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 Two of them were no longer active, the third emitted ominous black smoke and noxious fumes that hung in the air under the baleful red sky.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 fiancée 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.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
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 – 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.