ben dropped back, but discovered that she was merely tired.


    ¡°We¡¯re nearly at the farmhouse,¡± he assured her. ¡°We¡¯ll get some food and water there, and rest a bit, whether Flint wants to or not.¡±


    The Lady simply nodded, saying nothing.


    A few minutes later, they arrived in the welcome shade of a wide, white-painted verandah. Flint set Everine down on the wooden boards with great care, making sure she was tightly swaddled in her blanket, with no trace of the trigonic infection visible. Araynia took a moment to rest on the steps.


    Ben looked around. The farmhouse was a little shabby, with paint peeling from the walls and various pieces of rusted farming equipment lying haphazardly around, but definitely occupied: there was smoke rising from the chimney. Several barns and outbuildings surrounded a central dirt yard, and ¨C he was excited to see ¨C a stable.


    Ben caught Flint¡¯s gaze, and the Freeroamer gave him a meaningful look. Then he went to the door of the house, which stood open, so he rapped on the wooden cladding. ¡°Yo!¡± he called, peering inside. ¡°Anyone home?¡±


    There was movement inside and a middle-aged woman with a scarf over her hair came to the door, wiping her hands on an apron. ¡°Hello!¡± she greeted cheerfully. ¡°What can I do for you?¡±


    Flint removed his hat and held out his hand. ¡°Sergeant Flint of the Freeroamers. Sorry to bother you, ma¡¯am, but we was hopin¡¯ you¡¯d have a mount or two to spare. We¡¯ve a seriously ill young lady ¡®ere, in urgent need of a healer.¡±


    The woman gasped, her face falling at the sight of Everine lying on the porch. ¡°Oh, my, of course!¡± Turning back through the doorway, she gestured at someone inside.


    A tall man with greying hair came forward. He took them all in briefly, then, without a word, walked past them, down the steps and set off across the yard toward the stables.


    Ben felt relief flood through him. He gave Araynia an encouraging smile.


    ¡°The Freeroamers¡¯ll compensate you,¡± Flint was telling the woman gratefully. ¡°Tell ¡®em Sergeant Flint was here¡­¡±


    The woman waved a hand as though shooing away a fly. ¡°Nonsense.¡± She stepped out onto the verandah, wringing her hands as she looked down at Everine. ¡°Is there something I can do¡­?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Both Flint and Ben said together. Ben moved hurriedly to block the woman¡¯s way. ¡°No, that¡¯s my sister. She¡¯s um, she¡¯s¡­ badly injured. Fragile. You shouldn¡¯t touch her.¡±


    ¡°Goodness me!¡± The woman looked shocked. ¡°Whatever happened?¡±


    Flint leaned against the wall, scowling. ¡°We were robbed,¡± he replied gruffly, and truthfully.


    Ben nodded. ¡°He stole everything we own. And kidnapped our companion,¡± he added. ¡°Some bloke in fancy clothing; a green cloak and a big hat with feathers in it, riding a grey horse. We¡¯re pretty sure he came this way. Did you see anyone like that go past?¡±


    The woman¡¯s eyes were wide. ¡°Oh, yes, in fact! Jerrick saw someone like that just this morning!¡±


    Ben, Flint and Araynia all looked at her hopefully.


    ¡°But do come inside!¡± she said. ¡°Come inside and sit down, while I go and fetch my son!¡±


    Flint hesitated. ¡°Eh¡­ we¡¯re in a hurry¡­¡±


    But the woman wouldn¡¯t take no for an answer. Grabbing hold of Flint¡¯s arm, she dragged him physically into the kitchen, surprising them all with her strength, then did the same for Ben, almost yanking him off his feet.


    She ushered Araynia inside with a little more refinement.


    She made them all sit down at the kitchen table, and bustled around pouring cups of tea for each of them. That was quickly followed by three plates of steaming hot, freshly-baked apple pie.


    Ben just stared at the pie sitting there in front of him, its aroma too good to be true, wondering if he had fallen asleep somewhere and was, in fact, dreaming.


    Flint had no such illusions. Ignoring all eating utensils, he grabbed the piece of pie with both of his big hands and shovelled the entire thing into his face in one go.


    Ben almost spit out the tea he was drinking. Araynia, fork poised delicately in one hand, stared at Flint in mingled disgust and horror.


    Taking his cue from the older man, seizing his own pie, he attempted to imitate Flint, but succeed mostly in making a mess, and almost choking himself.


    Araynia made a sort of small strangled noise in her throat, and flushed. ¡°Barbarians!¡± she blurted out suddenly. It was the first thing she had said all day.


    Thankfully, their host had left the kitchen in search of Jerrick.


    The noblewoman proceeded to eat her pie with the most petite bites imaginable, just to spite them.


    Ben and Flint exchanged amused glances and shrugged.


    The woman returned a few minutes later, with a teenage boy in tow.


    The boy was only a couple of years older than Ben, thin and blond. He looked awkward, and his cheeks flushed at the sight of Lady Araynia.


    ¡°Go on, Jerrick,¡± the woman urged. ¡°Tell the people what you saw!¡±


    Jerrick couldn¡¯t meet their gazes, and stared at the floor instead. ¡°I was herdin¡¯ cows t¡¯the milkin¡¯ shed at dawn,¡± he mumbled. ¡°Then some bloke comes thunderin¡¯ outta nowhere down the old road, ridin¡¯ his horse half t¡¯death. No one uses that road! He scared me cows and they damn near trampled me! Took me half an hour to get ¡®em movin¡¯ again!¡± He scowled. ¡°He was as ye say: all fancy, like them merchants up in the big town.¡± He hesitated, glancing at his mother, looking uncomfortable. ¡°I¡­ I saw ¡®im once before, too,¡± he went on. ¡°Talkin¡¯ to me mate¡¯s dad, a horse dealer. Me mate says this fancy bloke tried to swindle ¡®is dad out of ¡®is best mare, but ¡®is dad wouldn¡¯ sell. He was scared this bloke was gonna come an¡¯ steal ¡®er in the night.¡±


    The three at the table looked at each other.


    Explains how he knew the horse¡¯s name, Ben thought angrily. And why he was carrying stun powder around. He was heading out to steal her already!


    ¡°An¡¯ me mate came round yesterday,¡± Jerrick went on quickly, as though desperate to relate everything he could think of, now that he had been forced to speak. ¡°He said there was Freeroamers up in the town an¡¯ they made everyone leave ¡®cause of some assassin or sommink. He said this Centaur lady bought this mare off¡¯f his dad and then ordered them t¡¯get outta there!¡± His eyes were wide. ¡°An¡¯, an¡¯ the town was burnin¡¯ and everyfing!¡±


    Flint regarded the boy. ¡°We¡¯ve good reason for lockin¡¯ Meadrun up,¡± he said. ¡°An¡¯ it was one buildin¡¯ that burnt down, not the whole damned town. But don¡¯t you folks go near there. It weren¡¯t no assassin: the place is infested with demon-wraiths.¡±


    Both the boy and the woman went pale as ghosts.


    ¡°D-demon-wraiths!¡± Jerrick stammered. ¡°Wha¡¯¡­ like them black fings on the coast? Like them fings what ate the Queen?!¡±


    Ben frowned. ¡°Ate the Queen?¡±


    Flint snorted. ¡°The Queen ain¡¯t dead.¡± He sighed. ¡°She just¡­¡± he waved a hand uncertainly.


    ¡°Abandoned us?¡± Araynia said quietly.


    ¡°Yeah, that! Anyway,¡± Flint sat back, folding his arms. ¡°Don¡¯t go near the town. Lieutenant-Commander Raemint¡¯s takin¡¯ care of it. The Freeroamers¡¯ll come an¡¯ tell you when it¡¯s safe to go back. Alright?¡±


    The woman and the boy nodded mutely.


    Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats and gravel crunching in the yard outside. Getting to his feet, Flint went out onto the verandah. Ben followed quickly, with Araynia close behind.


    The tall man had returned, with not just a horse but an entire cart hitched up as well. Before they could do anything, he had scooped Everine up in his arms and deposited her gently in the back tray, on some sacks of straw.


    Ben held his breath, but the blanket stayed in place, and the man didn¡¯t seem to notice anything amiss.


    Flint ran down the steps and shook the man¡¯s hand, thanking him profusely, then shoved his hat back on his head and leapt up onto the front seat. Ben gestured for Araynia to take the seat beside him, and the Freeroamer helped her to climb up. Ben hurried around to the back and vaulted over the side next to his sister.


    The woman pootled out of the house with her arms full of bundles and blankets, and practically threw them at Ben. ¡°Wait a moment!¡± she said, then rushed back inside.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here, Flint!¡± Ben hissed, ¡°Before these people give us everything they own!¡±


    Nodding, Flint took up the reins and urged the horse forward, just as the woman emerged from the kitchen with her arms full again.


    Jerrick and his father waved at the departing cart. Grinning, Ben waved back until the family and farmyard were lost in a cloud of dust.

 Chapter One Forty Five

    In far east lands, a nation stirred


    While unexpected news is heard.


    For three days they followed the road east, winding around grassy, wildflower-speckled hills, through shady glades, and, for a time, beside a sparkling river. Farms were scattered about the sun-drenched countryside, and now and then they were greeted by locals, but Flint could do little more than raise a hat as they sped past, having no time to stop and chat.


    Once or twice, their progress was impeded by cattle or sheep being driven along the road, and their pace slowed to a depressing crawl. The farm children herding the animals strolled along as though they had all week. Ben could barely sit still in his seat, and Araynia shared his impatience.


    Somewhere ahead of them, their thief was galloping across the countryside on a fine horse, with all of their belongings ¨C and, more distressingly, their companion Hawk ¨C probably laughing uproariously as he did so.


    Their own shaggy brown draught stallion was big and powerful, and not especially fast, but kept up a solid pace for long hours without rest, and they made good time.


    The weather became hotter and drier as they moved further from the mountains, the sun burning down as though focussed through a lens out of a gemstone-blue sky. Ben seemed unbothered by the heat and Flint had a hat. Lady Araynia suffered, yet bore her discomfort in silence. It must have showed, however, because Flint offered to rig up a tarpaulin over the cart for shade, but the noblewoman politely declined, preferring to wrap herself up in her cloak instead and sit at the front with Flint.


    Ben shared the back with his comatose sister.


    Araynia closed her eyes against the glare of the sun and tried to ignore the small unpleasant irritations ¨C the dampness of her clothing and the sweat trickling in small rivulets over her skin; the contrasting dryness of her throat; the constant flies attacking her face, and the sunburn.


    They were nothing compared to what had been done to Everine.


    The woman¡¯s sickness was a chill at her back, a constant, vague sense of queasy dread. They all felt it, she knew; Flint wore an almost permanent scowl on his face, and Ben was fidgety and restless, though otherwise in good spirits.


    None of them spoke of her condition. Like Hawk before her, they treated Everine in a wholly pragmatic manner: she was simply something they needed to carry around with them until an opportunity to deal with the problem presented itself.


    One way or another.


    Despite the heat, Araynia suppressed a shudder.


    She knew that Ben was relying on her to use the Sword of Healing on his sister, and perhaps on Hawk as well ¨C though Hawk¡¯s condition had now changed in a way that none of them really understood. But Lord Requar had explicitly warned her not to do this.


    She swallowed back the memory. She had ignored him, of course.


    In hindsight, she realised how dangerous and foolish it had been to do so. Who was she, to disregard the advice of a two hundred year old sorcerer ¨C now dead ¨C the original owner of the Sword, just to prove something to herself?


    Her face burned with shame. She had very nearly gotten herself killed and had completely failed to save Lord Arzath.


    And she had not stopped Carmine when she had the chance.


    Opening her eyes, gazing at the eucalyptus trees lining the road, she blinked back the sting of tears. She felt as though Everine¡¯s condition was her fault.


    And that was why Araynia was determined to save her, and anyone else if she could.


    Something had changed, after she had awoken in the infirmary. The Sword of Healing had restored her to full health, removed all of her injuries. But it had done more than that.


    She felt more alive than she ever had. She had thought her eyesight good before ¨C now it was astonishingly clear. Her sense of smell and taste and touch and hearing were all improved, to the point where every sensation felt like something new.


    Guilt, fear, sadness, pain ¨C the Sword had not taken these things from her ¨C but they no longer overwhelmed her like they once had. Her grief for Luca was still a scar across her soul, one that she would carry forever, but, somehow, it was a little easier to bear now.


    And her magic¡­


    She could feel it now, and sometimes even see it ¨C like a soft glow beneath her skin, like some part of her that had lain dormant for many years had been suddenly stirred to life. It terrified her, yet was fascinating and¡­ beautiful. She still did not fully understand what it was that she had been given¡­ but she could not deny that Lord Requar¡¯s magic really did live on within her, and she recognised belatedly how precious and unique it was.


    Only one other person in the entire world felt like this: and that was Ferrian.


    But her pendant no longer worked, and this scared and confused her. She had had little time to figure out why, before it was stolen from her.


    Now, Araynia was without both Sword and stone.


    But she still had the magic.


    And since she had finally come to accept the idea, she had become curious, wondering what she could do with it, so¡­ she had decided to practise.


    Over the past few days, while they travelled, she had been testing it; a little at a time, secretly, so as not to make a fuss in front of the others. Back in the infirmary, she had been able to summon the Sword to her, with her will, and so had tried to do such a thing again with small objects such as pebbles and leaves.


    To her great disappointment, however, she hadn¡¯t been able to make it work again. Nothing happened when she tried to move things. Nothing happened when she tried to use healing magic, either ¨C to revive insects, or even soothe the itchy sunburn on her own skin.


    Frustratingly, for all her efforts, she couldn¡¯t make her magic do what she wanted it to. Or do anything at all, for that matter, apart from seeing auras.


    Except for one time, last night.


    She had waited until the other two were asleep, wrapped in their blankets, and had then attempted something that was perhaps, not the wisest idea.


    She had tried to move a fresh log onto their dwindling campfire and¡­


    ¡­ the fire had exploded.


    Ben and Flint had woken with alarm to find their grove of trees on fire and the noblewoman and the horse panicking.


    Thankfully, no one had been injured, but Araynia''s clothes had suffered a few scorch marks and they had wasted most of their water trying to put the flames out.


    She had stammered a breathless apology, and had not dared to use magic at all since then.


    A few hours later, as the sun burned low and golden at their backs, they reached a crossroads.


    A small, potholed track continued straight ahead, mostly overgrown. The dirt road they were following, well-travelled and clear of debris, turned to the right. At the intersection stood a rickety, ancient sign made of two planks nailed together. Through the lichen they could just make out two roughly engraved words: THE LINE, and an arrow, pointing mostly at the ground, though presumably it had originally indicated the better-used road. There was no indication of what lay in the direction of the overgrown path.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Flint stopped only long enough to contemplate the sign, go for a toilet break, swig some water, attend to their horse, and then they were on their way again.


    ¡°Where even are we?¡± Ben moaned, looking around at the rather barren landscape, which seemed to consist mostly of old lava flows, weeds and a scattering of painted eucalyptus trees. ¡°We haven¡¯t seen a farmhouse or even a person for an entire day!¡±


    ¡°Northern edge of the Arlen Plains,¡± Flint replied. He indicated the road ahead. ¡°A few more hours this way, an¡¯ we¡¯ll reach The Line. Big highway runnin¡¯ east to west through the Outlands. Major tradin¡¯ route. Loads o¡¯ merchants cartin¡¯ all kinds of crap back an¡¯ forth. Refugees, too.¡±


    Ben slumped back against some grain sacks. ¡°And that¡¯s where we¡¯ll lose him.¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± Flint waved a fly casually out of his face. ¡°I know where he¡¯s headin¡¯.¡±


    Araynia and Ben both looked at him in surprise. ¡°You do??¡±


    Flint nodded. ¡°Once we hit The Line, we turn east again. Next big town we come to is Watchroads. Fella won¡¯t try sellin¡¯ the Eliminator there: place is full of Freeroamers. Once we meet up with ¡®em, we¡¯ll put out an arrest warrant.¡±


    Ben looked at him. ¡°What makes you so sure he¡¯ll just pass through?¡±


    Flint grinned at him. ¡°Bridgetown.¡±


    The boy and the noblewoman looked blank. ¡°Bridgetown?¡± Ben frowned. ¡°Where¡¯s that?¡±


    Flint snapped the reins. ¡°The border with Siriaza.¡±


    Araynia made a small noise and Ben exclaimed: ¡°The border? But¡­ but that¡¯s hundreds of miles away!¡±


    Araynia looked confused. ¡°I¡­ do not understand. Why would he travel so far? Why not Sel Varence?¡±


    Flint shook his head. ¡°Selvar¡¯s full to burstin¡¯. Place¡¯s locked up tight: the Watch is everywhere. Ain¡¯t no one gettin¡¯ through those gates ¡®scept them fancy Sirinese merchants sellin¡¯ handkerchiefs to the nobles.¡±


    He glanced at them. ¡°Bridgetown¡¯s a notorious black market town, sittin¡¯ right on the border, literally, spannin¡¯ a huge chasm. Neither Daroria or Siriaza make claim to it. The Imperial Guard turn their noses one way, the Watch the other, an¡¯ what happens in between ain¡¯t nobody¡¯s business save the Redwick family, who rule the place.¡± His expression turned grim. ¡°You can sell anythin¡¯ in Bridgetown. An¡¯ I mean¡­ anythin¡¯. Just as long as yer pay the Redwick tax. Violence, though?¡± Flint shook his head. ¡°That¡¯ll get yer kicked inter the chasm quicker than yer know what¡¯s happened. You wanna do away with someone, yer better do it quietly, behind closed doors. Daggers in the dark, smilin¡¯ in the streets, as they say.¡±


    Araynia blanched. ¡°That sounds like a¡­ charming place,¡± she said stiffly.


    Flint¡¯s grin returned. ¡°Ain¡¯t everywhere?¡±


    ¡°So did you go to¡­¡± Ben started awkwardly, then hesitated. ¡°I mean¡­ when you were with the Bladeshifters¡­?¡±


    Flint snorted. ¡°Ha! Nah. Eltorian never went near the place. That little rat liked hangin¡¯ around small towns, pickin¡¯ on people weaker¡¯n he was. But we met up sometimes with¡­ ehhh¡­ disreputable types. Some of ¡®em were pretty-lookin¡¯ con men like our thief. Most of ¡®em just thugs. But some of ¡®em had stories. Bridgetown was one of ¡®em.


    ¡°But my point bein¡¯¡­¡± Flint dug a cigarette and match tin out of his pocket with one hand, the other holding the reins. At a look from Lady Araynia, however, he shoved the matches back in and stuck the unlit cigarette in the side of his mouth. ¡°My point bein¡¯,¡± he went on, ¡°that Bridgetown has a silvertine smith.¡±


    Ben¡¯s eyes went wide. ¡°You think he¡¯s going there to melt down our stuff?¡±


    The Freeroamer nodded.


    ¡°Including Hawk?¡±


    ¡°Includin¡¯ Hawk.¡±


    ¡°That is not going to happen,¡± Araynia declared suddenly, her blue gaze surprisingly fierce.


    Flint touched the brim of his hat. ¡°Damned right it ain¡¯t, Lady,¡± he agreed, and turned to focus on the long road ahead. ¡°Yer damned right it ain¡¯t.¡±


    * * *


    General Corvus Pine of the Imperial Majestic Army leaned on his map desk, studying it intently.


    Pine was a tall, well-toned man in his late thirties, his long, dark brown hair sprinkled with grey and tied back with a blue ribbon, his skin a light shade of brown like most of his fellow Sirinese. His finely-tailored military coat was dyed in contrasting shades of blue, separated by curling, silver embroidery, the front lined with polished buttons. An ornate rapier hung from his hip, and beneath the coat, sleek, intricately-engraved silvertine armour sparkled in the light from the overhead chandelier.


