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–”
“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–”
“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 – 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.
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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–”
“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.