Wings of blood and wings of white
Wings of black to chase the night.
Hawk burst through the door of the tavern room where Grisket Trice was currently lodging, and closed it quickly behind him. The Commander looked up, startled, from his seat by the window. The expression on his face told Hawk that he clearly hadn't been expecting to see the younger man again so soon.
“Sirannor's gone!” Hawk gasped, panting for breath.
“Gone?”
He shook his head, sweat plastering his hair to his face. “Not in his cell. And...” he took a deep breath. “Cimmeran's dead.”
Grisket stared at him for a long moment, then scowled. “Dammit,” he growled. “Killed himself I suppose.”
“No.” Hawk walked to the window and studied the street outside to see if the Watch had followed him, but all was quiet. “He was murdered.”
Grisket was silent for another long moment. “You think Sirannor did it?”
“Yes. No! I mean… Argh!” Hawk clutched his hair in exasperation, and strode into the middle of the room. “I don't know! It's the logical explanation, but...” He shook his head again. “He vowed not to!” He turned back to look at Commander Trice helplessly. “You don't know what went on in the Old Quarter. The Captain went through a lot. He forgave Cimmeran, and he was serious. He wouldn't have broken his word!”
The image of the Angel's ravaged back still haunted Hawk. And now he would have to live with those eyes as well; those strange, unnerving golden eyes, dead and gleaming like polished coins in the shadows of his cell.
Hawk had seen dead men before, but nothing like this. Never in his life had he ever encountered anyone so pitiful, whose entire life had turned out so pointless. It was a terrible end to a tragic and miserable existence, and he had successfully passed on all that pain and misery to others. And now someone else had blood on their hands, because of him.
It made Hawk nauseous, but also sad. Sad because it was such a waste of lives; of Cimmeran's, of Aari's and of the unknown murderer's.
Please, Hawk prayed silently, let it not be Sirannor…
“It seems to me,” Grisket said quietly, breaking the brooding silence, “that this may well have been set up to make it look like Sirannor was the culprit.”
Hawk nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That's what I thought. But… why? And… who?”
Grisket's expression darkened. “Someone who would like to see Captain Sirannor's reputation destroyed beyond a doubt.”
There was a pause, then both of them looked at each other and said at once: “General Dreikan.”
Hawk slumped onto the bed. “Hells bells,” he breathed. “You think the General has had Sirannor kidnapped??”
“It's possible,” Grisket replied. “If true, it's likely the Watch were in on it. No doubt they wanted one of us to witness the crime and come to the wrong conclusion.” He shook his head angrily. “Trying to turn even the Freeroamers against him!”
Hawk cursed. “I knew it was too easy! Only two guards, and the whole place was empty, apart from...” he sighed instead of finishing the sentence. “I messed one of 'em up pretty nicely, though. I don't think he's gonna be too happy about that...”
The Commander nodded at him. “You'd best watch yourself, Hawk.”
Hawk nodded, thinking: Guess I'm going to need that armour again, after all…
His plans had been thrown into disarray. He had hoped to rescue Captain Sirannor and then hide out in the barracks overnight. The Watch wouldn't dare follow him into the military compound. Officially, he had resigned, and his commanding officer had been none too pleased about it, but still, Hawk had a few good friends in there that would watch his back.
Unfortunately, General Garth Dreikan also had his fair share of loyal supporters, and clearly, one of them had informed the General of Sirannor's arrest and the circumstances around Aari's death. And Dreikan had leapt to take advantage of it.
Hawk made a noise of frustration and slammed his fist into the pillow, sending up a puff of soft feathers. Now he had no idea where Sirannor was. He hoped desperately that the old man wasn't being tortured, but he knew that Dreikan would seek to inflict as much pain on his long-time enemy that he could possibly get away with…
Hawk sprang suddenly to his feet. “I'll send Carmine a message. She needs to know about this.”
“She will want to help!” Grisket grumbled.
“Exactly! You need her help, Commander. I'm going after Ferrian and you can't get to the bottom of this on your own. I would ask Mekka to help you, but,” he shook his head anxiously, “I can't find him anywhere.”
Grisket shook his head as well. “Haven't seen him since the funeral. Assumed he headed back to Sel Varence.”
Hawk sighed, trying to ignore the dark feeling of uncertainty growing rapidly within him. “I hope you're right.”
He went to the door and paused with his gauntleted hand on the handle. “Oh,” he added, turning back to Commander Trice. “Don't tell Carmine that I joined the Freeroamers. Good night, Commander!”
He opened the door and went through.
A couple of seconds later, he opened it again, sticking his scruffy head through the gap. “On second thought: do tell her. I'd rather be a couple of hundred miles away when she finds out.” He gave Grisket a thumbs up. “Cheers!”