    Pine¡¯s brow was furrowed as he contemplated the map, his mind sketching out troop movements and other scenarios. The map did not depict the entirety of Arvanor, but only the two biggest countries ¨C Daroria and Siriaza ¨C with the border a curving dotted line from the Red Ranges north to the Great Southwood.


    The General mentally corrected himself. No. The map depicted only one country, now.


    The Great Empire of Siriaza.


    Just that morning, mere hours ago, he had received news that the Queen of Daroria had ceded sovereignty of her kingdom to Siriaza.


    Though dramatic, this had come as no great revelation to Pine. Rumors had been mounting ever since Queen Minoa had fled to the northern island continent of Enopina; the only mystery was why it had taken four years.


    In her letter of treaty, she had practically begged the Twin Emperors to deal with the demon-wraith plague, stating that she had not the means to do so, having lost her entire army, and that most of Arvanor was under threat if the wraiths were not stopped.


    She had ceded the Middle Isle as well, though this was a formality as the Emperors had already moved to seize control of the island shortly after the Aegis fell, while the Darorian army was in disarray and the Dragons scattered.


    The Emperors had accepted the cession, agreeing that the demon-wraiths were indeed an existential threat, especially in light of the strange Black Pyramid which had appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the Empire.


    Pine rubbed at his forehead, trying to put this sinister event out of his mind for now, in order to focus on the mundane logistics of getting his army into Daroria to eradicate the wraiths, and exactly how many soldiers and supplies he would need. Nearly the entire Imperial Army was outfitted with silvertine weapons and armour ¨C he was confident that they were prepared. There was already a sizeable force stationed at the border; it would take four weeks to get there himself. Or he could travel by sea with a smaller contingent, landing them on the western coast in the very heart of the plague, but there had been reports of the northern ocean having been contaminated with trigon¡­


    The General¡¯s planning was interrupted by a brief knock on the door, before his second-in-command burst into the room. ¡°Urgent news, Sir!¡± he declared in his gruff voice, before Pine had a chance to react.


    The General sighed heavily. ¡°Again?¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sir!¡± Lieutenant Driffin was a burly man with biceps almost bigger than his bald head, with feathered Angel wings tattooed on both. His beard engulfed the lower part of his face in a round black bush, making his head appear strangely as though it were upside down, and his light blue eyes held a perpetual look of alarm. Right now, they looked even wilder than usual, which was not a good sign.


    Pine waved him to continue, wondering how much drama one day could hold.


    ¡°Sergeant Caskin¡¯s squad has been found!¡± Driffin said.


    Pine looked startled. ¡°Caskin? The last squad I sent into The Grey? Are they alive or dead?¡±


    ¡°Alive, Sir!¡±


    ¡°All of them?!¡±


    Driffin nodded.


    The General came forward at once. ¡°Goddess¡¯ mercy! What condition are they in? Have they been quarantined? Is there any sign of trigonic infection? Is Caskin able to give a report?¡±


    Driffin answered none of the General¡¯s questions. Instead, he looked anxious, rubbing his shiny, tattooed head. ¡°Ehhhh,¡± he said. ¡°You might wanna see this for yerself¡­¡±


    The Gaol of Trystania sprawled like a small, dark fortress atop a high promontory to the south of the city. The barred, semi-circular windows of the cells protruded from sheer rock walls looking out over the vast Sea of Forever. On stormy days the waves smashed almost to the height of the cells, though today the bay below was a beautiful aquamarine, shaded by the cliffs as the sun lowered in the west, and circled by seagulls, who decorated the black stone walls and blue roofs of the Gaol with their own particular white artistry.


    In a large cell at one end of the complex, as far away from other prisoners as possible, resided the twelve men and women of Sergeant Caskin¡¯s squad. Sunlight streamed through the windows on the landward side, flooding the room with stripes of amber light and shadow, but leaving no doubt as to what it contained.


    General Pine stood like a statue, staring though the salt-rusted bars.


    ¡°Open the cell,¡± he ordered finally, after several minutes of silence had passed, accentuated only by the gentle slap of waves and the scent of seaweed.


    Lieutenant Driffin shifted uncomfortably, growling: ¡°Sir, are yer sure yer want to¡­?¡±


    ¡°Open it!¡±


    Looking unhappy, Driffin signalled to the Gaoler, who produced a key and unlocked the cell door. She opened it with a screech to let the General through.


    Despite his order, Pine remained where he was for a long moment more, listening to the cry of a gull.


    Then he stepped inside.


    Sergeant Caskin and those under his command were indeed alive, or at least, their eyes followed him as he entered, though there was no expression on their faces, no hint of recognition. They studied him like wary animals, but otherwise made no movement from where they sat silently on their straw pallets. They were still dressed in their blue military uniforms, though their silvertine armour and weapons were gone.


    They did not appear to be physically injured, and there was no sign of any black infection.


    Pine moved a short way into the cell, then crouched, very slowly, looking around at each of them in turn. His gaze came to rest on their officer.


    ¡°Caskin?¡± he said quietly.


    The soldier stared back at him, his deep blue eyes unblinking beneath the strands of his dark hair, and said nothing.


    Pine studied his expression carefully, but found nothing recognisably Human. It was like meeting the gaze of a cat: watchful, bright, dispassionate and completely inscrutable.


    Finally, the General nodded and lowered his head, closing his eyes, a sudden swell of emotion overtaking him. He let it pass, then carefully regained control of his features, and stood. He took a deep breath to steady himself. ¡°I¡­ I will inform the Twin Emperors myself,¡± he said, his voice more shaky than intended. Then he turned abruptly and strode from the cell, not looking back, his blue coat flaring out behind him. There was another loud screech as the door closed, and the key clicked in the lock.


    Driffin lingered, scowling at the prisoners, then backed away and followed the General. The Gaoler put her key back on her belt, regarded the prisoners for a long moment, then came after.


    Sergeant Caskin and the rest of his squad watched them retreat down the long, dark hallway, listening to the sound of their footsteps dying away.


    Each of them sat perfectly still, silent as the ocean rock, as the sunlight faded from their cell. But the deepening shadows could not hide the black-feathered Angel wings, shimmering with raven colours, at each of their backs.

 Chapter One Forty Six

    Trapped in a dark and cryptic space


    An evil taints a tranquil place.


    The room resembled a kind of eerie but beautiful courtyard, surrounded on all six of its sides by stately, sombre stone arches. There were no windows, but a diffused grey light permeated the space, providing just enough illumination to see by. Strange bronze statues peered out of narrow, shadowy niches, providing unnerving glimpses of fantastical beings seemingly comprised of Human, Angel and animal parts in peculiar combinations. In the centre of the room, a modest fountain tinkled gently, fashioned from bronze in the shape of an open flower topped by an elegant amphora, from which a steady stream of water trickled into a shallow, hexagonal basin. Blue tiles lined the bottom of the basin in a complex patterned design. A similar motif of black and silver tiles spread across the floor and walls, resembling interlocking circles, petals and stars.


    It was immediately apparent that this was no ordinary room, however; an exact replica of fountain, floor, statues and arches was situated directly overhead, upside-down, on what should have been the ceiling.


    A chill of familiarity went down Mekka¡¯s spine as he gazed upwards, struck by the resemblance to Grath Ardan.


    He had no idea how he had come to be in this place. Beyond the archways were short hallways ¨C more like deep recesses ¨C all identical. At the end of each was¡­ something terrible, that drew the eye like nothing else in the room.


    They could have been holes or doorways or solid panels, it was impossible to tell; triangular in shape, and so intensely black that they triggered a vague sort of primal terror that clawed at the back of his brain. They were like fathomless voids of a nothing so profound it was physically present. They surrounded him like sentinels, or eyes; six of them, with another six inverted above his head. They had a watchful, abominable presence, and felt as though they were eating away at his soul.


    Shuddering, he closed his eyes to avoid looking at them, waiting for a wave of disorientation and nausea to pass.


    The last thing he remembered was being drawn along a pitch-dark, cavernous corridor. He had caught a final glimpse of Ferrian, silhouetted against a starry sky, before a door closed behind them. He had called out to his friend, several times, but received no response save his own echo.


    That was not a good sign. It did not bode well at all.


    Somehow, they had become separated, and Mekka had no doubt that it had been intentional.


    Both of them were now trapped somewhere inside the Black Pyramid.


    Mekka took a deep breath, fighting a rising tide of fear, confusion and panic.


    If this Pyramid has killed Ferrian, he thought, anger igniting amid the chaos of his thoughts, I will rip this entire place apart with my bare hands!


    He held on to the anger, let it flare inside him. It burned away the fear, gave him strength. Opening his eyes, he went over to the fountain and stared down at the water in the basin.


    A rippled reflection stared back at him. The glowing blue headpiece was back.


    Mekka clutched at his head with both hands, but felt nothing there at all.


    It¡¯s just an illusion! he thought furiously. This Pyramid is messing with my HEAD! He slashed a hand viciously at the water, then leaned on the basin, taking another deep breath.


    The anger was useful, but it could also cause him to lose control, and he needed to think logically. He was inside a puzzle, and he needed to figure it out if he wanted any hope of getting out of here alive, or of finding Ferrian.


    Scooping water up in his hands, the Angel gulped down several mouthfuls, and splashed some on his face. The thought passed through his mind that it might not be safe to consume, but at this point he didn¡¯t care. This Pyramid had had ample opportunity to kill him before now; tricking him with tainted water seemed a strange way to do it.


    The water tasted sweet and refreshing.


    He drank a little more, and washed some more, scrubbing at his face, then stood leaning on the basin for awhile, letting the droplets trickle off his skin. Then he dried his face with his sleeves, turned and assessed himself.


    His clothes were filthy from being dragged through the ash, and torn in a couple of places. Remarkably, he still had hold of all his weapons and his knapsack, though his bow was shattered. He removed it and tossed it onto the floor, along with his quiver of arrows. He pulled out both of his silvertine daggers and inspected them, then replaced them in their sheaths.


    Removing his dagger belt and the rest of his possessions, he placed them all carefully at his feet, then took off his gloves, jacket and shirt as well and carefully inspected himself for any sign of wounds or trigonic infection. Satisfying himself that no damage had been done except for ordinary scrapes and bruises, he put his clothes back on, along with all his gear, save the broken bow. Spreading his black wings, he flapped them a couple of times to shake out the dust, then sat down on the edge of the fountain and tried to think what to do.


    His gaze wandered upwards again, to the twin fountain trickling above his head, the water falling inexplicably away from him, splashing and rippling outwards into its blue basin. He wondered if the rules here were the same as for Grath Ardan, though he suspected they were not. The tiles lining the room were not simple chequered squares, as they had been in the library; they were a much more sophisticated design, though were undoubtedly made of trigon and silvertine set together in an harmonious array which generated the incomprehensible magic that held this Pyramid together.


    Mekka hadn¡¯t the slightest clue what to expect. This wasn¡¯t a library ¨C it was something alien, intelligent, and with clearly hostile intentions. He didn¡¯t know why the Pyramid had captured them, or what its purpose was, only that it was something constructed by ancient, black-winged Angels, or Seraphim, or whatever the hell they were.


    And he really, really didn¡¯t like the look of those black, triangle-shaped holes¡­


    It was impossible to ignore them. They invaded his peripheral vision like a creeping pack of beasts, encircling him, waiting for him to make a wrong move¡­


    His mind twisted with their presence; his stomach clenched in cold fear¡­


    Before he could think better of it, Mekka was on his feet and striding towards the nearest archway, hands clenched, clinging to the last shreds of his rage.


    Kill me! he defied the black triangle, glaring directly at it, though it took all his will to do so. I DARE you to!


    He came to a stop right in front of it. Though mere inches away, he could not determine what it was made out of. No light reflected from it whatsoever; he could see no detail or depth or anything at all.


    The horror was immense. He felt that the blackness was about to swallow him, to crush him out of existence¡­


    With a rapid movement, Mekka pulled out a dagger, spun it, and plunged it flashing into the heart of the dark triangle.


    Blackness exploded around him.


    Shocked, the Angel fell into a crouch, covering his head with his arms and wings, quite sure that he was about to die.


    An immense clattering sound surrounded him; a cacophony of sensation. He was pummelled by a rain of objects, hard as stones¡­ and then, suddenly¡­ it stopped.


    Mekka remained where he was, hunched over and breathing heavily, his heart racing wildly. After a long moment, realising that he was still alive, he tentatively lifted his head.


    He was crouched on the floor, and the huge, black, triangular thing was gone. Instead, lying scattered around him was a sea of much smaller, but identical black triangular pieces, as though the large triangle had been made up of a multitude of little tiles.


    The silvertine dagger was still gripped in his hand. Reaching out with it, he touched one of the pieces.


    It was solid. Nothing else happened.


    Picking up one of the small triangles with his black-gloved hand, he examined it. The object was smaller than his palm and half an inch thick, as lightless and strange as its bigger counterpart. It felt very cold, like ice, but was not slippery. Something about its texture was¡­ appalling...


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Dropping it hurriedly, he stood, wiping his hand on his jacket, as though he had touched something repulsive. Taking a deep breath, he let it out again and sheathed his dagger, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.


    That was¡­ odd, he thought.


    The space where the triangle had been continued for another ten yards or so along a black-and-silver-patterned corridor, ending at an arched intersection to another hallway. Gingerly, Mekka walked over the pile of black triangle tiles, unable to avoid stepping on them, but nothing else alarming happened. With a final look back at the fountain room, and noticing no other changes, he turned and ventured tentatively along the corridor, heading deeper into the Black Pyramid.


    * * *


    The girl played in the long, pale grass fronds, running and dancing through them. They were soft and delicate and wispy, like cat¡¯s fur, and rippled like waves in the sea. The white field seemed to stretch out forever on every side, with nothing else to be seen on the horizon except the great old magnolia tree standing crooked but graceful on its hill, its huge, snow-white blossoms spectacular against a hazy blue sky.


    After awhile, the girl stopped to catch her breath, turning to look back.


    She really had come a long way from the tree. If she lifted up a hand, she could block it out entirely.


    Giggling, she shaped her hand into a mouth and pretended to gobble up the tree, delicately plucking off its beautiful flowers one by one and swallowing them with relish. Her other hand arrived and started squabbling with the first hand, punching each other as they fought over the tree.


    Eventually, growing bored with the game, she skipped back towards the hill, humming softly to herself. The wind picked up, blowing her yellow dress and tossing her red hair about her face, and making the white grass dance.


    She wondered where the man had gone. What was his name again? Requar? That was a funny name. But it suited him, she thought.


    He was quite pretty, she mused, and had seemed kind. She decided that he could stay in her dream, if he wanted to.


    She stopped skipping and frowned, regretting that she had been rude to him, earlier. What if he didn''t come back? What if he hated her?


    The thought made her feel lonely. She hoped that the man would be waiting, back at the tree. Maybe he could tell her stories!


    Cheered by the thought, she started running towards the tree.


    The wind blew more forcefully now, snapping at her dress, and buffeted the girl so strongly that she tripped and fell over. When she got to her feet, she saw dark grey clouds massing in the distance, rolling towards her across the sky, like a heavy blanket unfurling.


    Something fluttered in her stomach; a familiar, uncomfortable warning.


    She ran harder.


    The tree was an awfully long way off¡­


    The clouds overtook her, and the grass was no longer dancing, but thrashing wildly in agitation. The long stalks caught her legs up, and she went down again, this time hard, smashing her chin and drawing blood from her lip.


    Fear flooded through her like a broken dam, a sense of wrongness sweeping over the land with the shadow of the clouds overhead. Wiping at her lip, she looked up.


    The sky was the colour of an angry bruise, all trace of blue gone, the light diminished to a murky twilight. The underside of the clouds were turning a dullish red.


    The girl stood up, bracing herself against the wind.


    There was a crack of thunder so loud that it made her jump, and in the same instant, a figure appeared right in front of her.


    It was a woman, clad in something black and shiny that was moulded to her skin, gleaming with dark colours like the sheen on oil. The remains of a charred and tattered long coat hung about her, tossed like rags in the wind. Her hair was burned short; what remained of it was bright red, like the girl¡¯s own. Her face was horribly pale, like that of a dead person, with black veins crawling up the sides.


    Her eyes were like the winter sky, and her bloodless lips were smiling.


    Where are you going, little Child of the Magnolia Tree?


    Her voice was awful; though feminine, there was something like an insect hiss behind the words.


    The girl said nothing, but could only stare in shock, her own grey eyes wide, standing rooted to the spot.


    The demon-like woman stared back, still smiling. Who is waiting for you, Magnolia? she said, her words seeming to swarm around her, cutting through the wind. Who is waiting for you at the tree?


    The girl set her jaw, still saying nothing, her small hands balled into fists.


    The woman took a step forward. Could it be your father? She took another step. Could it be your mother? Taking a final step closer, she offered a sleek black hand for the girl to take. Or could it... be YOU?


    GO AWAY! the girl screamed.


    The wind howled like a hurricane, torn white grass fronds flying around them.


    The demon-woman paused where she was, her hand still extended. Her smile faded, replaced with a look of perplexed sorrow. But the world belongs to us, Magnolia, she said. This world; all worlds. Everything belongs to us. Why won¡¯t you come and take it with me?


    YOU¡¯RE A NIGHTMARE! the girl cried furiously. LEAVE ME ALONE!!


    Slowly, the woman withdrew her arm, her expression changing back into a seductive smile. Oh, Magnolia, she sighed. Sweet little Magnolia.


    Fire burst from her eyes, igniting her hair, tearing along the remains of her clothing. I AM NOT A NIGHTMARE. I AM--


    A wall burst out of the ground between them; an immense, solid stone fortress wall of alabaster blocks, thrusting itself high into the stormy sky, separating girl from demon, cutting off the woman¡¯s words.


    The girl stumbled backwards, falling to the ground, cowering.


    The touch of a hand on her shoulder made her jump and cry out.


    Come with me! a man¡¯s voice said. Quickly!


    It was Requar. Letting out a sob of relief, the girl took his hand and he pulled her up. They turned and fled through the storm.


    As they ran, white walls built up around them, materialising block by block from out of the air. The field of grass disappeared, flagstones formed into place beneath their feet; the torrid sky shut away by a lofty, vaulted ceiling.


    Somewhere behind them, muffled by the distance and the stone, came a world-shattering scream of rage. They felt the tremor of it through their feet.


    Requar ran hard down the newly-created corridor, dragging the girl with him. Abruptly he stopped, whirled and slammed a hand palm first against a wall.


    An archway appeared there, and they threw themselves through it. Requar slashed a hand and the opening vanished behind them.


    They ran on.


    They fled down a maze-like series of hallways, illuminated at intervals with peculiar lanterns emanating cool blue light. The sound of the storm and the demon-wraith¡¯s fury quickly faded into silence, marked only by their frantic footsteps and heavy breathing. Requar led them through more arched openings and up stairways, blocking off the passages as he went.


    Finally, they raced up a narrow spiral staircase and emerged into a long corridor lined with blue and gold silk hangings, and tall windows streaming with sunshine. Requar helped Magnolia out of the stairwell and they went quickly to the end of the corridor and down another set of spiral stairs, and came out onto the mezzanine of a magnificent, opulent, white stone foyer.


    Requar went to the balustrade and slumped against it, panting and closing his eyes in relief.


    The girl looked around in awe. Where are we?


    Hmmm? Opening his eyes, Requar straightened. Oh. Ah... this is¡­ my castle.


    The girl went to the balcony and looked down. Sunlight spilled through a huge, round, stained glass window onto a marble floor, painting it blue and yellow in the image of a rising sun. A crystal chandelier glinted in the light, and elegant, finely crafted furniture stood around the walls. A large, white-painted grandfather clock ticked away the sudden, incongruent silence.


    It¡¯s¡­ beautiful.


    Requar gazed down with her. Yes, he agreed quietly, his features clouded. It¡­ it was. He took a deep breath. Why don¡¯t we go and make a fire in the hearth? A smile returned to his face.


