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?”
“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–”
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–”
“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.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
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 – 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 – 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.