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.
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 – all of them – 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 – two other people could have stood beside Ferrian easily – 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!”
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Li studied him curiously, her copper eyes bright. “Yes you do!”
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 – 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 – which didn't take long; there were not a lot of hiding places on ground level – 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 – which felt very flimsy; he heard something shatter – 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 – 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 – and flesh – 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.