    Magnolia looked up at him uncertainly, glancing back the way they had come.


    We will be safe here, Requar assured her. Do not worry. Turning, he started down the sweeping staircase.


    The girl followed after his swishing blue cloak, taking everything in. Are you a king? she asked, as they crossed the foyer.


    Unexpectedly, Requar laughed. No, he replied. No, I am certainly not. He led the way into the dining room.


    They walked by a long, polished table with ornate wooden chairs, passing through shafts of sunlight streaming from long windows to one side. On the opposite wall was a large painting of a noble family. The carpet underfoot was soft, deep blue and luxurious. At the end of the room was a large hearth. Requar went over to it and knelt on the floor to arrange some kindling.


    Magnolia stood by, looking around. There were a couple of comfortable armchairs before the fireplace. She sat down carefully in one of them.


    The castle was hushed. There were no sounds to be heard outside except for some birds. Beyond the windows, there seemed to be a small garden, and more castle.


    Requar finished getting the fire started, and flames danced brightly against the pale stone. He stood. Just a moment, he told her, then left through another door on the opposite side of the room. A minute later he returned, holding a small porcelain plate decorated with blue flowers. Arranged on it were several delicious-looking golden-brown biscuits, topped with walnuts.


    An old lady used to bake these for me, a long time ago, he said. Try one! They are very good.


    Obediently, the girl took one of the biscuits. It looked like the most wonderful biscuit she had ever seen, but she did not eat it. Instead, she just held it in her hand, staring at it.


    The demon lady is going to kill us, isn¡¯t she? the girl said suddenly, in a small voice.


    Requar placed the biscuits down carefully on a side table, then came and knelt before the girl¡¯s chair. I will not allow that to happen, he told her, his face sincere. I promise you.


    Tears welled unbidden in the girl¡¯s eyes and she blinked them away quickly. I want to fight her! she said with sudden ferocity.


    Requar blinked in surprise.


    How did she get into my dream? I want her out of it!!


    Requar looked at her seriously. She is a demon-wraith, he explained quietly. She is very dangerous. She must be removed from this place, or¡­ much will be lost, including us. But for now, we must hide from her, and be quiet. We must be patient.


    He gave her a smile, and patted her hand. Now, eat your biscuit. You will feel better afterwards.


    The girl brushed at her nose with the hand holding her biscuit. Do you have any milk?


    Requar¡¯s eyes glittered. Of course! He went away to fetch it.


    But, what about my tree? she said anxiously, when he returned. Will it be safe?


    In response, he gestured at the dining room windows. The girl craned in her chair to see.


    There, shadowing the little garden courtyard with its crooked boughs, golden shafts of sunlight spearing amongst its overblown white blossoms, protected by the high, white stone walls of the castle, was the magnolia tree.


    The girl turned back, and gave Requar a smile for the first time.


    He returned it.


    They sat, with the hearth crackling cosily, quietly nibbling the biscuits and sipping milk, and Magnolia thought that she did, indeed, feel better.

 Chapter One Forty Seven

    The chase goes on, a crawling pace


    But soon to be a hectic race.


    Watchroads was the largest town in the Outlands, sprawling in orderly chaos on the eastern edge of the Arlen Plains. It had gained its name from four ancient but ornate wood and stone towers that stood in the centre. They had originally been used as watchtowers, but at some time in their history had been converted into windmills; each tower was topped with different coloured blades, though currently they hung still, with no breath of air to stir them to life. A wall had originally surrounded the town, but the population had grown so rapidly that this had become obsolete, and no one had gone to the trouble and expense of building a new one, so the town had simply crawled outwards in all directions across the plains.


    The highway known as The Line cut straight through the middle of the town. Most commerce was along its length, with smaller streets branching off in a neat grid pattern. Though the main street was a noisy, boisterous mass of shopkeepers, animals, travellers and townsfolk, all either trying to get somewhere or sell something, the outlying districts were quiet and lazy, blazing in the heat of a sun that baked the flat country dry.


    Ben slouched against the side of the cart, feeling as though pieces of him were silently melting onto the dusty road below, and there might be nothing left of him by the time they reached the town centre.


    They had barely entered Watchroads, and their progress had ground to a halt.


    The cart beside him was carrying vegetables; the stench of them wafted over to him, mingled with the smell of dust and horse excrement. To Ben''s left, heading west, were several much fancier Sirinese wagons of polished wood and brightly painted designs, bearing expensive fabrics and smelling of exotic spices.


    The mix of scents was a little nauseating, and the air was stifling hot and unbearable. The street was enclosed with colourful three-story buildings for its entire length, but the sun was directly overhead, and there was no shade.


    ¡°How far away is the Guard House?¡± he complained.


    ¡°¡¯Bout three more blocks,¡± Flint replied.


    Ben huffed in exasperation. ¡°We could walk there faster than this!¡± Indeed, people were passing them on foot on either side.


    Flint grunted. ¡°Be my guest, but you¡¯ll have to drag yer sister along with you.¡±


    Ben sighed again, dropping his sweaty face into his hand. Everine was a problem that they hadn¡¯t yet figured out how to deal with. If anyone caught sight of her infection, then panic would spread through this place faster than they could blink, and there would be real trouble. In order to keep her safe, they had to keep her hidden.


    Currently, she was snuggled in between their camping equipment. Ben moved over to check on her condition, discreetly.


    There was no change, as usual.


    Ben went and sat at the back of the cart, resting his arms on the edge. Anxiety boiled in the queasy stew of his stomach.


    He knew that Araynia had been practising magic, though she tried to hide it. He and Flint had given her space, refrained from commenting or questioning her, even when weird things happened, like their campfire exploding. They both recognised it as an important development. It meant that she had accepted the legacy she had been given, that she took it seriously, that she wanted to learn. She could have chosen to reject the Sword, to leave it behind, to leave Lord Arzath behind. To decide that she didn¡¯t want anything to do with magic.


    But she hadn¡¯t, because she cared.


    And now Everine¡¯s fate was in her hands, and Hawk¡¯s, too.


    Ben lifted his gaze to the sky, which was pale blue and hazy, empty of everything but the sun. But was she capable of dealing with trigon? No one would know that until the noblewoman was reunited with the Sword of Healing.


    He hoped that Lieutenant Raemint wasn¡¯t far behind them.


    Or Ferrian and Mekka.


    He searched the sky for awhile, longing to see a White Dragon come sailing out of the blue, willing her to appear as though he had the magic to summon the Dragon and his sorcerer friend.


    But nothing moved there: not even birds.


    Sighing again, Ben dropped his head on to his arms. The farmer behind them was driving his cart with a huge, shaggy bison. The animal lifted its head to sniff at the boy, and Ben reached out a hand to pat its nose. Then his hand slipped away as his own cart started moving again, and Ben felt a surge of excitement, which lasted about five steps before they halted again.


    He groaned.


    At that moment, completely without warning, Lady Araynia hopped down off the cart and disappeared into the packed street.


    Both Ben and Flint were so shocked that for a moment they simply stared at the spot where she had been sitting.


    ¡°What¡¯s got into her, now?¡± Flint exclaimed.


    Ben clambered hurriedly to the front of the cart, onto the driver¡¯s seat, then jumped to the ground. ¡°I¡¯ll go after her. Meet you at the Guard House!¡±


    Then he ran off.


    He wedged his way between sweating, huffing animals and disgruntled travellers until he came to the side of the road. The street was lined with market stalls which narrowed the thoroughfare considerably and was the main cause of the slow pace, as traffic mingled with shoppers, much to everyone¡¯s consternation. Ben leaped over some sacks of dried beans and found a clearway behind the stalls. Straight ahead, a slim figure with dark hair and cloak flying out sprinted away down the footpath.


    Ben took chase.


    ¡°Araynia!¡± he cried, but his voice was swallowed in the babble of mayhem and she didn¡¯t react, but kept on running. He tried to avoid bowling into people while keeping her in sight, but lost her as she rounded a corner.


    He sprinted hard, apologising as he crashed into a woman shifting a crate of oranges, sending them flying everywhere, and made it to the side street.


    This street was much less busy than the main road. He caught sight of the noblewoman racing ahead of him down the road on the opposite side, in the shadow of the buildings.


    Someone was saying some unpleasant things behind him, but he didn¡¯t have time to stop and help. Dodging the rolling oranges, he darted across the street and continued the chase.


    To his relief, he found her stopped at the next corner, looking frantically around herself as though searching for something. He skidded to a halt in front of her, seizing her arm before she could slip away again. ¡°Lady!¡± he panted. ¡°What¡­ what are you doing?!¡±


    Her face was flushed and her eyes were wide and distant, as though oblivious to his presence. They gleamed with a faint blue light, and Ben realised she was using that Mind Vision thing again. He glanced around nervously, hoping that nobody else had noticed.


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    ¡°My pendant!¡± she gasped. ¡°I saw it!¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± Ben straightened at once. ¡°Which way?¡±


    She looked around some more, then suddenly pointed. ¡°There!¡± She bolted away again. Ben let her go, and raced after.


    They pounded down the sunny street, then veered into another. Halfway down the laneway, Araynia came to a halt and sagged against a building, struggling for breath. She gestured for Ben to go on. ¡°Go!¡± she gasped. ¡°That way!¡± She pointed.


    Ben took off.


    We found the thief! His mind burned with excitement, as his boots hit the pavement, hard. He¡¯s here, in this town! Somehow we caught up with him!


    Ben didn¡¯t know what he was going to do when he caught up to that fancy bandit, but he was determined not to let him get away again¡­


    He turned a corner into another, wider street and emerged, panting, into a large square. A green space occupied the middle, lined with mature chestnut trees that overshadowed the dusty streets around them. The grass was patchy and drying in the sun, and studded with bright yellow dandelions.


    There were not many people about, in stark contrast to the packed main road. Some way off to his right, two women stood chatting outside a house. To his left, outside an ancient-looking shop, shaded by the trees, an exhausted silver mare was being hitched to a post.


    The horse was instantly recognisable, as was its rider, with his green cloak and flamboyant hat.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Ben was already running. ¡°STOP! THIEF!!¡±


    Looking up, a shock of recognition seized the man''s well-groomed features. Abandoning his horse, he twirled away into the alley beside the shop.


    Ben sprinted after.


    No you DON¡¯T, Ben thought furiously. You are NOT getting away, you--


    He skidded to a halt so suddenly that he nearly tripped over.


    The alleyway was not empty. Four treacherous-looking men clad in black leather and silver adornments lounged around on crates or against the walls. In the middle of the alley stood a very rotund woman in a scarlet coat, with whom the thief was exchanging hurried words. As Ben arrived at the mouth of the passage, everyone looked at him.


    The thief shoved something into the pudgy, ring-encrusted hand of the woman ¨C something that glittered blue in the shaded light of the alley ¨C and Ben sucked in a sharp breath.


    Araynia¡¯s pendant!


    The woman gestured with her head and the thief slipped past her. He spun and flashed Ben a white smile, tipped his feathered hat, then ran off.


    The men and the woman stood between the boy and the rogue.


    Ben¡¯s heart hammered crazily in his chest. No, he thought in panic. No, they can¡¯t be¡­!


    They were all heavily armed, with a variety of weapons. Two short swords hung at the wide hips of the woman, beneath her coat.


    She was smiling at him.


    ¡°Got any jewels for Jewels?¡± a young blond man to Ben¡¯s right drawled, grinning.


    ¡°Jewels for Jewels,¡± an older man to the left repeated, in a rasping voice.


    Ben stared back at them for a heartbeat. Then he turned to run.


    Two more Bladeshifters stepped out behind him ¨C a thickset man and a lean, well-muscled woman ¨C blocking his escape.


    Ohhh crap, he thought, stomach falling. This is not good¡­


    He spun back around. ¡°I don¡¯t have anything!¡± he insisted, and pointed in the direction the thief had fled. ¡°That man stole everything I own!¡±


    They all just grinned at him.


    Ben swallowed back the fear flooding through him, but refused to give in to it. There was no other way out of the alley; no doors, no windows, no sewer gratings, no ledges to grab hold of. Nothing but high stone walls with flaking plaster, and some scrappy posters.


    ¡°I mean it!¡± Ben went on, desperately. ¡°That guy is loaded, and you¡¯re just¡­ letting him run away?!¡±


    The Bladeshifters looked at each other, then back at Ben. They started to get up off their crates.


    Ben backed away a step, then remembered the two at his back, who had now drawn their weapons.


    ¡°Dammit!¡± he burst out. ¡°He¡¯s got the Eliminator!¡±


    That stopped them. They stared at each other again, this time in surprise. Their leader, Jewels, raised her studded eyebrows. She had two black lines tattooed down her face, which was thick with all manner of piercings. A treasure-vault¡¯s worth of finery hung at her neck, and upon her wrists and fingers. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, and her hands were on her hips.


    She still held the pendant: Ben could see its silver chain dangling between her fingers.


    ¡°Well, boys and girls!¡± she exclaimed. ¡°How exciting!¡± She regarded Ben, her smile even wider, revealing several gold teeth. ¡°You a friend of Starshadow Flint?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Ben glared at her. ¡°And when he gets his crossbow back, you¡¯re all going to see what he¡¯s capable of!¡±


    They all laughed.


    The older man next to Ben let out a long whistle. ¡°We know exactly what he did to Eltorian Nightwalker,¡± he growled. His rugged face was crossed with two scars in the shape of an X, giving him a permanent scowl, even when he was grinning.


    ¡°And Darkstar,¡± the blond man added, holding up his knife and examining it. ¡°So that traitor Flint finally crawled out of his filthy hole on the hill¡­¡± He tossed his knife into the air and caught it deftly.


    Far from intimidated, Jewels¡¯ dark eyes were bright with glee. ¡°What an¡­ interesting day we are all having,¡± she said, ¡°wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    Ben made a rush for the red-coated woman. It was stupid, and he didn''t think it through, but he wanted to act before the Bladeshifters did, and thought perhaps he could knock the pendant out of the woman¡¯s grip, or wrestle it from her¡­


    He greatly underestimated her reflexes. The second he was within striking distance, a gemstone-laden fist lashed out, smashing into his face.


    Dazzling light exploded into his vision, and he was on the ground before he knew what had happened. Dimly, through the buzzing in his ears, he heard the Bladeshifters jeering and hooting, and knew, with certainty, that in moments he would be dead.


    Lady Araynia arrived at the entrance to the alleyway in time to see Ben go down. A group of black-clad ruffians and a large woman dressed in red were gathered round him, bearing weapons and hollering with amusement.


    Horror ripped through her, in a cold, burning wave.


    ¡°LEAVE HIM ALONE!¡± she screamed.


    They all turned to look at her, becoming instantly silent, as though her words had stolen their breath.


    A long moment passed, in which nobody moved.


    A couple of the thugs lowered their blades, faces falling uncertainly. A woman with dark, spiky hair let out a piercing shriek.


    ¡°SORCERER!¡± she hollered, and fled off down the alley, like a rat.


    The woman in red had gone pale, but there was fury in her eyes. She held up a thick arm and pointed at the noblewoman. A silver chain dangled from her fist.


    Blue fire flashed through Araynia¡¯s mind.


    My pendant!!


    ¡°KILL HER!¡±


    Araynia looked down at her hands, noticing belatedly that white light was streaming off her skin in waves, like mist.


    Her magic had come alive¡­ but she had no idea what to do with it¡­


    Five armed men and the red woman were charging down the passage towards her.


    Araynia¡¯s only instinct was to flee.


    So she did.


    She ran across the street, heading for the trees lining the square. Her pursuers sounded close behind, gaining on her with every step, and she knew at once that she wasn¡¯t going to make it. Her legs were already tired and burning from the hard running she had done¡­


    They gave out on her in the middle of the grassy space, and she went to her knees in the dandelions.


    Help me! she pleaded, in wild panic. HELP ME, LORD REQUAR!!


    There was no response from the dead sorcerer.


    She could hear the ragged breathing of the thugs, their howls of triumph¡­ all the blood drained from her veins as she expected to feel the bite of a sword through her back at any second¡­


    She squeezed her eyes closed in anguish, calling to her pendant with everything in her.


    I can¡¯t die here! I can¡¯t die! PLEASE, HELP ME!


    Her magic surged through her, like a storm unleashed.


    And suddenly, all she could think of was the campfire exploding¡­


    White light flooded over her, shocking in its intensity. It engulfed everything ¨C the sounds of her attackers, her own frantic breathing ¨C into mute nothing. But the light was not serene, it was a searing rush, and all of a sudden she was back in Lord Arzath¡¯s Fatalis, being ripped to shreds, scorched to the bone, reduced to oblivion¡­.


    She screamed, without noise. Then the whiteness was rushing away from her, chased by black shadow, and her consciousness raced along with it, and was gone.


    Gradually, Araynia came to the awareness that she was not dead. Someone was shaking her, and making a repetitive noise, which eventually formed out of the darkness into her name.


    Her eyes opened, groggily.


    Ben was crouched over her, looking worried. The right side of his face was bruised and streaked with blood from a cut at the corner of his eye, which was red and swollen.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, we have to get out of here!¡± He started pulling her up, before she had fully come to.


    Araynia looked around, dizzily. The grass behind where she lay was scorched black, as were the sides of a couple of trees. Small fires continued to flicker here and there, and smoke wafted across the square.


    Three black-clad bodies lay on the ground a short distance away, their clothes smouldering, and their skin¡­


    She felt as though she was about to throw up.


    But the boy turned her aside, quickly. Reaching into his pocket, he took her hand and pressed something into it.


    Araynia looked down.


    A beautiful, bright blue sapphire glimmered back at her, nestled on its silver chain.


    Tears of disbelief filled her eyes, and she gave Ben a look of gratitude.


    The boy gave her a quick smile. ¡°Can you walk?¡±


    Araynia¡¯s legs ached, and her stomach was querulous, but she nodded that she could, and they started hurrying across the square. A crowd of people had gathered beneath the trees, gasping and pointing, but were keeping their distance.


    ¡°The bodies¡­¡± Araynia swallowed. ¡°Are they... are they dead?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re Bladeshifters,¡± the boy replied, his young face hard. ¡°You did this town a favour.¡±


    Araynia¡¯s blood went cold with horror. ¡°They¡¯re people!¡±


    ¡°Some definition of ¡®people¡¯.¡± He glanced behind them. ¡°They got what was coming to them.¡±


    I killed them, she thought. Oh, gods¡­


    ¡°But everyone saw you do magic,¡± Ben went on. He was propelling her along at an uncomfortable pace, with a tight grip on her arm. ¡°We¡¯re in trouble, now.¡±

 Chapter One Forty Eight

    Truths revealed, a journey sealed


    A stab of darkness never healed.


    Sergeant Flint did not look very happy.


    He did not look happy at all.


    He looked, in fact, the most angry that Ben and Lady Araynia had ever seen him, and everyone was silently thankful that he was no longer in possession of his giant crossbow.


    ¡°Someone wanna tell me,¡± he growled, hands on his hips, ¡°WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOIN'' ON?!¡±


    They were cringing at a table in Watchroads¡¯ Guard House, which was significantly more gloomy and dingy than the Freeroamer¡¯s white-painted headquarters in Forthwhite. The walls were of cold, grey granite, so damp that moss was growing in places, even in summer, and the windows were small and unfriendly. The room they were currently in had no windows at all; nothing but a wooden table and benches. Two lanterns burned on opposite walls, with another hanging by a chain from the dark-beamed ceiling.


    ¡°Araynia found the thief,¡± Ben said simply.


    Flint¡¯s expression changed to one of astonishment. He turned to the officer in charge, a grey-bearded Sergeant named Wolfrun.


    ¡°On it,¡± the man said, and was gone from the room in an instant.