* * *
The ride down out of the mountains was long and hard. Ferrian had to stop frequently to rest Serentyne, as she became quickly exhausted pushing through the mounds of snow and freezing wind. Requar had ridden her through the pass in a storm, but Ferrian did not possess the sorcerer's extensive knowledge of spells that might lend her extraordinary strength or agility. Instead, he was forced to proceed slowly and with great care, and hope that his luck was piled as deeply as the snow around him.
There were a couple of terrifying moments when Serentyne slipped on the icy rocks, but thankfully she recovered without injuring herself. Eventually, the steep, treacherous trail became a more gentle one, undulating as it wound down through the ridges, and finally flattened out altogether as they entered the Valewood Forest and thick undergrowth rose to greet them.
Gradually, even at the slow speed they were moving, they outpaced the Winter. The snow and ice drew back, and the raging, tormented wind dropped off into a sullen, chilly breeze, then a dying whisper. Now here they stood, at the edge of the forest, bathed in stunning moonlight.
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Ferrian wasn't sure at first if the snow really had retreated, as he could see only in black and white and the moonlight reflected off the road before him and the gently swaying wheat field opposite with brilliant radiance. The shadow of a fence line was etched across it, sharp and deep like an ink drawing, and everything was so still, apart from the insects buzzing around his face.
But the air felt too warm, too heavy. It slid over his skin like an oily snake, bringing with it a familiar nauseated, oddly shivery sensation, like when he had sat too close to the fire back in the castle.
He couldn't stand the heat.
Feeling irritated, he swiped at the flies, then happened to glance at the sky. It was well that he wasn't breathing, for he would have stopped if he had.
Stars lay strewn over his head, millions and millions of them upon the velvety black, like the shattered dust of a fine, rare crystal, the most exquisite diamond ever to have existed.
The diamond…
Staring up at the vast stretch of glittering infinity, white moonlight flooding over him, Ferrian realised something fundamental. Those stars were not for him. They had never been his to gaze upon, and the warm, peaceful world they watched over was someone else's reality.
He had left the Winter behind, as he had always done. As he had vowed not to do again.
He closed his silver eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he knew what he had to do.
Gently, he guided Serentyne into the middle of the deserted road. It ran east to west, following the line of the Barlakks along the northern edge of the Outlands. To the west, some way, lay Meadrun; this was the road he had travelled along weeks ago, before he was captured by the Bladeshifters, before meeting the Freeroamers.
When he was still alive.
And when he ran from the Winter, like a hunted thing.
Not any more.
Turning Serentyne's head west, he closed his eyes again, bowed his head and concentrated. Silently he repeated the one spell that Arzath had taught him, to focus his thoughts, to remain calm…
The magic came effortlessly, filling his body in an icy rush. The white light came with it, but instead of overwhelming his mind and exploding out of him, it spread outwards in a gentle, quiet glow.
When he opened his eyes again, the Winter had returned.
Snowflakes whirled around him. The wind had come back to life, howling its mournful dirge and thrashing the trees. And the stars were gone, consumed by the heavy clouds that came rolling back from out of the mountains. Ferrian watched the last of them wink out, like eyes closing forever.
But he did not feel dismayed.
He felt relieved.
The insects were blown away; the slimy heat banished, replaced by clean, crisp air. Frost coated his hands and clothing, turning his greyish skin white again, sparkling in the cool glow of his magic.
He smiled.
It felt right.
The road stretched out ahead of him, a straight, pale tunnel through the roaring, dancing storm.
Let's go, Serentyne!
Feeling happier than he could remember in a long time, Ferrian urged the white mare into a gallop. Exhilaration swept through him as the freezing wind raked his hair and snapped at his clothing; he still wore the black servant's garb that Arzath had given him, now decorated with intricate, fern-like patterns of frost. He had removed his cloak, using it to bundle up the Sword of Frost, which was now tied securely to Serentyne's saddle.
And then he noticed something incredible.
Spreading out to either side of him, seemingly from his own shoulders, were two vast, ghostly wings, delicate and leathery, with long white feathers at the ends leaving rainbow-coloured trails in the air behind them.
He laughed, spurring Serentyne faster.
The white horse ran so swiftly, she almost flew.
Dawn broke over the town of Meadrun, warm and rosy. The sound of birds in the trees and cows coming in for milking echoed through the morning stillness, and people began to venture out of their houses, going about their usual business. The owner of the Bramble Barn tavern unlocked the main door and opened it wide, wedging it in place with a stone in an effort to dispel some of the night's cloying heat. He was relieved to feel a wash of cool air pass over him.
Change coming at last, he thought.
He was just turning away to return to his tasks when a sudden clatter from across the street made him look back.
A milk maid had dropped both of her pails and was standing stock still, staring at something down the street. Fresh milk leaked into the dirt and over her shoes, unheeded.
Curious, the colourfully-dressed bartender walked out on to the cobbled pavement outside his tavern to see what was going on.
He stopped still as the milk girl, eyes widening.
Everyone else in the street had forgotten what they were doing, as well.
