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 – and lack of sleep – 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 – the hunter woman – 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–”
“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.