    Taking his hat off, Flint rubbed at his face and went and leaned on the table. ¡°Tell me what happened.¡±


    Ben explained everything, from his point of view. Lady Araynia sat silently while he told it.


    Flint¡¯s mood did not improve when the Bladeshifters were mentioned. He waited until the boy had finished speaking, then slammed his fist onto the table, grabbed his hat and shoved it onto his head, and turned away, fuming.


    ¡°An'' you saw no sign of the Eliminator, or Hawk?¡± he muttered after a moment.


    ¡°No,¡± Ben replied unhappily, and sighed in frustration. ¡°I almost caught him! I would have, if those damned Bladeshifters hadn¡¯t gotten in the way!¡± He shook his head. ¡°But their leader, Jewels, wasn¡¯t one of the dead, even though she was holding Araynia¡¯s pendant. Maybe it burned her and she threw it away. I found it lying in the dirt.¡±


    ¡°Well, three of ¡®em didn¡¯t get so lucky,¡± Flint growled, and gestured in the direction of the street. ¡°An'' now we¡¯ve got half the town clamourin¡¯ at the door of the Guard House, wantin¡¯ t¡¯know what happened!¡± He turned an intense hazel stare onto the noblewoman.


    Araynia flushed, and couldn¡¯t meet his gaze. She stared down at her hands in her lap, instead. She still felt sick, and a little shivery, and extremely tired.


    ¡°I¡­ I do not know,¡± she stammered. ¡°I only wanted to get them away from Ben. I do not know what I was doing.¡± She swallowed. ¡°I was desperate for help. I tried to call Lor¡ª¡± she caught herself abruptly. No one else knew about her connection with Requar.


    She flushed even deeper. ¡°I¡­ I called upon the magic in my pendant,¡± she mumbled. ¡°I did not¡­ intend to hurt anyone¡­¡± Tears welled in her eyes again, and she shook her head.


    ¡°She was being chased, Flint,¡± Ben said defensively. ¡°They were going to kill her. She hasn¡¯t been trained, like Ferrian has; she probably acted on instinct. Ferrian told me how he couldn¡¯t control his magic at first, either; it just burst out of him at unexpected moments.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± Flint said. ¡°Heard all about it from Grisket.¡± He shook his head, scowl remaining in place. ¡°Hell of an instinct, though¡­¡±


    ¡°I do not understand!¡± Araynia burst out, wiping at the tears leaking down her cheeks. ¡°I was supposed to have inherited healing magic! How¡­ how could I have¡­ killed people?!¡±


    A deep, uncomfortable silence fell.


    ¡°Requar was a powerful sorcerer,¡± Flint said finally. ¡°I guess you got, er¡­ the whole package, not just the healin¡¯ part¡­¡±


    Araynia looked up at him in confusion. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    Flint and Ben exchanged a look, and Araynia did not like the expression on their faces. Something dark began to grow in her chest.


    ¡°Umm¡­ how much do you know about Lord Requar?¡± Ben asked cautiously.


    Araynia stared down at the table. ¡°Almost nothing,¡± she admitted.


    ¡°Best keep it that way,¡± Flint growled darkly. ¡°He could heal anyone, and usually would without askin'', but¡­¡± he shook his head. ¡°He also did some things you don¡¯t wanna know about¡­¡±


    The noblewoman was on her feet at once. She rounded the table and confronted Flint. ¡°I absolutely do!¡±


    ¡°Lady¡­¡± Ben said in warning. ¡°You¡­ you really don¡¯t¡­¡±


    Araynia looked from the Freeroamer to the boy and back again. Her chest felt tight, but there was a flicker of anger in the darkness, now. ¡°And how is it that everyone else knows important things about Lord Requar, and I do not? I am the one who is supposed to be carrying on his legacy: I think I ought to know!¡±


    There was another silence. Flint and Ben looked unhappy. The Freeroamer regarded her for a long moment, as though weighing her resilience with her need for truth. Then he nodded, slowly, and told her plainly: ¡°He destroyed the School of Magical Studies.¡±


    Araynia stared back at him, aghast. ¡°W¡­ what?!¡± She shook her head in denial. ¡°No! No, that can¡¯t be true! That was a terrible accident, a spell that went wrong¡­¡±


    Ben shook his head.


    ¡°That ain¡¯t even the worst of it,¡± Flint went on, gloomily, and frowned. ¡°Are you sure y¡¯want to¡­?¡±


    ¡°Tell me,¡± Araynia said tightly.


    Flint moved over to a bench and sat down slowly, clasping his hands on the table before him. ¡°When Requar was a kid,¡± he went on quietly, ¡°he got hold of a trigonic dagger." He hesitated, glancing up at the noblewoman. "He killed his mother with it, accidentally.¡± He paused at Araynia''s gasp of shock. ¡°For years, he studied at the School, tryin'' to find a cure for her. That¡¯s how he ended up with a Sword of Healin¡¯.¡± He shook his head sadly. ¡°But he couldn¡¯t save her. He kept the dagger, though; he thought he could stop anyone else from usin'' it.¡± Flint was silent for a moment.


    ¡°Four years ago, he and his brother had a fight. Arzath found out the truth about their mother. He took that damned dagger and threatened his brother with it, hated him so much he thought he wanted to kill him, but that dagger was too evil, even for Arzath. But..." He closed his eyes, bowing his head. ¡°Requar picked up the dagger and¡­ stabbed himself with it. I was there, and it weren¡¯t pretty.¡±


    Araynia stared at him in horrified silence.


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t how he died, though,¡± Ben added quietly. ¡°He would have turned into a wraith, but Arzath brought him back, somehow. But Requar sacrificed his life to save Ferrian.¡±


    Araynia¡¯s heart pounded in her chest. She found herself walking backwards until she came up against the stone wall. Her world seemed to have narrowed into a dark tunnel. She put her hands to her face.


    She never could have believed that Lord Requar¡¯s history was so horrific, and she hadn¡¯t even thought to ask anyone about it, or find out who he was as a person. Childishly, she had been in awe of him, so dazzled by his attractiveness and charm, and a vain hope that he was somehow her saviour¡­


    I have inherited magic from A MURDERER!


    She turned and leaned her burning forehead against the cold stone, choking with sobs. The magic no longer felt like a wondrous gift, but a taint, as though she might as well be infected with trigon. The pendant was a black hole upon her chest; she wondered why she had ever been so desperate to get it back. Now, all she wanted to do was rip it off and toss it down the nearest well.


    She could no longer communicate with Lord Requar. Why? What had changed? Was it deliberate? Had he saved her from the wraiths for his own selfish purposes, just to throw her away when he got what he wanted?


    She couldn¡¯t reconcile this awful knowledge with the person she had met in the Sword. He had treated her with kindness, even though she had sensed something frightening about him from the start. But he had completely failed to mention the destructive potential of her ¨C of his ¨C magic. He had only ever talked about her ability to heal¡­


    All of a sudden, just like that ¨C Araynia fully understood what the Sword of Healing was for.


    Requar had told her that she didn¡¯t need it to use healing magic, but that was not entirely true. Perhaps, a very skilled sorcerer could do such a thing, but the point of the Sword was to isolate the restorative part of the magic, separate it out from the rest, so that it could be used safely. Otherwise, there was an equal chance that she could destroy someone that she was trying to save.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    As long as she kept hold of her Sword, she could direct her magic harmlessly into it, instead of creating all kinds of disastrous effects¡­


    She straightened from the wall. Ben was trying to comfort her, though she couldn¡¯t hear his words through her own raging thoughts. ¡°I need the Sword of Healing back,¡± she said shakily. ¡°Now.¡±


    Ben looked at her in concern. ¡°Raemint will¡ª¡±


    ¡°No!¡± She spun. ¡°I am going back for it!¡±


    Sergeant Flint was standing between her and the door. He crossed his arms. ¡°That ain¡¯t happenin¡¯, Lady,¡± he stated frankly.


    Araynia glared at him, through a tear-streaked face. ¡°Are you going to stop me?¡±


    Flint shrugged. ¡°Yeah. If I ¡®ave to.¡±


    ¡°Araynia,¡± Ben pleaded. ¡°Please don¡¯t run away again.¡±


    She looked at him, at his young, wounded face, full of disappointment and worry, and all the anger drained out of her. She stepped over to the bench and sagged down onto it, too exhausted to stand up for herself any longer.


    ¡°It will be alright, Araynia,¡± Ben consoled her. ¡°We¡¯ll get your Sword back!¡± He sat down next to her. ¡°You¡¯re not Lord Requar,¡± he added quietly. ¡°You¡¯re your own person.¡±


    Araynia said nothing, just stared at the tears dripping into her lap.


    The door opened at that moment, and Sergeant Wolfrun returned. ¡°Crowd¡¯s gettin¡¯ a mite unruly out there,¡± he said. ¡°You folks better leave.¡±


    Ben looked up in surprise. ¡°We¡¯re leaving already?!¡±


    Wolfrun shrugged. ¡°Up to you, but the Lady here¡¯s in danger if you stay. Your thief¡¯s been spotted headin¡¯ east; like Flint reckoned, he¡¯s prob¡¯ly headin¡¯ for Bridgetown.¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± Ben said in sudden dismay. ¡°The Bladeshifters are probably after him too, now, knowing he¡¯s got the Eliminator¡­"


    Flint looked furious. ¡°If that Jewels woman gets ¡®er grubby mitts on me crossbow¡­!¡± He couldn¡¯t finish the sentence.


    No one wanted to imagine that scenario.


    ¡°Aye, well,¡± Wolfrun said, ¡°there¡¯s horses saddled and ready waitin¡¯ out the back. If you head out the southern side o¡¯ the town, you should miss the rabble. You can circle back across the plains to The Line.¡±


    Flint shook hands with the Sergeant. ¡°Cheers, Wolf!¡±


    Wolfrun unpinned a shiny round badge from his blue sleeve, and flipped it to Flint. ¡°Saw you was missin¡¯ yours. I¡¯ll rustle up another.¡±


    Flint thanked him again, then moved to the door. ¡°Alright, kids,¡± he said. ¡°Let¡¯s move it.¡±


    ¡°Wa¡ªwait a minute!¡± Ben said. ¡°What about my sister?¡±


    ¡°In a safe house,¡± Wolfrun replied. ¡°We¡¯re lookin¡¯ after her.¡±


    Ben looked uncertain. ¡°But you know she¡¯s¡­¡±


    Wolfrun nodded. ¡°We know. We ain¡¯t lettin¡¯ anyone near her. We¡¯ll take good care of her, give you me word.¡±


    ¡°Cartin¡¯ Everine around the countryside ain¡¯t doin¡¯ anyone no good,¡± Flint pointed out. ¡°She¡¯s as safe here as anywhere.¡±


    The boy nodded reluctantly. Then he thanked Sergeant Wolfrun, helped Araynia to her feet, and they followed Flint out the door in uneasy silence.


    ¡°I think we should cut her eyeballs out and roast them,¡± Shadowrunner commented, lying on her back in the dry grass.


    ¡°Leave one of them intact,¡± Silverstrike suggested, tossing his blond fringe out of his face. ¡°So that she can see what¡¯s happening.¡± He gave a nasty grin.


    ¡°We should¡¯ve stayed behind to finish her off,¡± the grizzled man, X, complained. ¡°The hell with torture¡­¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± Jewels silenced them all with a glare. ¡°I want the Eliminator! Once I prise it off of that fool Gastan, I¡¯ll shoot his pretty head off with it. Then we go back and put a bolt in the girl. Then Flint.¡± She paused. ¡°Make it two bolts for that bastard. Then that brat of a boy¡­¡±


    Silverstrike raised an eyebrow. ¡°In that order?¡±


    Jewels grinned at him, her golden teeth glinting in the last rays of the sun as it set. ¡°Depends who gets in my way first!¡±


    ¡°That girl was no sorcerer,¡± Shadow fumed. ¡°She could¡¯ve stood there and blasted us all to bacon, but she ran off like a stupid child¡­¡±


    Strike snorted an incredulous laugh. ¡°You¡¯re one to talk! You fled like a squealing piglet!¡±


    Shadow pushed herself up, angrily. ¡°I saved my own hide! I ain¡¯t messin¡¯ with magic! Look what happened to those goons we left behind: burned to a crisp!¡±


    ¡°Brawn almost had her,¡± X growled. ¡°I would¡¯ve put an arrow in her back, but he was in the way.¡±


    They fell into seething silence, marked by the crackling of their fire. They were camped out on the plains, sheltered from sight by a massive, golden-grassed hillbeast, which rumbled occasionally in its sleep, making the ground tremble. Behind them, to the west, the sun lowered over the distant, shimmering cluster of buildings that was Watchroads. A long thread of caravans, carts and refugees stretched their weary way along The Line, most heading east.


    ¡°That snake Gastan,¡± Strike sneered. ¡°Knew we should¡¯ve put a knife in him! He was supposed to deliver us a horse, not a hell-damned sorcerer!¡± He glanced at Jewels. ¡°You think he knew that pendant was magical?¡±


    The Bladeshifter leader regarded her right hand, hastily bandaged with a strip torn from her own scarlet jacket. Her dark eyes burned within their black stripes, almost as fiercely as the pain seared into her palm from the cursed blue stone. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Her gaze narrowed. ¡°But he¡¯s a dead man.¡±


    The girl named Magnolia sat in the grass on the mountain bluff, humming to herself and watching the bees, and playing with wildflowers. To her right, the white castle rose majestically, with its grand towers and stained-glass windows, and shining gilded spires, like spears raised to the rippling blue sky. To her left, a breathtaking valley dropped away, cradled in the hands of lofty, venerable mountains like a forgotten paradise. A high waterfall danced sparkling off the cliffs at one end; a clear river wound below, with deer nibbling peacefully on the lush green grass along its banks.


    The girl thought that this had turned into the most wonderful dream that she had ever had. The castle was huge and mysterious and full of nooks and crannies, and she wanted to explore every piece of it. She wanted to stay here forever. The dreadful, nightmarish apparitions that had tried to frighten her had almost been forgotten, now, dimmed to faded, unpleasant memories. Here, she felt safe, and warm, and comfortable, and had already come to think of this place as her home. Perhaps, once, she had had another home; but she could no longer remember it, and it didn''t seem to matter any longer.


    She was happy.


    The tall, handsome man named Requar puzzled her, though. She did not know where he had come from or why he had rescued her and brought her to this place, but she was pleased that he had. He was very kind, and softly spoken. But whenever he was not looking at her, he seemed to forget that she was there, and became lost in thought and melancholy.


    This made Magnolia a little sad, too. How could anyone be unhappy, living in a place like this?


    Getting to her feet, she ran up to him, where he stood at the edge of the bluff. He was wrapped in his fine blue cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, as though he were cold, though the air was quite pleasant. She held up a daisy chain necklace that she had made. This is for you!


    His expression brightened at the sight of it. This is for me? My goodness, what a beautiful thing. I am honoured. He bowed graciously, removed his hood, and placed the daisy chain reverently around his neck.


    The girl beamed.


    It was at that moment, without warning, that the sky flashed a brilliant, searing blue, startling them both and flooding the entire valley in a deep, cerulean glow.


    Magnolia clutched at Requar''s sleeve. What is that?!


    Requar held up a hand. Shhh!


    A voice could be heard, far distant, echoing off the rock like someone lost in a mountain pass. It was a woman''s voice; desperate, pleading, but they could not make out the words. The voice bounded off the cliffs, over and over until it sounded as though a hundred women were crying for help, then a hundred more, turning into a garbled, incomprehensible cacophony...


    And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the eerie blue glow and the horrendous voices vanished. The valley returned to quiet, sunlit serenity, as it always had been, as though nothing had ever been amiss.


    Both the white-haired man and the young girl stood wordless in its wake.


    Magnolia hardly dared to speak. Was it the demon lady? she finally whispered.


    Requar stared up at the snow-dusted mountain peaks, and looked worried. No, he replied, shaking his head. That was Lady Araynia.


    The girl frowned. Who is Lady Araynia?


    The man sighed, closing his eyes. Someone who is beyond our reach.


    What''s wrong with her? Is she lost?


    She is in danger. But there is nothing we can do to help her.


    What? Why?? Magnolia felt angry. Why can''t she come here, with us? You helped me!


    Requar was silent for a moment. If there were any possible way that I could lend her my aid, I would not hesitate. He shook his head sadly. But she must find her own way here. She exists outside of our dream.


    Magnolia looked down at the river below, uncomprehending.


    Turning, Requar put a hand on her shoulder. Come, he said. Why don''t we go back insi-- ungh--


    He dropped abruptly to one knee, a hand clutched to his chest.


    The girl gasped, and stepped back in alarm. What... what''s wrong??


    Requar did not reply. He was doubled over, seemingly in great pain.


    Magnolia spun, looking around frantically, but saw no sign of darkness anywhere; no storm clouds creeping up behind the mountain peaks, no sinister figures in black armour.


    Nothing looked different.


    But something wasn''t right.


    Turning back, she dropped into the grass beside the man, feeling helpless and distressed.


    Gradually, he recovered, straightening a little, gasping for breath. His body and clothing had become slightly transparent, his hair misty, as though he was on the verge of fading away.


    Magnolia grabbed his arm again, fearful that he was about to disappear.


    It is... merely an... old scar, he told her, hand still pressed against his chest. Do not t-- trouble yourself...


    But Magnolia WAS troubled. She was very troubled, indeed.


    Mister Requar, she said tentatively. Are you alright?


    To her surprise, he laughed. I am sorry to tell you that... I have never been... anything so fanciful as... ''all right''.


    The girl looked at him in dismay. Is that why you''re sad?


    He looked up at her, his blue eyes flickering with something deep and unfathomably tragic. Sitting back, he gazed up at his beautiful castle. It is as you told me, he said quietly, white hair stirring ethereally about his face. I am not supposed to be here. I should not exist.


    But... you ARE here! You''re talking to me!


    Yes. And I feel pain. He closed his eyes. Sometimes, I think that is all that I can feel. Pain.


    He was silent for a moment, then sighed. Death sometimes takes on... unexpected forms...


    Magnolia was quiet. She stared down at the grass. Am I dead, too?


    No! He took hold of her shoulders. Magnolia, no! You are very much alive, and I am here to ensure that you remain so, do you understand?


    She shook her head.


    He regarded her anxiously. No, he sighed again. No, I don''t suppose you do... He fell into another long silence.


    The demon lady still hunts for us, he murmured, after awhile. She will hurt us both, if she finds us. But no matter what she may try to do to me, you must not believe anything she tells you. And you must never, ever allow her to touch you.


    Magnolia hugged herself. I don''t want her to touch me, she said determinedly. She is disgusting!


    Requar''s smile returned. Good, he said, and sagged with relief. That is good.


    They were silent again, as a soft breeze rippled through the grass and flowers around them. Requar''s form became solid once more, colour and substance returning to him, sunlight sparkling off the delicate embroidery on his robes. Whatever had afflicted him had passed, it seemed.


    He climbed to his feet, and offered her his hand. Do you like books? he asked.


    The girl jumped up at once. With stories in them??


    He smiled. All books contain stories, he replied, and hesitated. Well. Many of mine are a little... he winced slightly. Dark. But I am sure we can find something for you...


    Magnolia tugged him eagerly towards the castle, her excitement returned. She could not wait to see his books. Perhaps there was a whole library!


    They entered the cool interior of the foyer, where Requar urged her to go ahead up the stairs. The girl raced off, delighted.


    At the entrance to the castle, the dead sorcerer stood staring out at the idyllic valley one final time. Then he backed inside, closed the double doors and barred them firmly behind him.

 Chapter One Forty Nine

    Alone once more and no one near


    For friendship''s honour, persevere.


    The corridor was silent and tomblike, featureless save for the same elaborate, recurring pattern of black and silver tiles, resembling geometric flowers or stars, that covered every surface. There were no lights or lanterns, no windows, only the omnipresent, unchanging, dim grey glow.