A monstrous dark bank of clouds was approaching rapidly from the east. Even as he watched, it swallowed the sun, devouring the sky so quickly he could hardly believe what he was seeing. The cool breeze that he had welcomed just moments ago turned into a strong, biting wind as though straight off the mountain peaks.
A couple of people dropped what they were carrying and started running.
The barman stood transfixed. People around him were panicking, now. A dog raced past him, whining. The black clouds boiled over the top of the village, plunging it back into deepest night.
Freezing rain smashed into him, and the buildings around him, but still the tavern keeper stood, staring in horror.
Something else was approaching in the midst of the storm.
It appeared to be a ghostly rider on a glowing white horse. Around him swirled a terrible blizzard, advancing like a solid wall.
The buildings on the edge of the town simply disintegrated as the full force of the Winter smashed into them.
A terror like nothing the barkeeper had ever felt before passed up through the soles of his drenched shoes, through his body, and seized his brain. He turned and ran back inside the tavern.
He managed to make it to the trap door in the kitchen when the entire upper storey of his tavern flew apart, ripped asunder and tossed away into the clouds like broken matchsticks. Hammered by sleet, he flung the hatch open but before he could throw himself down the ladder, the wall collapsed on top of him.
The last thing he heard before the ear-splitting shriek of the storm claimed him, was the endless sound of shattering glass.
* * *
The morning sun beamed down on the map in Hawk's hands. He had been fortunate; immediately after a conversation he'd had with Sirannor in his cell a few days previously, where the Captain had related everything that had befallen the Freeroamers since leaving Forthwhite, and Ferrian's quest, he had sent a request to the Royal Archive in Crystaltina for a map of potential locations of the Sorcerer's Valley. He had not really expected to receive a reply at all – let alone one so swiftly – but a courier had arrived just this morning, at first light, as Hawk was preparing to leave the barracks.
Hawk had been forced to don his military armour again, one last time, in order to leave the city of Sunsee unmolested. He didn't think the guards had recognised him – they were searching for a Freeroamer – but he had worn his stupid fancy helmet just in case. He had then sold his armour to a merchant waiting in line to have his goods inspected and pay his taxes just outside the city gates.
Now he was clad in his new Freeroamer uniform again, sitting atop Ardance, Cimmeran's unruly black mare. It had taken quite a lot of effort to get the horse to trust him – effort he didn't have time for – but she seemed placid enough now. He supposed he could have chosen another horse, but she was magnificent and had recently lost her owner, and was known to be a fast runner.
She had also survived the Old Quarter, and had an uncanny knack of turning up at the right moment. Hawk wanted a horse like that.
Breathing deeply of the cool, salty breeze blowing off the sea, Hawk studied the map.
At least three or four possible locations were marked on it, a couple of them all the way in Siriaza. But one, in the very centre of the northern arm of the Barlakk Mountains, one or two days from a small town called Meadrun, was circled with a hasty scribble. An arrow pointed down to it, with two words scrawled above: 'Probably Here.'
Well, Hawk surmised. 'Probably Here' was a lot better than 'No Freaking Clue', so he supposed he would go with that. He rolled the map up and tucked it back into Ardance's saddlebag.
When he straightened again, a black-winged figure stood on the road, directly in front of him.
Hawk jumped violently, reaching for his sword, but released it again a moment later, slapping his gauntleted hand to his chest.
“Hells bells, Mekka!” he breathed, trying to put his heart back into place. He scowled at the Angel. “You could just say 'Hello' like a normal person!”
Mekka stood on the road before him, saying nothing, his black feathers and iridescent green hair ruffling in the breeze.
Hawk looked back at him, his scowl shifting into an expression of worry.
Mekka looked terrible. His face was very pale and his dark green eye was rimmed with red and shadowed, as though he hadn't slept for days. His hair was tied back but was untidy, long strands hanging around his face. He wore his familiar green jacket with its peacock-feather design over black clothing. His bow was slung over one shoulder, his quiver of black-fletched arrows on the other.
“I wish to come with you,” he said quietly.
“Uh,” Hawk replied uncertainly. “Okay...”
Mekka moved out of his way.
Hawk coaxed Ardance into a walk. The mare tossed her head around and huffed, unnerved by the sight of the Angel. Mekka kept pace with them on foot.
Hawk glanced at him. The Angel did not return his gaze, just stared ahead, one eye hidden, the other inscrutable.
“He was a friend to Aari,” Mekka said suddenly, by way of explanation, then fell silent again.
Hawk just nodded, not quite knowing what else to say. After a few minutes of uncomfortable, gloomy silence that had slightly dampened the bright morning, Hawk decided on a bad attempt at humour.
“You know,” he said, “for a moment there, I thought you were a Muron!”
He glanced sidelong at Mekka, but the black-winged Angel did not react.
“Um...” Hawk tried, “you're allowed to punch me?”
Mekka said nothing, just spread his wings and took off, soaring over the road ahead of Hawk, high into the hazy blue sky where no one could reach him.
Sighing sadly, Hawk watched him go.