    Mekka sat on the floor with his back to the wall, head bowed and shoulders slumped in weary resignation. He had walked for a long time, and gotten precisely nowhere.


    The corridor appeared to be endless. It was not very wide; not wide enough to stretch his wings, hence flying was out of the question ¨C thus, he had walked until his feet ached, but had not encountered any branching hallways, rooms, doors, arches, black triangles or indeed anything at all save the same maddening pattern that continued on forever.


    Without any way of marking the passage of time, he eventually began to feel as though his legs were moving in one spot without actually covering any distance. Paranoia took hold of his mind. Thinking this was some kind of trick, he had stopped, spun and began stalking back the way he had come.


    But he had walked a long way back, or so it seemed to him, and had not arrived at the fountain room.


    Then he had broken into a run, determined that he would have to reach the room eventually ¨C it was impossible that he could have missed it! ¨C but he had run until he was out of breath, and there was still no sign of it.


    Disbelief and disorientation set in, and he began to doubt whether he had actually turned around or not, and lost all sense of which way he had come from. This appalled him. His sense of direction was impeccable, and his observation sharp. He did not understand how he could possibly have gotten lost in a single, dead straight corridor!


    Had the archway to the fountain room closed behind him, without a trace? Had the entire geometry of the Pyramid changed, somehow?


    Was it trying to confound him? For what purpose??


    In desperation, Mekka had run his hands over the walls, searching for any subtle difference in the look or feel of the pattern. He had tried speaking out loud variations of ''room'', ''fountain'', ''door'' and such. Fishing in his pockets, he had found a piece of charcoal, and had scribbled words and phrases on the walls as he had done in Grath Ardan.


    None of it had any effect whatsoever, except to make him feel foolish.


    At last, he had given up in despair, and slumped to the ground, putting his head in his hands. He was too tired to think any more; his brain felt lost in a fog, and the pattern was hurting his eyes. His grip on sanity felt precarious, and this scared him; the last time he had felt like this, a trigonic dagger had twisted his mind into a murderous abomination.


    He could not afford to allow himself to crumble again. He knew only too well that the consequences for doing so could be dire.


    Quelling the rising sense of panic, he had closed his eyes and forced himself to rest, to calm down. He thought he might have dozed off for a time, but couldn''t be sure. In any case, when he opened his eyes again, his head felt stuffy and ached, and he hardly seemed less exhausted than he was before. The air in the corridor was stale and his throat was dry. He took a swig of his water, then rummaged in his pack for some food. Pulling out some dried fruit, he nibbled on it listlessly, more for the sake of eating something than hunger, as he felt vaguely nauseous, and there was a leaden ball of dread in the pit of his stomach that refused to be dislodged.


    None of this makes any sense! Mekka thought in frustration. Was the Pyramid playing games with him? Was it testing him, somehow? Why had it gathered him up into its innards, just to watch him run around like a trapped mouse??


    He frowned down at the piece of dried apricot in his hand. Was Ferrian undergoing a similar sort of trial? Or was his friend simply... dead?


    Dropping the fruit, Mekka put his face in his hand. He had figured out Grath Ardan; he was sure that he could figure out this wretched Pyramid, too...


    Get up! he told himself ferociously. Get up and start walking again! It doesn''t matter which direction. Walk until you die, if you have to!


    And yet, he couldn''t make himself move. His limbs felt heavy. His head hurt.


    A blanket of slow, quiet despair settled over him, like a fresh layer of dust.


    A reflection of blue light gleamed from the silvertine inlays in the floor and walls, a reminder of the ghostly, winged headpiece that now seemed to be ever-present upon his head. Mercifully, the whispering voices had left him alone, at least.


    Am I really an Ancient? he wondered, in the silence of the empty corridor. It was possible that the bloodline had survived, he supposed. He had never known his parents, after all; he had no idea where they had come from or where they had gone. The race of Angels was supposed to have been created by the Seraphim, but the vast majority of them had rejected Mekka from the day he was born.


    He was clearly... different from them. Perhaps in more ways than just colour...


    And the most bitter thing about it was that they had all been right to mistrust him. That damned prophecy about a black-winged Angel destroying Arkana had come true. Every single word of it. True...


    He went still, his breath stopping in his throat as an immense, overwhelmingly horrible thought occurred to him. This Black Pyramid had attacked Caer Sync. Mekka had assumed that it had done so because it was trying to destroy the Seraphim, its ancient enemies, who had been residing at the Tower''s heart. But what if that had only been a part of its intention?


    What if... what if the Pyramid had been attempting to get to Mekka??


    Had it, like Ferrian, actually been trying to rescue him?!


    The Angel''s dark eyes went wide.


    Back in the Sanctuary, Reeves had accused him of being responsible for the calamity they had found themselves in, and Mekka had vehemently denied it...


    An involuntary sob escaped him, and he found himself trembling. No. No, no, nononono noooooo...!


    It was then that he heard the meow.


    It was such an absurdly unlikely sound that it stopped his horror in its tracks.


    After a moment, it came again.


    Mekka squeezed his eyes shut, clutching at his head. I have gone completely insane! he thought in anguish. Now I''m hallucinating!!


    The meow came once more, louder this time, and Mekka looked around wildly.


    Something small, black and furry was walking down the hallway towards him, for all the world like it owned the place.


    A cat.


    The Angel stared at it with utter incomprehension.


    The cat hesitated as it neared him, twitching its tail and staring back at him with luminous yellow eyes.


    Mekka just gazed at it for a long moment. Then, tentatively, he held out a gloved hand.


    The cat sniffed at the hand, then butted it with its furry head.


    "H- hello little friend," Mekka said, stroking the animal''s cheek, feeling dazed. "Where have you come from?"


    The cat did not reply. It came over and rubbed itself against Mekka''s knee, purring like a sawblade.


    And then Mekka noticed that it was not an ordinary cat.


    He picked it up, holding it in front of him.


    The cat was a cat, and definitely alive; Mekka could feel his little heart beating. His fur was all black, and soft, and warm, and he seemed healthy enough. But his left hind leg was reptilian, covered in smooth dark scales, with toes ending in large, curved, wicked talons. His tail, too, was long, scaled and spiny.


    The cat squirmed in his grip, and Mekka set him down. The creature shook himself, then sat down with his back to the Angel and proceeded to wash himself, in order to regain some dignity.


    "What are you?" Mekka whispered in morbid astonishment. "A little Muron-cat?!"


    The cat looked up at him with round yellow eyes, meowed again, then trotted off along the corridor. He had a funny, wonky gait with one foot being larger and differently formed than the others. His talons clicked on the tiles.


    Mekka scrambled to gather up his things, then got up and set off after the cat. This animal had come from somewhere: perhaps he knew a way out of this hellforsaken corridor...If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Perhaps its just a delusion, Mekka thought feverishly, but if it leads me somewhere other than here, I''ll take it...


    * * *


    The common room of the White Horse Inn was alive with voices, in stark contrast to the dead silence it had worn like a shroud since the red-haired horror had unleashed her wrath on the town ten days previously.


    Late last night, a group of five Freeroamers had arrived.


    Lieutenant Tander stood at the top of the stairs, in the quiet of the white, wood-panelled corridor, listening to the unfamiliar sounds coming from below. It was the second morning since the Sky Legion had arrived at the ill-fated town. They had spent half the day yesterday arguing about whether or not to retrieve Par''Shu''s body, until Lieutenant Raemint had come in and told them that she had already done so.


    Reeves had muttered a resentful thanks; their Commander did not like being in anyone''s debt. Tander had expressed more heartfelt gratitude.


    They had taken the body up into the cliffs to the north of the town, a lonely, peaceful place with flowers growing amongst the rocks, inaccessible to anything without the power of flight. There they had conducted a funeral, burning the body on a pyre constructed from gnarled pine boughs.


    Reeves had spoken a short, stiff eulogy, thanking Parsh for his service to the Legion, and including the three other comrades they had lost in Arkana, presumed dead and crushed beneath the Holy Tower that was, ironically, supposed to have been their salvation.


    Tander had then recited a traditional prayer in Ancient Angelican, that he had once thought beautiful, though the words now seemed hollow and false.


    They had contemplated the pyre and their own dark thoughts until sunset bled into the clouds to the west, and they had retreated back to the inn, speaking no more that day.


    Early that morning, Commander Re''Vier had entered Tander''s room and announced that they were leaving at midday, and that Li was to remain behind.


    Tander thought it a disastrous idea, and told Reeves so, begging him to at least escort the girl to the nearest inhabited village. But his Commander was in a bitter ¨C and frankly sadistic ¨C mood, and refused, calling it an order and stalking away.


    Now Tander stood in the corridor, with his spear and the rest of his possessions, staring miserably at the door to Li''s room, wondering how he was going to tell her. He decided that he ought to talk to Raemint first. If the Centaur wasn''t prepared to look after her, he didn''t know what he was going to do...


    I am being forced to abandon a child in the middle of a wraith-infested town...


    Every bone in his body railed against it, was sickened by it, but there was nothing he could do. Arguing with Reeves would achieve nothing; the man hated her; it was a wonder he had tolerated her presence this far.


    I promised Ferrian that I would look after her...


    Sighing heavily, he headed down the stairs.


    The Freeroamers were seated around a table, having a lively discussion over the remains of their breakfast. Lieutenant Raemint stood with them. They were so engaged in conversation that none of them even glanced in the Legionnaire''s direction as he entered. They were talking about someone called Flint, whom they were supposed to have met up with on the road, but who had gone missing.


    Seems to be a common theme, Tander thought darkly. On the far side of the room, Nix was slouched against a pillar, watching the newcomers with a sour expression.


    Tander went and joined him.


    "Tch, Freeroamers," the younger Angel said derisively. "These are the local law enforcers? They could be mistaken for a pack of mongrel dogs."


    Tander frowned. "That''s uncharitable, Nix, considering one of them saved our lives!"


    Nix turned his face away. "I wasn''t talking about the Centaur," he muttered.


    Tander studied the Freeroamers. They did indeed look... rough. Unkempt, unshaven, dirty from travel, some with scars. One was missing a hand. It was curious, he mused, that most Humans put so little value in their physical appearance, compared to Angels. He''d heard of some from his own race who had actually taken themselves off to the Tower over an unsightly blemish.


    He shook his head. "Where''s Reeves?"


    "Outside," Nix replied. "On that grotesque statue." He sniffed, and straightened. "Might as well join him; this place stinks."


    Tander glanced over at Raemint, but the Centaur was clearly preoccupied, staring down at something round and silver in her hand and gripping her spear with the other as though she wanted to gut someone.


    Tander turned and followed his green-winged companion out the door.


    It was a fine summer''s day, the sky a clear blue, the Barlakk Mountains rising majestically behind them, bright red geraniums blooming in the flower boxes of the inn. But no insects buzzed, and there were no birds. No sound could be heard at all, except the faint rustle of a warm breeze.


    Both Tander and Nix eyed the perimeter of the square, hands tight on their spears, watching the shadows carefully.


    Nothing moved there.


    Commander Re''Vier perched with his legs crossed on the head of the large bronze representation of Ferrian, his white wings brilliant in the sunshine. His spear, helmet and knapsack lay on the podium in the statue''s shadow.


    "Commander!" Tander called up to him.


    Glancing down at them, Reeves leapt off the statue with a flap of his wings, landing gracefully on the cobblestones. Straightening, he rustled his feathers, preened them with his silver-clad fingers, and shook his blond hair out of his face. "Fine day to be leaving this hell-hole!" he greeted them, grinning.


    "Couldn''t agree more," Nix said.


    Tander said nothing.


    "Something the matter, Lieutenant?" Reeves said, fetching his helmet.


    Tander avoided his gaze, glancing at the inn. "No, Sir," he replied stiffly.


    Nix sheathed his spear on his back and folded his arms. "Oh, he''s just upset because he has to leave his little pet behind." He laughed.


    Tander realised his fist was clenched. He relaxed his fingers, forcing himself to appear nonchalant. "Might I at least say goodbye to her?"


    Reeves placed his helmet upon his head. "No."


    Tander stared at him. You''re a bastard, Reeves.


    "You have had all morning to do so, Tander," Reeves went on. "If you chose to squander the opportunity, that is not my problem."


    Tander couldn''t help himself. "Sir! She is just a little girl! I cannot simply leave her behind in a town full of demon-wraiths!"


    "If I recall correctly," Reeves said, tapping a finger on his chin and contemplating the sky, "Li was the first of us to enter this place, of her own volition. Indeed, she was quite insistent." He gave Tander a cold smile. "I am sure the girl can survive on her own. She seems capable enough. Besides," he waved a hand at the inn. "A wonderful group of clowns just arrived to escort her wherever she pleases. Now." Picking up his spear, he twirled it and set it down on the cobbles. "I trust you two have prepared yourselves adequately, as we have a long journey ahead of us."


    Nix raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you have a destination in mind?"


    Reeves hooked up his knapsack with his free hand, slinging it over his shoulder. "Yes. We are returning to Siriaza."


    The two Legionnaires looked at him in surprise.


    "The border, in fact," he grinned at them. "Bridgetown."


    "The city built across the Unforgivable Chasm?" Tander said, taken aback. "Why that place? We flew over it on the way to arrest Mekka and you refused to stop and rest there. I believe you called it a, uh... ''treacherous, worm-riddled den of shameless villiany...'' "


    Reeves snorted in disgust. "Quite, and my opinion hasn''t changed. But the vile place lies conveniently halfway between here and Trystania, and could save us at least a month of travel..."


    Nix frowned. "Save us a month of travel for what?"


    Reeves regarded him. "I have arranged for someone to meet us there," he replied. "Back at the Embassy, the Governor sent a letter to the Emperors, informing them of the catastrophe in Arkana, the imminent influx of Angel refugees, and the progress of our mission. I had her send an additional request for aid." The Commander''s turquoise eyes narrowed. "We have no need for that silver-eyed Winter freak. Finding him would have saved us a considerable amount of time and hassle, but no one here has seen him and I do not care to stop in every hovel in this damned country trying to find out where he has gone!" He paused. "No. We are not dependant on his abilities. There is another."


    There was a long moment of silence, then Tander took a breath in realisation. "Rose Rex."


    Reeves smiled, his eyes glittering. "Precisely."


    Tander looked at him uncertainly. "Sir... are you sure? Rose can discern the nature of things, it is true. But her divinations can often be vague, or sometimes misleading."


    Reeves regarded him intently. "But is she ever incorrect?"


    Tander hesitated. "No," he admitted. "Not to my knowledge."


    Reeves inclined his head. "Indeed. Perhaps she may reveal the knowledge contained within this book, perhaps not. At the very least, she should be able to locate the missing page... and that is good enough for me!"


    Li crouched behind a chimney stack on the roof of the inn, peering down at the scene in the courtyard below. The three remaining men of the Sky Legion stood in the shadow of a large statue depicting a young man with a sword; it reminded her a little of Ferrian. They were having a discussion, though at this distance she could hear their voices but not what they were saying. She wished she could get nearer, but there was nowhere else suitable to hide where she wouldn''t be spotted. In any case, it seemed obvious from the way they were carrying all of their possessions that they were planning on leaving very shortly. They were probably talking about where to go next.


    She ducked back around the chimney, her heart dropping. Tander hadn''t mentioned anything about leaving. He hadn''t come and said goodbye. Was he really going to go without saying anything?!


    They always leave, she thought in despair. Everyone always leaves me!


    She had trusted him; he was supposed to be her friend. He was going to help her find Ferrian and Mekka...


    Brushing her tears away, she swallowed back her sadness, trying to remain quiet. Looking back around the chimney again, she saw that two of the Legionnaires had taken flight.


    Tander remained standing in the middle of the square, staring back at the inn. Then he bowed his head, turned, and lifted off after the others. They circled around to the south-east, over the roofs of the town, and in a minute or two were lost from sight.


    Li wiped away the remnants of tears from her eyes and nose, then slid down the tiles, dropped onto a window ledge, and crawled back into her room.


    Jumping onto the floor from her bed, she reached underneath it and pulled out a sack filled with provisions she had stolen from the kitchen bound up with rope, and a knife wrapped carefully in thick cloth, which she stuck into the leather belt binding her waist.


    The lady Centaur had provided her with some new clothes: a red tunic, white shirt and some leggings. They had belonged to a Human child and had been crudely altered with slashes in the back to fit her wings. Li found them slightly scratchy, the fabric much coarser than she was used to, but the clothes were warm. There were some shoes, too, but they were weird and uncomfortable, and she preferred her own sandals.


    There was another funny thing too; a bit like a blanket with a hood attached, made of thick, dark red cloth, big enough to wrap herself up in. It was cosy and she liked it very much, but it was too awkward to wear while flying, so she had bundled it up and tied it to her sack.


    Kneeling on the floor, she checked that she had everything, then slung the sack onto her back and tied it securely around her with the ends of the rope. Then she climbed onto the bed and back out of the open window, and flapped up to the roof again.


    For a few moments she surveyed her surroundings, wary for any hint of ominous inky shadow, but saw and heard nothing. The town was oppressive and empty and silent around her in the beautiful midday sunshine.


    Li felt suddenly very alone; a familiar, but no less hated feeling. For her whole life, she had been forbidden from having friends, forced into strict rules by unreasonable, suffocating parents whom she had resented, and disobeyed at every opportunity. But the loss of them hurt more than she expected. She had pretended not to care, but a deep part of her heart was wounded, and kept on hurting, no matter how she tried to ignore it.


    She knew that they had loved her, but she hadn''t realised that until it was too late.


    Meeting Tander had dulled the pain a little, and sometimes she had almost been able to forget the horror she had witnessed in Arkana, except that sleeping was difficult because of the nightmares. But she had been excited to finally have a purpose.


    Now all that had been ripped away, and the wound torn open anew, and she felt betrayed. She had been left on her own, with no home to go back to, in a strange land with strange people.


    She didn''t want to be alone, any more!


    If there was any chance that Tander was still her friend ¨C if Ferrian, Mekka and Hawk were still her friends ¨C then Li had to find them, no matter what.


    She would find them all.


    Swallowing back her sadness, confusion and fear, taking a deep breath of determination, she ran across the top of the roof, sprang into the summer air and set off in the direction the Sky Legion had gone.

 Chapter One Fifty

    Castle white, safe and bright


    Within the dream, an awful fight.


    Golden, sunless rays of light streamed through the venerable old hands of the magnolia tree, glowed through a crown of white pink-tinged petals and beyond, falling through elegant diamond-paned glass upon a lengthy table of fine, polished wood, and a rich blue carpet. The dining room was quiet and white-walled and long, and two figures sat at the end of it, before a hearty fire dancing in the huge stone hearth.


    Magnolia sat on the floor, on a blue velvet cushion taken from one of the chairs, staring up with eager grey eyes at the man seated comfortably before her, a small book open on his lap.


    The book that Requar was reading from was a journal, written by himself, of a time two decades past when he had been working in the coastal city of Sunsee as a healer.


    One day, he had visited an orphanage there, and encountered a strange, yet innocent infant that scared everyone.


    A little boy with eyes the colour of quicksilver.


    A boy who brought Winter with him, wherever he went.


    The journal was a meticulous record of Requar¡¯s life caring for the boy ¨C who was named Ferrian ¨C of his ineffectual attempts to discover the cause of the magical affliction, or its cure, and his anxiety over trying to keep the boy a secret, lest he be murdered by superstitious neighbours.


    Magnolia was rapt, and listened to every word, munching on more of the walnut-crusted biscuits. She asked questions, and Requar answered them, and sometimes laughed a little, but increasingly he began to look glum again, and his blue eyes glittered and glazed as he read his own handwriting on the pages, and his voice trailed away, as though forgetting that he was supposed to be reading aloud.


    Magnolia felt guilty that the book was making him sad, but she also desperately wanted to know what happened.


    She HAD to know what became of the Winter Boy!


    Requar had gotten to a part where he was sitting with the baby on some rocks on a beach, describing the waves churning restlessly and the grey sky brooding overhead as the wind picked up, and his desolate thoughts of a hopeless future, which seemed lost and scattered in the chaotic white spray, when he suddenly fell silent, mid-sentence.


    This time, however, his eyes were not distant, but sharp. He looked up at the windows.


    Magnolia turned to look as well.


    Light no longer streamed through them, as it usually did. Grey shadows filled the room, and there was a faint distant murmur, like wind slipping stealthily among the uppermost towers. The white flowers on the magnolia tree stirred in agitation; its branches tapped and scratched at the window glass, as though begging to be let in.


    There was a strange, tense feeling in the air.


    Like that of an approaching storm¡­


    Requar closed the book, very slowly. I must go and check on something, he told the girl. Stay here. I will only be a moment. Giving her a reassuring smile, he got up, placed the journal carefully on his chair, then walked towards the dining room door.


    Something about the soft, calm tone of his voice and his deliberate movements scared her.


    Reaching the door, Requar stood beside it for a long moment, listening. Then he took hold of the handle, turned it, and peered out.


    Another long moment passed. Magnolia watched the white-haired man slip through the door and close it quietly behind him.


    The fire flickered in the silence, and the gloom became deeper. The wind gusted more strongly against the windows.


    Magnolia fidgeted anxiously with the tassels on her cushion. He said he would only be a moment.


    She waited.


    He did not return.


    She waited some more. She tried to nibble on a biscuit to quell her rising fear, but no longer had an appetite for it, so put it back on the plate, which sat on the floor in front of her. Picking up the book from Requar¡¯s armchair, she tried to continue reading it, but his handwriting was so beautiful and cursive that she could barely understand it, so she put that down, as well.


    The room had become much darker, and much colder, now. Freezing, in fact. She hugged herself.


    Still, Requar did not return.


    Magnolia could no longer stand to sit there. Despite the fire beside her, she felt chilled. Getting up from the armchair she was huddled in, she made her way towards the door.


    The magnolia tree thrashed. Huge petals swirled around it, torn to and fro by the wind.


    She came to the door.


    Something about the ornate gilded handle seemed fateful.


    Turning, she looked back at the fire at the opposite end of the room, at the cosy armchairs and cushions and biscuits and milk and books arranged around it in an idyllic halo of perfection.


    Tears came to her eyes. She could run back there right now, wrap herself up in a blanket and pretend that Requar WAS going to come back a moment later, and that everything would be fine.


    But she knew, in her heart, that he was not.


    The door beside her seeped coldness.


    An awful, deathly coldness¡­


    Magnolia took hold of the handle and slowly opened it.


    She walked out into the foyer, and immediately saw the reason for the unnatural chill.


    The entire entrance hall was encased in ice. The floor, the walls, the staircase, the furniture: everything glimmered with it. Huge icicles hung from the vaulted ceiling and chandelier. The massive circular stained-glass sunrise above the doors was frosted over.


    Requar stood in the middle of the room, with his back to the girl. His long white braid hung down over his blue cloak. He was very still.


    Magnolia took a tentative step forward. Mister Requar?


    At the sound of her voice, he turned towards her, with terrible slowness¡­


    Magnolia, he whispered, his voice broken, and the look he gave her was one of utmost despair. Silver lines of tears traced his face. His hand was pressed against his chest.


    I am¡­ s-sorry¡­


    Removing his hand, he looked down at his long, pale fingers, which were coated with blood.


    His eyes dimmed, the light fading from them like a spent candle. He swayed, his legs folded up beneath him, and he collapsed onto the icy marble floor.


    With a cry, Magnolia rushed to his side. Seizing his shoulder, she shook him. Mister Requar! When he did not respond, she shook him more frantically. MISTER REQUAR!


    An horrific dark stain of blood was spreading rapidly through his shirt, leaking onto the floor, where it pooled beneath his outflung arm. Something was wrong with his eyes, too; it was as though they had been scorched. More blood trickled down his face.


    His body had become semi-transparent, as before; his form leaking away into white mist at the edges.


    Magnolia began to sob with horror.


    At that moment, with shocking suddenness, the main doors of the castle exploded inwards, sending wooden shards flying in all directions. A shudder and ominous groan passed through the entire building. Wind and snow roared into the room like a hurricane, and in the middle of it all¡­


    A slender black figure in shining, sinister armour¡­


    Magnolia got to her feet, tears of grief and rage snatched away by the wind. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?!


    The demon-lady stopped a few paces away, cocking her head to one side. Putting a black-armoured hand to her chest, her cold eyes widening in mock innocence, she replied: Me? Giggling horribly, she gestured at the fallen man. I have done nothing! He did this to himself!


    She burst out laughing, as though it were the funniest thing she had ever seen.


    Magnolia¡¯s hands were balled into fists. I DON¡¯T BELIEVE YOU!


    Smiling, the demon-lady sauntered towards her. Believe whatever you like. You¡¯re just a silly child.


    Something in Magnolia snapped. This¡­ MONSTER had destroyed her dream. It had ruined her happiness, it had killed someone who had shown her kindness and love and care, for no reason whatsoever. Requar had given her biscuits and stories and warmth, and tried to protect her, and this¡­ THING was ripping his castle apart and ripping up everything that Magnolia cared about¡­ and it dared call her A SILLY CHILD??


    With a scream, Magnolia ran around Requar¡¯s body and charged through the whirling snow at the demon-lady.


    Without looking at her, the demon made a movement with her hand, as though brushing something aside. A powerful gust of wind snatched the girl up and flung her the length of the hall. She hit the floor hard, sliding along it several yards before coming to rest at the foot of the staircase.


    Dazed, Magnolia lifted her head to see the demon-lady kneel beside Requar¡¯s body.


    Very clever, pretty one, she heard the demon say, above the howl of the wind. You thought you could hide the girl within your own memories.


    She smiled down at him, eerily. What a shame they were flawed¡­


    She reached out, almost tenderly placing a black hand upon his blood-soaked chest. Then, brutally, she shoved her hand deep into the wound and ripped out a writhing, gleaming black mass, trailing tentacle-like strands and oozing oily liquid onto the floor.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Magnolia choked to see that it was a heart, still beating even while grotesquely corrupted.


    The demon-lady regarded the heart for only a moment, then crushed it in her fist. It dissolved into a puff of inky mist, which the demon inhaled as though savouring a fine fragrance.


    Rising to her feet, the demon held a hand out over the body, and spikes burst out of the ruined chest. Curling back on themselves, the razor-sharp points rained down like spears, piercing the body, plunging further down into the marble floor and burrowing into the castle¡¯s foundations.


    Requar¡¯s remains collapsed into black mist and disappeared under a morass of seething, worm-like tentacles.


    The castle rocked with tremors. Huge pieces of masonry detached themselves from the walls and ceiling, crashing to the floor. Cracks raced across the white flagstones. Tentacles smashed up through the floor, sending more stone flying. The great circular window shattered into a million pieces that fell glittering amongst the raging snow.


    The demon turned towards Magnolia, who lay alone on the freezing floor, numb with shock.


    You thought he could protect you? the demon sneered. You thought you could hide from ME?


    The demon was changing. Her face became entirely black, the liquid armour tightening over the last of her pale skin until it resembled a skull. Her grey eyes flooded with black and vanished into empty holes. Horns shot out of the back of her head, ridged and insect-like, curving like the tails of scorpions. Something like abominable wings wrenched themselves out of her back, rotten and trailing shredded flesh and blood and crimson feathers. The ends of her red hair were on fire, trailing smoke, and her charred garments flapped about her in the gale.


    Her voice, when she spoke, no longer resembled anything Human, but instead something shrieking, monstrous and warped.


    YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE FROM ME?!


    The sound was so loud that the castle shuddered again, violently. A large portion of the ceiling collapsed with a deafening roar into the foyer, but the demon remained standing, unscathed in the dust and shattered ice and rubble.


    Shakily, Magnolia pushed herself to her feet. Desperately, through her sobs and fear, she looked around for something to attack the monster with, but could see nothing except broken stone and shattered wood and shards of blue coloured glass.


    The image of what she had done to Requar loomed close in her mind. That was to be her fate, too, if she didn¡¯t do something¡­


    No, she thought, tears streaming down her face, turning instantly to ice. No!


    She tried to pick up one of the stones, but her hands were numb and she couldn¡¯t lift it. She felt so weak¡­


    YOU FOOLISH CHILD! the demon raged. YOU CANNOT HIDE! YOU CANNOT RUN FROM ME! NOTHING YOU DO WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE, BECAUSE I AM A PART OF YOU!


    The demon stalked out of the rubble towards her, trailing fire and smoke and blood and fury. Black tentacles swarmed out of the bloody footsteps it left behind. Its fingers had elongated into wicked talons.


    YOUR NAME IS CARMINE VANDARIS, it screamed, AND I AM WHAT YOU WILL BECOME!!


    All courage abandoned, her blood turned to ice, the girl turned and fled up the stairs.


    It¡¯s lying! she thought, crying, tears blinding her vision. It¡¯s lying, it¡¯s lying, it¡¯s lying! This is just a nightmare; it isn¡¯t real! It isn¡¯t¡­


    The castle shook again and part of the balustrade fell away beside her. A large chunk of vaulting smashed into the stairs and narrowly missed her as it tumbled past. The girl stumbled and fell to her knees, weeping. To her horror, she noticed that her hands and yellow dress were insubstantial, misty at the edges.


    She was fading away! She was¡­ being forgotten. She was¡­ ceasing¡­ to¡­ exist¡­?!


    Carmine.


    It was not the excruciating voice of the demon.


    The girl looked up.


    A shining figure stood at the top of the staircase, a glorious man made all of light. He stood out like the sun against the decaying gloom of the hall.


    The girl stared, frozen and awestruck before realising what she was looking at. Heart surging, eyes widening, she leapt to her feet.


    Requar!!


    Below, the monster screamed again, so loud that the girl clamped her hands to her ears. Another torrent of masonry rained down around them, and there was a series of tremendous, groaning crashes that momentarily drowned out the demon¡¯s rage and the howl of the wind.


    The entire castle was coming down¡­


    The glowing figure of Lord Requar descended the stairs, unhurriedly. With each step of his radiant boots, the white stone around him pieced itself back together, cracks healed, ice melted. The balustrade leapt back into its original stately position. He held in his right hand a magnificent long sword, its blade impossibly silver, edged with light. Two snakes curled up the blade from the hilt.


    Both of them were white.


    He came level with the girl, and stopped, and looked down at her.


    He smiled, and his eyes were pools of dazzling, pure white brilliance. His long hair fell about him in a waterfall of scintillating light.


    It will be all right, he told her. His voice echoed, and seemed to come from a distant place, but it was certainly him.


    He held out the Sword, then, offering it to her.


    The demon screeched. Dark mist and spikes exploded out of it. Oily black liquid poured out of the cracks in the flagstones, flooding the floor. The monster lifted an arm and black tendrils twisted along it, forming into a gigantic blade that surged across the intervening space, quick as lightning.


    Requar simply turned his head and looked at it.


    The blade stopped an inch from his face, evaporating instantly into harmless smoke that blew away in the wind.


    For a timeless moment, nobody moved. Even the wind died away into sudden, breathless stillness. The last few snowflakes drifted solemnly to the floor.


    Requar was still holding the Sword out. He turned his resplendent gaze back to the girl. Take it, he urged gently.


    She stared up at him, tears quivering in her eyes, and then over at the hideous monster half-crouched in fury in the middle of the hall.


    Is that really¡­ me? she whispered.


    Requar shook his head. No, he said. That is a twisted abomination, warped by its own despair. Your future is still yours to grasp. No matter how much you may have lost, something will always remain, even if it is the tiniest, most fragile, most insignificant spark. That spark is worth holding on to, worth fighting for. It is the only thing that is. And the monster cannot touch you, unless you let her.


    The child named Carmine reached out and took hold of the Sword.


    She expected it to feel heavy, but it weighed nothing, yet felt real and solid in her small hands. It was awesomely long, taller than her by some margin, but slender and exquisitely beautiful. Blue gemstones sparkled like stars in the hilt.


    It was a sword fit for a Queen, and she felt humbled by its mere presence.


    And yet¡­


    She lifted her gaze to the demon below.


    To her astonishment, the monster was backing away.


    Carmine started down the stairs.


    The demon hissed and snarled, but the power seemed to have gone out of its voice. It snatched up a piece of masonry and hurled it at the girl.


    Carmine gasped and ducked, but the stone exploded into dust before it hit her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Requar standing on the stairs with his arm extended.


    She gave him a smile.


    He nodded in return.


    She continued towards the demon. The black sludge coating the floor retreated from the glow of her Sword. Something crashed through the wall to her left, making her jump. But it was not black.


    It was grey, and woody. Giant roots unfurled themselves across the floor, over the debris, smothering the black stain. Branches found their way through holes in the ceiling and walls, massive flowers blooming along their length.


    Light streamed into the room along with them.


    The demon backed away until it could go no further. Tree roots formed a wall behind it, and around it. The thing slashed at them viciously with its black claws, and the wood shrivelled and rotted, but new wood grew instantly in is place. The demon whirled and ripped futilely at the roots and shrieked, desperately seeking a way out, mad with fear and disoriented.


    Her own terror now gone, Carmine pitied it.


    The roots closed in on the demon, encircling its legs, its waist, its throat, trapping it in place.


    It leaked black mist. Its claws dug into the wood, but its poison was not enough to break them.


    If you kill me, the demon hissed, its skull-like face glaring hate, you will kill yourself!


    The girl hesitated.


    The light from the Sword began to dim.


    No.


    Requar was suddenly there, beside her. He placed a shining hand upon her shoulder. This is the Sword of Healing, he said calmly. It cannot be used for destruction. It can only heal.


    Carmine looked up at him.


    His eyes were almost too bright to look at, and too bright to look away. Do you trust me? he asked softly.


    Their gazes held for an endless moment, the question echoing into eternity.


    Finally, Carmine nodded.


    NOOOOOOO!! the demon wailed, thrashing and contorting itself within its prison with such anguish that some of its limbs audibly snapped. It howled in agony and despair, its voice now horribly Human¡­


    The girl paled at the sound, but gathered her courage, gripping the Sword tightly with both hands. Taking a final breath, she let it out in a scream of determination, swinging the shining blade as hard as she could¡­


    It sliced with an arc of light through the air, through roots and demon and woman and armour and stone and darkness and dreams¡­


    There was a single, clear note, like that of a silver wind chime.


    And then, in a kaleidoscopic rush of colour and light, sound and sensation, the dream imploded.


    The first thing she became aware of was the warmth on her skin.


    The second, a curious feeling of lightness, as though she had shed a heavy burden in her sleep.


    Opening her eyes, slowly, she blinked and squinted in the bright, hot, golden glare.


    She was in an unfamiliar place, a¡­ ruined building of some kind? It still bore the tang of charcoal and smoke. Blackened debris surrounded her, and sunlight poured in through collapsed ceiling beams.


    A breathtakingly blue sky arched above the ragged gap. She stared up at it in wonder, somehow entranced by its simple beauty, and then her brows creased in confusion.


    Where am I?


    She looked down at herself, then.


    She was kneeling in ash, and clad in the badly scorched remnants of something that might have been a long coat. Beneath that she wore¡­ nothing. By the state of her clothing, she ought to have been charred to the bone, but her skin was pale, smooth and unscarred.


    But this was not the most alarming discovery.


    Of far more concern, at that moment, was the fact that four feet of glistening silver blade was protruding from the middle of her chest.


    She squeezed her eyes closed again, her heart leaping in sudden panic, her breath coming quick, but soon realised the absurdity of the situation.


    How could her heart be beating at all with a sword pierced through it?!


    Mentally, she examined herself for any hint of pain or injury, carefully testing her limbs and muscles, but found nothing wrong. The sword had weight to it, she could feel it if she shifted; it was most certainly a solid object. But there was no pain, and no blood.


    Okay, she thought, trying to calm herself. Okay. Deal with this. Then figure out what the hell is going on¡­


    Opening her eyes, she regarded the sword.


    It was very finely made, and polished to a mirror-like shine. She had never seen anything like it before, and would have been impressed if it was in her hand instead of¡­ in her body. She could see her reflection in the blade, and was disturbed to see that her red hair had been singed short.


    She frowned. She had no memory of getting into any sort of fight¡­


    Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to put the questions aside, for now. Lifting a finger, she pressed it lightly against the edge of the blade.


    It was extremely sharp. She felt it cut into her flesh, but strangely, it did not sting, and left no mark.


    Tentatively, she wrapped her whole hand around the blade, then looked at it.


    Nothing.


    She stared at her hand in astonishment.


    A blade that cannot wound??


    She looked back at the sword. Nothing else for it, then¡­


    Grabbing the blade with both hands, she pushed it slowly backwards.


    She winced as her stomach lurched in protest. Pausing, she fought the urge to vomit, feeling suddenly lightheaded. After a minute, steadying herself, she continued, sliding the sword hand over hand until, at last, it dropped into the rubble behind her.


    Gasping a deep, shaky breath, she looked down at her chest, and touched the skin where a mortal wound should have been.


    Not even a scar remained.


    Taking another breath of relief, she got to her feet and turned.


    With a surprised yelp, she dropped into a defensive crouch.


    A female Centaur stood a few yards away, just beyond the shaft of light, silent as stone, watching her.


    The Centaur¡¯s skin, hide and hair were coal-black, apart from a white stripe on one leg and some blonde strands amongst her braids. She wore a sleeveless tunic, half black, half cobalt-blue, with a round silver badge pinned to it. A mighty silver spear, seemingly made of the same material as the sword, was levelled at her, dazzling where the sunlight hit it.


    Her dark eyes were even sharper than her weapon.


    The two of them stared at each other for a tense, endless moment.


    Carmine did not dare to move, or to breathe. For all she knew, this woman was the one who had impaled her on the sword¡­


    ¡°Carmine Vandaris?¡± the Centaur whispered finally.


    Carmine swallowed. ¡°Y¡­ yes?¡±


    The Centaur¡¯s demeanour changed. A glitter appeared in her eyes, and the point of her spear quivered and sank to the floor. Her shoulders slumped; her head bowed. Something in between a sigh and a sob escaped her lips.


    ¡°Thank the Gods!¡± she gasped. ¡°Thank all of the Gods¡­¡±


    Carmine was astonished to see the woman shaking, tears rolling down her cheeks.


    She was quite certain that she didn¡¯t know this person.


    But she recognised the uniform.


    ¡°Are you with the Freeroamers?¡± she asked, and frowned. ¡°Have I¡­ met you before?¡±


    The Centaur looked up at her, and the suspicion was gone from her eyes now, replaced with pity. She looked away into the ruins, seemingly struggling for words. Then, finally, she turned back, lifting her spear and setting the butt of it carefully at her feet. ¡°I am Lieutenant-Commander Raemint,¡± she said softly, ¡°of the Freeroamers. You do not know me, but I¡­ knew your father.¡±


    Something unpleasant seemed to seep its way out of the sunlit ash beneath Carmine¡¯s bare feet, finding its way into her stomach and twisting it. Slowly, heedless of her immodesty, she rose to her feet, her grey eyes widening. ¡°W¡­ what do you mean, you knew him? Has... has something happened to Captain Sirannor? What¡¯s going on?!¡±


    Raemint did not reply, but merely stared at her. The Centaur took a long, deep breath, and let it out again, very, very slowly.

 Chapter One Fifty One

    A troubled Angel, oath forsook


    What secrets told from cryptic Book?


    Night stretched herself languidly over the town of Watchroads, indigo silks spread out dramatically, studded with diamond-bright jewels. Her bright eye was half-lidded in the west, her gentle breath coolly blowing away the oppressive heat of the day.


    The windmills on the watchtowers turned slowly, silently on their well-greased axles. Below them, The Line stretched on, crowded with evening markets, full of lights and noise and music and the braying of animals, an endless bustle in the night.


    Tander sat on the parapet of one of the towers, facing east. The breeze was welcome, but the temperature was still balmy, and he had left his armour, spear and white uniform jacket in his room at the inn, which was situated just beneath him, connected to the tower. He was barefoot, clad only in short breeches and a loose-fitting linen shirt. The breeze tousled his brown hair about his shoulders a little, and quietly stirred some feathers.


    He stared down at his shadow on the tiled roof below him. It appeared and disappeared in slow, regular intervals as the huge, green-and-yellow patterned sails of the windmill behind him passed through the streaming moonlight.


    One moment he was there; the next, he was gone. Then, he was back again.


    His own crippling indecision stared back at him.


    His heart felt as though it had cracked in two, with his loyalty to the Legion on one half, and a little fiery-winged Angel girl on the other.


    Leaving Li behind... didn''t feel right.


    Ever since they had departed the wraith-haunted town of Meadrun, Nix had taunted Tander about the girl relentlessly. Even when Reeves ordered him to cease, he continued to sneak barbs into every conversation. Tander knew that the younger man was playing his usual game of attempting to get a reaction out of him, but this time it was deeper than that... Tander suspected that it was Nix¡¯s way of distracting himself, to avoid thinking about Parsh.


    The two of them had been fairly close friends. Few in the Legion had any patience for Nix''s nonsense, but in Parsh''s acerbic cynicism, he had found a kindred spirit. Now, he had lost the only person he was somewhat close to, and he was having trouble coming to terms with his friend''s death.


    The loss, too, of Caer Sync had shaken them all badly, and was something even Tander was still struggling to process.


    And then there was Reeves.


    Weirdly, ever since they had resumed their journey, their Commander''s demeanour had changed. He had brightened considerably, his spirits high, overflowing with optimism, as though surviving a soul-shattering catastrophe and losing most of the squad he had brought with him from Sundown Peak had been irrelevant, and everything was going completely as he had planned it.


    Tander was worried about him. The spark of confidence, of supreme self-assurance that had always burned in Reeves¡¯ disarming turquoise eyes had now become a little too bright, as though toying with the tail of madness...


    And all the while, Tander''s mood sank into a mire.


    He closed his eyes. He could feel himself slowly breaking apart; emotions that he had prided himself with keeping under control were finally beginning to flounder. Both Nix and Reeves had poked fatal holes in his defences¡­


    There was a soft sound behind him, and a rush of air. When he opened his eyes again, another winged shadow stood beside his own on the tiled roof. He didn''t need to look around, or ask who it was. Nix was down in the tavern, drinking, and wouldn''t have landed so softly.


    ¡°Is there something you want, Commander?¡± he muttered.


    The other Angel did not reply immediately. After a long pause, Reeves'' voice floated down to him. ¡°You care more for that girl than I expected,¡± he said.


    Tander glowered at his shadow. ¡°Are you here to mock me, as well? Would you like to give me a lecture on how foolish I have been?¡± His words came out more bitterly than he had intended them to.


    Reeves responded with a quiet laugh.


    Tander made a sound of disgust. He waved a hand. ¡°Why don''t you go down there to the tavern with Nix, and drink yourselves both to death?¡± He leaned his face on his hand.


    Strangely, Reeves made no reply. The scathing rebuke did not come.


    Instead, there was silence.


    The silence went on for so long that Tander thought his Commander had left. After awhile, he glanced over his shoulder.


    Reeves was still there, leaning with his back against the conical copper roof spire of the watchtower. Like Tander, he had forgone armour, weapons and his long white coat, wearing only long trousers and a white silken shirt that was open at the front, exposing his chest beneath his folded arms. Beyond him, the giant sails continued turning, opening a wedge of moonlight that illuminated Reeves'' face in profile as he gazed up at the stars.


    Tander found himself staring, transfixed by Reeves¡¯ graceful beauty and unexpectedly pensive expression, without a hint of mockery. Blinking, he looked away abruptly, a hole burning in his chest and his heart beating painfully within it, a little too fast.


    Reeves spoke then, at last, his voice uncharacteristically soft, but clear. ¡°Shall I tell you?¡±


    ¡°T-tell me what?¡± Tander replied unthinkingly.


    The silence that followed gathered weight, became something profound.


    Tander went very still, catching his breath in shock. For a confused moment, he wondered if he had somehow mistook Reeves¡¯ words; perhaps it was a trick question, a rhetorical one, or sarcasm, perhaps¡­


    Surely, he couldn¡¯t mean¡­?!


    Slowly, he turned around and got to his feet, staring at Reeves again, eyes wide.


    ¡°Reeves¡­¡±


    The other Angel did not look at him, but instead reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out his book. He stood staring down at it.


    ¡°This book,¡± he murmured, ¡°belonged to a dead girl.¡± He paused, then went on: ¡°A dead¡­ Human girl.¡±


    He looked off into the distance, across the moon-gilded roofs of the town, his eyes glazed but hard, as though steeling himself against his own memories. ¡°She was my childhood friend. My first and only friend. I should have listened to the judgement of my parents. I should have known that becoming close to her was folly.¡±


    He looked back down at the book. ¡°This book belonged to her father. From where he acquired it, I have no idea, but he passed it on to his daughter.


    ¡°Talia was often to be found sitting under a tree with her nose buried in it. I mocked her for it, mercilessly. I told her that reading was for heathens, but my jeers had no effect on her. This irritated me, and eventually I became so angry that I stole the book and threatened to burn it unless she told me what it contained that was so interesting.


    ¡°She just giggled at me, as though I were an infant playing a game, and told me to go ahead and burn it, because she could not read it anyway.¡±


    Reeves¡¯ eyes burned with the memory. ¡°I was so confused that I threw the book at her. She picked it up and told me that, although she could not read the words, she knew exactly what the book was about, because her father had told her.¡±


    He closed his eyes. ¡°She told me the story, then, and I did not believe her. I thought it was not only ridiculous, but blasphemous. I was furious, and insulted to the core of my being to hear her speak such heresy.


    ¡°Her insistence that the story was true almost ended our relationship. I avoided her for weeks after that, much to the happiness of my parents, who did not approve of my friendship with a Human.


    ¡°But I was alone, living in a remote cottage in the forest, with no siblings and no Angel companions my own age. Other Human children would not come near me.


    ¡°And so¡­ I sought Talia out again.


    ¡°She kept repeating the story, even though it upset me, as though determined that I understand it. Sometimes, I caught her looking at me with¡­ pity, as though I were an ignorant fool!¡±


    Reeves¡¯ expression was bitter. ¡°How dare she condescend me, a Human child!¡± He made a sound that could have been regret or disgust. ¡°But my anger eventually burned itself out, my defences broke down, and I¡­ found myself believing her.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Perhaps Talia¡¯s father was a convincing storyteller. I refused to meet him, I never spoke to him, so I cannot say. But, finally I came to be persuaded that the story was, indeed, true.


    ¡°One day, I suggested that we play atop some high cliffs in the mountains near my house.¡± He was silent for a long moment, then said: ¡°Talia fell from them and died.¡±


    His hand tightened on the book, as though attempting to crush it. ¡°A preposterously stupid way to die!¡±


    He turned his head away, eyes closed.


    Tander stared at him, his throat tight with sympathy, but nevertheless, he felt a little dismayed. That¡¯s all this book is, he thought, a fairytale? The final wish of a dead child?


    He gave no voice to his thoughts, however, but remained silent.


    ¡°Talia had this book with her when she died,¡± Reeves went on. ¡°I should have taken it from her body then, but it did not occur to me at the time. In my panic, I flew away, like a coward, and left her there.


    ¡°I almost perished in the mountains, but was found by a Sky Legion patrol, and taken back to Sundown Peak. I refused to return home, or to tell them anything about myself, so they took me in.


    ¡°I threw myself into combat training, desperate to forget about Talia. I hated her. I despised her for the pain she had caused me!¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    His eyes glittered on the edge of furious tears. ¡°My hatred encompassed all Humans. I could not stand the sight of them. I could not abide their weakness, their clumsiness, their¡­ wretched inferiority!¡±


    He glared down at the book resentfully. ¡°But worst of all, I hated that a Human had revealed my own ignorance.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But as hard as I fought, I could not forget the Book. It wormed its way into my mind, like a disease, and would not let me sleep. It haunted me, every waking hour!¡±


    His free hand clenched into a fist. ¡°You must understand, Tander ¨C I had to know! I HAD to know! I could not rest until I found out if the damned story was true, or if I had been played for a fool!


    ¡°I worked my way up through the ranks of the Legion until I was in a position to challenge the Commander to a duel. I fought him and beat him: easily. He submitted and departed with all the grace he could muster.


    ¡°With my newly secured power, I set about gathering information and putting the plan I had formulated in motion.


    ¡°I returned, finally, to my childhood home in the forest, only to find it abandoned and derelict, overgrown with vines and weeds. My parents were long gone. Making enquiries at local villages, I learned that they had taken themselves off to Caer Sync many years before, grieved at my disappearance.¡± He was silent for a moment. ¡°I did not mourn their loss. It had been their decision to make, as it was mine to abandon them, to hide within the ranks of the Legion. I ought to have been proud of them, if I had remained an idiot, but I had come to think of them as misguided fools, who had raised me on a diet of falsehoods and fantasy.


    ¡°Talia had opened my eyes to the truth.¡±


    He paused for a moment more, gathering his thoughts. ¡°I spent a long time attempting to track down the Book, with no success. Eventually, I ended up at the University of Trystania, where I made discreet enquiries to the librarian there.¡± He looked up at Tander, a smile slipping onto his lips. ¡°And where, of course, I met you.¡±


    Tander glanced away, feeling a little embarrassed at the memory. He had, indeed. Tander had been a scholar before he had joined the Legion.


    ¡°In any case,¡± Reeves went on, ¡°the librarian had never heard of such a book, but told me that a copy could be found in Grath Ardan, which contained every word ever written.


    ¡°I contacted Governor Merrill, and came to an agreement with her: find the wanted criminal Mekk¡¯Ayan, and deliver him to her, in exchange for the Book.¡±


    Reeves turned the worn little book over in his hands. ¡°I had expected to receive a copy, transcribed from the main tome, but¡­ to my surprise, the original version was there. By what means Talia¡¯s book ended up in Grath Ardan, I cannot fathom, but it is irrelevant. I have it now!¡±


    Tander stared at his Commander in the silence that followed, shafts of silver light and shadow passing over them as the windmill¡¯s vanes continued to turn.


    ¡°But¡­ there has to be more to it than that, surely?¡± he said finally, unable to suppress his doubt any longer. ¡°You have dedicated your life, and the lives of the entire Sky Legion to¡­ a legend?¡± He frowned. ¡°I¡­ had thought that it was¡­ well, I¡¯m not sure. A magic spell, perhaps? It is most definitely written in Ithillic, the language of sorcerers.¡±


    Reeves just smiled at him, eyes bright.


    Tander met his gaze. ¡°What was the story,¡± he asked quietly, ¡°that Talia told you?¡±


    Reeves turned his eyes upwards to the stars, regarding their cold brilliance in the infinite depths above, as though he alone had discerned the truth of their mystery. ¡°The story,¡± he murmured. ¡°The story¡­ is that everything we have been taught to accept, unquestioningly, the entirety of Angel society and culture¡­ is based on a lie.¡±


    Turning his head, he gave Tander a searching look. ¡°Tell me, Tander. Do you believe in the Goddess?¡±


    Unprepared for the question, Tander blinked and turned away uncomfortably, folding his arms and looking out over the torchlit town, listening to the coarse sounds of Human life filtering up from below. He wasn¡¯t quite sure what answer Reeves was looking for.


    ¡°I¡­ used to,¡± he replied, hesitantly. ¡°When I was younger. But¡­¡± He shook his head. ¡°Even as a child, I was too curious for my own good. I wanted to know how things worked. That was why I joined the University.


    ¡°I learned to read and write, and my parents were glad; my grandparents had been scholars ¨C that was why they had left Arkana; they were ostracised, judged and derided, simply for seeking wisdom.


    ¡°I studied everything. Random things; it didn¡¯t matter. I was hungry for knowledge. I had no real goal, other than knowing as much about the world as I could. I wanted to read every book in the library.


    ¡°But over time¡­ something¡­ changed¡­¡± He looked down at the bustle of Humans and animals in the square below, feeling sad.


    ¡°The more knowledge I gained, the worse I felt. I learned the truth of a great many things ¨C including the improbability that a Goddess lived at the top of the Holy Tower. I appreciated that my worldview had been expanded, that I recognised nuances that I had not, before. But¡­ every truth I uncovered chipped a little wonder, a little excitement out of existence. The pleasure of a mystery solved quickly faded, leaving something cold and hard and dusty in its wake. I walked back from every lecture I attended feeling somehow heavier. The consequences began to weigh upon my soul.


    ¡°I had sought enlightenment, but instead I found myself wallowing in cynicism.¡±


    He paused. ¡°Then one day, I entered the library and¡­ you were there.


    ¡°I was astonished. I had never seen another Angel in the library before, let alone a soldier ¨C or, indeed, the Wing Commander of the Sky Legion!¡± He gave Reeves a wry smile. ¡°The librarian would not tell me what it was you had asked for, of course. But there were rumours going around that you were planning something¡­ extraordinary.


    ¡°I decided then that I no longer wanted to be a scholar. I wished to become a soldier. Like you, I wanted to bury my disappointment with physical prowess. It seemed simpler, more¡­ tangible. Giving my life up in service to a cause that sought to make the world a better place with real action admittedly seemed, at that point, rather romantic, and preferable to an old and jaded future, dying with all passion for life leached out.


    ¡°And¡­ naturally I wanted to know what you intended to do. I¡­ wanted to believe in something, again.¡±


    He fell silent.


    ¡°You are correct,¡± Reeves said quietly, after contemplating Tander¡¯s reply. ¡°The Goddess does not exist.¡± Straightening from where he was slouched against the roof spire, he turned to face his Lieutenant. ¡°But Excelsior does.¡±


    Tander looked up at him, perplexed. ¡°The realm at the top of the Tower, beyond the Clock and the pool of silvertine? The place of eternal peace and happiness that we are supposed to ascend to when we die? Even if such a place were real ¨C Caer Sync has been destroyed, and it is forever inaccessible.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Reeves said, his eyes intense. ¡°That is a legend. Excelsior is a real city, an ancient, lost city in the sky, the original dwelling place of the Seraphim! The beliefs attached to the Tower are a warped version of reality! Generations upon generations of Angels have willingly sacrificed themselves to fuel a magical construct. There were originally five Towers; the other four were toppled centuries ago by wars and various disasters, most likely because they were situated in lands controlled by Humans or Dragons.


    ¡°The purpose of the Towers was never about salvation or damnation! They were there to generate an immense Aegis over the entirety of Arvanor!¡±


    Tander just stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. In his years of research, he had come across vague mentions of ruined Towers, which were assumed to be lost holy places, without details of their purpose or origins. A tale such as this was greatly offensive to most Angel sensibilities. He knew now why Reeves had struggled to accept it.


    And indeed, why he was very careful to keep it secret.


    Reeves stepped forward. ¡°Tander, the Seraphim themselves confirmed all of this to me! While I was trapped in the Sanctuary with that crow Mekka, the Seraphim showed me a vision. It was of an exquisite city in the clouds, all white stone and glass. The details matched those of Talia¡¯s story exactly!¡±


    He thrust the Book out suddenly, as though wielding a dagger. ¡°This Book is a journal written by someone who has been there!¡±


    Tander didn¡¯t know what to say. Overwhelmed, he sat down on the parapet, putting his head in his hands. A mixture of emotions flooded through him, but something had ignited in his chest, something he hadn¡¯t felt in a very long time.


    Could this be real?! he thought, shaking with excitement. An ancient Seraphim city! Full of undiscovered artefacts, treasures, knowledge¡­ What if there was a library, a repository of experiences collected by the Ancients? The revelations that could be uncovered! Talia¡¯s Book was only the start¡­


    The possibilities took his breath away.


    This was exactly the kind of thing that Tander had been searching his whole life for!


    But¡­ why was Reeves so interested in such a place? The man had no interest in history, and wasn¡¯t particularly motivated by wealth.


    There was only one thing in the world that Wing Commander Re¡¯Vier really cared about¡­


    ¡°There is something in the city that you want,¡± Tander mused aloud. ¡°Something that will give you power¡­¡±


    Reeves put the Book away, carefully, in his pocket. ¡°I have not told you everything,¡± he admitted, ¡°but I think it prudent to keep the rest to myself, for now.¡±


    A vague chill passed through Tander, a slight tickle of warning at the back of his mind, but he brushed it aside, too wrapped up in a glow of hope to care. His thoughts were racing.


    ¡°And what of your plan for unification?¡± he said. ¡°I thought you wanted peace between all the nations of Arvanor? How will finding Excelsior help you to achieve that?¡±


    Reeves walked over to the parapet and folded his arms, staring out over the town. ¡°Arkana is broken,¡± he replied quietly. ¡°Fleetfleer destroyed, Caer Sync toppled. The Angel race has been decimated, left homeless, lost.


    ¡°I have found an ideal place where they may rebuild their lives.¡±


    Tander glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. ¡°With you as their new leader, presumably?¡±


    Reeves just smiled.


    That explains why Governor Merrill was displeased with the plan, Tander realised. And why the Emperors weren¡¯t¡­


    ¡°But you started this quest long before this disaster. You could not have known Caer Sync would fall¡­¡±


    ¡°No, indeed,¡± Reeves replied. ¡°But Angelkind has been in decline for a long time, thanks to their stupid adherence to self-sacrifice. I always intended to change that.¡±


    ¡°By revealing to them the truth about the Tower?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Tander frowned. ¡°But even if you could convince them of something so radical, and win them over, what of the other races? Is your intention to rule them as well? Some Sirinese may accept that, but none other. Not without a large-scale war of subjugation¡­¡±


    Reeves¡¯ eyes burned. ¡°There will be no war.¡±


    ¡°Then how¡­¡± Tander looked at him, and gave up. The Commander had closed himself off again, and Tander sensed that he would receive no more answers that night.


    He supposed that Reeves¡¯ trust only extended so far.


    A long silence fell between them. Tander rubbed wearily at his eyes, feeling strangely burned out by all that he had learned. The sounds from the square below had petered away, the music from the tavern ceased. The windmill barely turned, now, as the wind died. The night grew late, and warm, and still.


    But there was a final question that he needed to ask.


    ¡°Why have you chosen to tell all of this to me, Commander?¡± he asked softly. ¡°Why me? Why now?¡±


    Reeves remained silent for a moment more, then he said: ¡°You are a valuable member of the Legion, Lieutenant Tander. When we first met, I thought you an irritating scholar. You had never even looked at a weapon, yet you came to me begging to join the Legion. I allowed you into our ranks because I happened to be in need of a literate person at the time.¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°I could not have guessed that you would become one of my finest, most skilled and capable men, regardless of whether or not you could translate the Book.¡±


    Tander flushed with the compliment.


    ¡°But recently, I have sensed that your loyalty to the Legion was slipping. So I have offered you a little trust, a little¡­ motivation.¡± He raised an eyebrow. ¡°You were contemplating leaving, were you not?¡±


    Tander bowed his head in shame. Reeves was very astute.


    ¡°I¡­ it¡¯s just that¡­¡± he swallowed, feeling his newfound spirit sinking again. ¡°I made a bond with Li and I¡­ I already feel that I have broken it. My word is¡­ important to me, Sir¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, put your mind at rest, Lieutenant. The wretched little pigeon is following us.¡±


    ¡°She¡­¡± Tander looked up suddenly at Reeves, catching his breath. ¡°What?!¡±


    Reeves was smirking.


    ¡°How long have you known?¡±


    Reeves waved a hand nonchalantly. ¡°Oh, since I ordered you to leave her behind¡­¡±


    Tander stared at him, shocked. ¡°You¡­ knew she would follow? You were testing me?!¡±


    ¡°I wanted to see how you would react. But I did not expect you to tear yourself to pieces over her. If my men are not capable of carrying out their duty, then that is a problem.¡±


    Tander looked down at his bare feet, unhappily. ¡°I apologise, Commander Reeves.¡±


    Reeves gave an irritated sigh. ¡°I don¡¯t need an apology, Tander. I need you to pull yourself together!¡±


    ¡°Y-yes, Sir.¡±


    Reeves rubbed at his forehead. ¡°When that girl finally sees fit to show herself to you, tell her¡­ ugh,¡± his face twisted, as though the words he spoke were sour. ¡°Tell her¡­ that there is a place¡­ in the Sky Legion for her.¡±


    Tander was speechless.


    ¡°If she is going to be snooping about at our heels, I would prefer it if she were somewhere I can keep an eye on her. But make no mistake!¡± Reeves whirled on him. ¡°Li is your responsibility! If she does anything to jeopardise our mission¡­¡±


    ¡°She will not!¡± Tander was on his feet, his eyes bright. ¡°I will ensure that she does not, Commander!¡±


    Reeves held his gaze, his eyes sharp and hard, then turned away, looking suddenly weary. ¡°I shall relate everything I told you to Nix, when he has sobered up,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Do go and drag him away from that horrid drinking establishment, will you? I¡¯d rather not have to shovel him out of there on a cart tomorrow morning.¡±


    He stepped upon the parapet.


    ¡°Reeves,¡± Tander said suddenly.


    Commander Re¡¯Vier hesitated, one foot on the edge, his wings curving white arcs of light at his back, like pieces stolen from the moon.


    Emotions careened through Tander, too numerous and impossible to express. He fought the tears that rose to his eyes, closed them because he could not tear them away from those glorious wings. A wild urge to throw himself on his knees at Reeves¡¯ feet overcame him, but he resisted it.


    He knew what he wanted to say, yet couldn¡¯t; mere words seemed inadequate. Finally he managed, in a whisper: ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Reeves was quiet for a moment. Then he replied: ¡°Good night, Tander,¡± and launched himself off the watchtower, gliding away into the night.


    Tander watched him go.

 Chapter One Fifty Two

    Across the sands of bone-white lands


    Of stars and stones and ancient hands.


    The white plain spread out from horizon to hazy horizon; a vast, flat desert of sand as shimmering as sunlit snow. Here and there, the bleached, skeletal remains of ancient and monstrous giant creatures poked up like monuments to once mighty lives ¨C some Dragons, some hillbeasts, some immense worms. Occasional, mysterious chunks of carven stone lay scattered about alongside the bones as though flung into the sands by some petulant god; weathered smooth by sweeping winds, the stones were shaped like immense body parts, shattered feathers or huge, unseeing eyes.


    Human travellers believed these to be dead Seraphim, slain in some long-forgotten war.


    Angels denied this theory, claiming them to be natural or magical rock formations with a curious resemblance.


    Regardless, no one ventured near the stones, though the well-worn highway known as The Line cut a razor edge straight across the blinding desert.


    This was the Bone Sea.


    Dotted along The Line, at intervals about a day¡¯s length apart, were several small outposts. Made from ochre-coloured bricks quarried from the Red Ranges, they cut a striking contrast with the white sand. The buildings consisted of squat, simple, square-shaped inns, taverns, stables and other assorted buildings huddled like thirsty animals around a central large well which supplied travellers with much-needed water. Traders also used the opportunity to set up cheerfully-decorated wagons at strategic corners selling food and other essential supplies ¨C all at extortionate prices, of course.


    Since the sleeping places were all packed full, including the animal barns, Flint, Lady Araynia and Ben made their first camp out in the sands, taking shelter during the furious heat and brightness of the day amidst the giant bones.


    Though they rested within a dry, airy Dragon skull the size of a house, well out of view of anyone on The Line, nevertheless they were hot, tired, uncomfortable and thirsty. Their horses suffered too, frequently stamping their hooves into the sand and huffing with irritation; there was no grass or vegetation of any sort to nibble on, though their saddlebags were well stocked with grain.


    The desert was not entirely devoid of life, however; there were small blue beetles and other insects, and scuttering lizards that hid in the shadows. And living on the inside of the huge skeletons, Ben found some strange, pale crablike creatures as big as his head, which appeared as dead husks until Ben poked at one, and it fell onto Lady Araynia, who was trying to sleep.


    Her shriek and subsequent distress broke her days-long mutism, and startled Flint out of his snore, causing him to scramble around for a weapon until Ben apologetically assured everyone that they weren¡¯t being attacked.


    Ben didn¡¯t mind the peculiar animals, the bugs, the sand, the skeletons or even the heat too much.


    But the Seraphim stones were another matter.


    As the sun was sinking at dusk and the others were packing up their camp and tending to the horses, he snuck off to inspect one. It appeared like a giant hand, lying palm upwards in the sand and missing half of its third finger. Standing on it, bathed in the red glow of sunset, a weird feeling overcame him.


    He thought he heard a sound ¨C something almost indescribable, on the edge of his hearing ¨C both beautiful and horrifying, like a choir singing rapturously while simultaneously screaming in agony.


    Startled, shivering suddenly despite the blaze of the sun, he jumped off the stone and decided never to go near any of them again.


    That wasn¡¯t the only odd thing they encountered on their travels, however.


    During their second night across the plains, they came across a strange group of white-robed people, all slumped and laying about exhausted by the side of the road.


    There were about twenty of them, all devoid of possessions. No food, no water, no weapons, no camping or cooking equipment: nothing.


    Lady Araynia pulled her horse up at the sight of them, appalled, and tried to ask them if they needed any help.


    They denied that they did, insisting that they were on a pilgrimage seeking salvation, and would take only nourishment that the Golden Dawn provided.


    Some sort of religious fanatics? Ben wondered.


    Araynia hopped down from her horse and started pulling out food and water for them regardless. Flint wandered over and attempted to question them about the Bladeshifters and the thief, but they only gazed up at the Freeroamer blankly.


    One of them caught Ben¡¯s attention, and gestured him over.


    Ben approached guardedly, but it was just a boy, around the same age as himself, though much thinner.


    ¡°Come with us!¡± the boy whispered earnestly. ¡°Come with us and be saved!¡±


    Ben frowned. ¡°Saved from what?¡±


    ¡°The wraiths! The demon-wraiths! Everything!¡± The boy¡¯s eyes were bright with hope.


    Ben shook his head. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said politely, ¡°but¡ª¡±


    The boy pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his robes and held it out.


    Despite himself, Ben was curious, so he took the paper and unfolded it.


    It was indeed some religious pamphlet, with a fancy emblem of a winged sword in the bottom corner. The text was a beautifully handwritten mess of nonsensical ravings.


    These people really think that something is going to save them, he thought, baffled. But what? What¡¯s the Golden Dawn?


    He started to hand the paper back, when his gaze snagged on two words:


    ¡®New Arvanor¡¯.


    He had heard someone say that phrase before¡­


    Mistaking Ben¡¯s hesitation for serious consideration of the doctrine, the boy became more excited, and other robed people suddenly took an interest in him, but Ben paid them no notice.


    A memory had just sprung up in his mind; of standing in the upstairs hallway of an empty tavern, listening while two Angel soldiers discussed murdering his friend in an adjacent bedroom.


    It is not a living man, Lieutenant. It is dead. There will be no place for such abominations in New Arvanor¡­


    He decided to keep the paper, but then Flint had to intervene, as the cult members had tried to drag him into their midst.


    Ben had been unable to stop thinking about the group for hours after.


    That was, until the sky began to lighten with the approach of dawn.


    They were out on the sands again, searching for a place to make camp, when they caught sight of winged figures above, gliding silently across the fading stars.


    Angels.


    Not just one or two of them, but dozens, scattered across the sky in ragged groups, and there were children and infants with them. None stopped at the nearby outpost: all were heading straight east.


    Ben, Araynia and Flint watched the Angels until they had disappeared into the blue glow across the hills.


    All three of them felt a profound sense of disquiet.


    A mass exodus of Angels was unheard of, and could mean only one thing:


    The demon-wraiths had reached Arkana.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    It was around midnight on their third night across the Bone Sea. Traffic on The Line had spread out considerably, with no one to be seen either ahead of them or behind. The white sands spread away in all directions like a soft, dreamlike blanket, patterned with shadows from the huge skeletons, stars ablaze overhead like a million candles in a cathedral. Flint had informed them that they were nearing the end of the Bone Sea; they needed to make only one more camp before the terrain rose into a series of rocky hills and clumps of forest.


    Soon, they would leave the vast, silent, strange and starry plains behind.


    And beyond that final ridge lay their destination:


    Bridgetown.


    Ben wasn¡¯t sure whether to feel excitement or trepidation. None of them knew what was going to happen when they reached the border.


    As far as they were aware, the thief was bolting that way as fast as possible. Flint had questioned many of their fellow travellers, and plenty of people had seen him; he wasn¡¯t even bothering to disguise himself, and a couple of large, unidentifiable bundles had been observed accompanying him on his horse.


    That confirmed it, then ¨C he was definitely carrying either the Eliminator or Hawk, and most likely both.


    Of the Bladeshifters, however, they had seen and heard no sign.


    Flint seemed to think they were hanging back, trailing them but keeping their distance, waiting for an opportunity. This came as little surprise to Ben, considering what had happened back in Watchroads, but rather filled him with a vicious kind of glee.


    Jewels had been forced to reassess their little group, and would surely think twice before trying to attack them again.


    Despite this, Ben had spent much of the journey looking compulsively over his shoulder, and they had rotated watch duty at their camps, just in case.


    Well, at least, Ben and Flint had kept watch. Araynia was so tired and forlorn that they had let her sleep, even though she had insisted on taking a turn. When she realised what they had done, she glared at them, but seemed too lacking in energy to remain mad. At their second camp she tried to stay awake, but the heat of the day proved too much.


    Ben was worried. Whatever confidence Lady Araynia had regained after using the Sword of Healing on herself appeared to have ebbed away completely. She had withdrawn into herself again, riding with her shoulders slumped in resignation, like a condemned hostage.


    Ben had tried several times to reassure her about the Sword, but his efforts had no effect, and in truth he was beginning to doubt his own words.


    Maybe she was right, and we SHOULD have gone back for it¡­


    But it was too late, now; they had come too far, and The Line swept them inexorably along, towards an uncertain and possibly disastrous future.


    Chewing at his lip, Ben stared at the noblewoman riding just ahead of him, on a black-and-white mare. At the first outpost, they all had an opportunity to wash and exchange their filthy clothes for clean ones from the supplies given to them from the generous farmers. Araynia had replaced her skirt with more practical riding pants. Her dark hair was tied in a neat braid which fell down her back, over a frilled blouse that glowed white as the sand in the moonlight.


    He had to say something to her, though. If she didn¡¯t believe in herself, then she wouldn¡¯t be able to use the Sword even if she did get it back. And that meant that she wouldn¡¯t be able to save Everine.


    But as well as all that¡­ Ben just didn¡¯t like seeing her sad.


    Riding forward, he pulled his horse up alongside her. ¡°Flint says we should be out of this desert soon,¡± he said conversationally. He looked out at the moonlit plains. ¡°It¡¯s kind of peaceful here, isn¡¯t it? You can see a million stars. It¡¯s a bit like being on the ocean.¡± He scratched at his neck. ¡°The heat is a bit much, though.¡±


    Araynia was gazing out across the sands, and said nothing.


    ¡°Do you need anything?¡± he offered her his waterskin. ¡°Some more water?¡±


    Araynia shook her head.


    They rode on in awkward silence.


    Ben took a sip of his water and put it away. He continued to dither for a couple more minutes, then took a breath and decided to do what his sister would have done in this situation: get to the point.


    ¡°So¡­ um, you got your pendant back,¡± he said. ¡°But I noticed that you don¡¯t wear it any more.¡± He cocked his head to one side. ¡°But at least we know it works, now, right? It still has magic. You seemed to think it was broken¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk about it!¡±


    Her reply was so abrupt that Ben was taken aback. But something of Everine¡¯s stubbornness must have rubbed off on him, for he remained steadfast. ¡°Why not?¡±


    She didn¡¯t seem to have an answer to that.


    His gaze was challenging, but she refused to meet it. ¡°I know that your magic isn¡¯t what you expected it to be,¡± he told her. ¡°It isn¡¯t what any of us expected it to be. But it saved my life, and I want you to know I¡¯m grateful for that.¡±


    He stared ahead into the endless white distance, and a smile crept onto his face. ¡°And also¡­ it was awesome.¡±


    It was Araynia¡¯s turn to be surprised. She near choked on her own gasp. ¡°Ben!¡±


    The boy shrugged, unapologetic. ¡°Well? It was, though! And neither of us would be here right now if you hadn¡¯t done¡­ whatever it was you did!¡±


    Araynia sighed.


    ¡°No one blames you for killing some damned Bladeshifters!¡± Ben went on. ¡°No one¡¯s losing any sleep over them. The people back at the town were upset because they saw magic and didn¡¯t know what was happening and they were scared!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m scared!¡±


    Ben looked at her, and saw that she was right. Her dark blue eyes brimmed with terror and uncertainty.


    He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight with sympathy. She had gone through so much already; forced to flee her comfortable home, lost her family and then her best friend in horrifying circumstances, been given a magical Sword for mysterious reasons, survived a Fatalis spell and a crazed demon-wraith and found out that she possessed dangerous magic power.


    That was an awful lot for anyone to deal with.


    He looked down at his horse¡¯s dark mane, sorry that he had pushed her to talk when she didn¡¯t want to. But the fact remained that so many people needed her.


    ¡°I¡¯m scared too,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I don¡¯t want to lose my sister.¡±


    Up until now, the possibility of losing Everine hadn¡¯t really entered his mind. He had refused to let it, firmly believing that Araynia would eventually save her, that all that was needed was time.


    He had never considered what would happen if the noblewoman didn¡¯t want to use her magic. That left a future too grim to contemplate. And yet, there it was, opening a hole in his path, ready to swallow him¡­


    He took a shaky breath. ¡°If you can¡¯t do it,¡± he went on, because talking was better than falling into that hole, ¡°if¡­ if you can¡¯t help her, then that only leaves Ferrian. But he doesn¡¯t want to use his Sword either, because he doesn¡¯t know what it¡¯s capable of.¡±


    He snuffed a laugh. ¡°Only two sorcerers left, and neither of you want to use magic because you¡¯re both afraid of hurting people!¡± He took a deep breath and let it out in a frustrated sigh. ¡°But all I want is for somebody to try!¡±


    When he looked at Araynia again, she was swiping a sleeve across her eyes. ¡°It isn¡¯t that I don¡¯t want to try,¡± she said. ¡°I know that the magic is a part of myself: I have accepted that. I am aware that everyone is relying on me. Yes, I fear causing harm to others, but it isn¡¯t just that¡­¡±


    Turning to one side, she rummaged in one of the saddlebags and then sat back with something lying in the palm of her hand ¨C a deep blue, crystallised chip of night strung with a fine, silver chain.


    The pendant.


    Araynia stared down at it hopelessly. ¡°I¡­ I fear what the magic will do¡­ to me.¡±


    Ben stared at her in puzzlement. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    She continued to stare at the pendant, and swallowed. ¡°Did you¡­ did you know Lord Requar?¡±


    Ben blinked in surprise at the question, and shook his head. ¡°No. He died before I had a chance to meet him.¡± He gestured at Flint, riding some way ahead of them. ¡°Flint did, though. They travelled together. I think they were friends, or at least, Flint was sad when he died.¡± He shook his head. ¡°He doesn¡¯t really like talking about it, though. He saw some things that were¡­ messed up.¡± He shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know the details; I only know what Ferrian told me, and he wasn¡¯t keen on talking about it either.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ Requar stabbed himself with a trigonic dagger,¡± Araynia whispered.


    Ben¡¯s expression was sombre. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Ben shrugged again. ¡°I guess he couldn¡¯t bear to live with what he had done.¡±


    Araynia wiped at her eyes with her sleeves again.


    Ben looked at her. ¡°It wasn¡¯t his magic that made him do terrible things, though, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re worried about,¡± he said. ¡°It was trigon. He was researching and experimenting with it for decades.¡±


    Araynia shook her head. ¡°Is that really true?¡±


    ¡°Well, why would an evil person feel so bad about it?¡±


    ¡°Why would a good person even think about destroying an entire school in the first place?!¡±


    ¡°I dunno. Good people have stupid ideas, sometimes?¡± He paused. ¡°Mekka went crazy too, when Ferrian gave him the trigonic dagger to dispose of.¡±


    Araynia stared at him, aghast. ¡°He what?!¡±


    ¡°And Ferrian¡¯s Winter killed a lot of people accidentally before he learned how to control it.¡± He shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re not the only person in the world who has hurt other people, intentionally or otherwise.¡±


    Araynia was silent, looking pale.


    ¡°Hell, I hit a pirate in the face once, with a frying pan. Actually, a whole bunch of pirates. They all ended up overboard by the time Everine and I were done with them, and my sister wasn¡¯t as polite as I was. We were too busy staying alive at the time to care.¡±


    The noblewoman said nothing.


    Ben sighed. ¡°You¡¯re not a bad person, Araynia, and you¡¯re not going to turn into one, either. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s even possible. You¡¯re my friend, and I trust you. Now all you have to do is to trust yourself.¡±


    Araynia was staring down at her pendant, her brow furrowed in consternation. She looked as though there was still something on her mind, but at that moment, a sharp whistle came from somewhere ahead of them. Ben looked up to see Flint stopped about a hundred yards away, gesturing at them to catch up. They were lagging behind.


    Ben gave Araynia a final reassuring smile, then spurred his bay gelding up beside the Freeroamer.


    ¡°Everythin¡¯ all right?¡± Flint asked.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Ben replied. Araynia trotted up beside them. Ben noticed that she was wearing the pendant again. He gave her a thumbs-up.


    The noblewoman looked a little anxious still, but managed a faint smile.


    ¡°Eh, right,¡± Flint said, eyeing them both. ¡°Well, yer better be, because yer not gonna believe this¡­¡± Turning his black mare around, he nodded east, in the direction they were heading. ¡°Any idea what that is, kiddos?¡±


    Ben and Araynia looked down The Line. The highway continued as a stripe of hard-packed cartwheel tracks toward a wall of dim, low grey hills that marked the end of the Bone Sea. But before that, about a mile away, a large white shape, lumpen and spiny sat in the middle of the sand.


    ¡°Maybe another of those big skeletons?¡± Ben suggested. ¡°There¡¯s loads of them¡­ around¡­¡± his voice trailed off into silence.


    Slowly, his eyes widened.


    On the other side of Flint, Lady Araynia gasped, putting a hand to her mouth.


    The shock to Ben¡¯s realisation was almost as dramatic as Jewels¡¯ fist to his face.


    That white mound was no skeleton. It was too¡­ shiny.


    ¡°Wait,¡± Ben breathed, looking from the shape to Flint and back again, several times. Flint was right: he couldn¡¯t believe what he was seeing. ¡°Wait, no, that can¡¯t be¡­!¡±


    Flint looked apprehensive. ¡°I reckon it is, yeah.¡±


    ¡°Then what the hell are we doing?! Let¡¯s go!¡±


    Without waiting for anyone, Ben kicked his horse into a gallop. A moment later, Araynia followed, both of them charging ahead in twin trails of white dust.


    Sergeant Flint was slower to follow. Pulling the rim of his hat down firmly, he muttered: ¡°Somethin¡¯ about this ain¡¯t right.¡±


    Then he slapped the reins and followed with all speed.