In the castle, darkened walls
No place to hide when Winter calls.
Red drapes swished in the silence, stirred by an unseen draught, as though ghosts were playing hide and seek in the corners.
The hall had darkened considerably since Ferrian had arrived, but the master of the castle had yet to make an appearance. No one else had entered save for a thin and mournful young boy of about nine or ten, who whispered around the walls like a shadow in his black robes, lighting torches in their brackets. He left without a word or sound, and without looking at Ferrian.
Ferrian watched the firelight dancing on the polished floor, wavering and multiplied into bright hypnotic shapes through his blurry vision. He tried to concentrate on what he was going to say to the sorcerer when he appeared, but found it almost impossible to think of anything except for the pain thundering through his head, and all the way down his right arm.
He looked dazedly down at his injured hand, where he held it lightly against his chest. He was certain that his fingers were broken, they were red and swollen and he could not move them or even touch them without screaming. They burned with agonising pain. In a way, he was thankful that the Muron still had its talons clasped around his upper arm: he felt that he might have sunk to his knees, otherwise.
He fought back another surge of nausea. At least the terrible flight from the Coastlands was over. He had sunk into a semi-conscious daze after the Muron had hit him in the face and was glad of that: regaining full awareness some time later he had thrown up immediately upon noticing that he was several hundred feet in the air.
The flight was relatively swift, however, the Muron taking only two days to cross the Coastlands and the Barlakk Mountains, much quicker than any human could complete the journey, even by horse. It set him down once or twice to drink from streams, and he managed to grab a handful of wild blackberries that did nothing to sate his ravenous hunger. Instead, they only made him feel more ill and he spent most of the windswept hours with his eyes closed, trying to hold on to what little he had managed to put in his aching stomach.
Had he been in a more agreeable state of mind, Ferrian might have been awed at the land of Daroria sweeping out beneath him in a patchwork of dry brown fields, green forests and mountain ranges. If he looked over his shoulder, a bright glint far to the south-west sat on the horizon, like a fallen star wedged between earth and sky: undoubtedly the Royal City of Crystaltina.
To the north, he could make out the Tentaryl Ranges which blocked the land of the Angels from view, and far, far to the east ahead of him, the hazy reddish ridge of the Red Mountains bordering Siriaza, but he was slightly feverish at that point and could not be sure it was not just his imagination.
Overnight, the land soared upwards into rugged grey cliffs that passed beneath them in a neverending stony jumble. Eagles whirled away from their perches on wind-bent trees as the Muron's shadow passed overhead. When the sun finally set behind them, there was no end to the mountains in sight and only far glimpses of civilisation.
The Muron continued flying through the night, the peaks eerie and desolate in the sharp moonlight; approaching morning it began a slow descent, brushing close against sharp edged boulders and ducking around outcroppings. Quite suddenly, the ancient barren rock gave way to ominous black walls and towers, hunched halfway up a cliff like an enormous, spiny sea urchin.
Lord Arzath's castle.
There were so many spikes and spires on the roof that Ferrian thought he might be impaled long before he hit the ground if the Muron should drop him.
There was no chance of that, however: the creature's grip was steel-tight. Ferrian heard the faint rush of a waterfall somewhere in the distance and caught a glimpse of something grand and white across the valley: another castle? But his view was obscured by the glare of the rising sun and suddenly the Muron folded its wings and plunged into a steep dive.
A huge, corroded iron structure engulfed them… chains… curved, grimy walls… a great, grisly mass of something below that looked like bones or carcasses… Then the Muron swerved into a pitch-black, yawning archway, and for several minutes Ferrian could see or hear nothing at all save the rustle of the Muron's leathery wings. Various smells passed him by, the rank, sickly odour of rotting flesh amongst the worst. His stomach lurched about as though it were being pulled on a piece of string as the Muron twisted and turned, almost making him sick again.
Once or twice, it exchanged rasped words with its fellows in the darkness, presumably announcing its arrival and what it had brought with it. Then, finally, they dropped down a long shaft into the high-ceilinged chamber he found himself in now.
They stood facing the red throne, waiting. The Muron had not spoken to Ferrian nor glanced at him since they had arrived. It clutched him in an almost disinterested fashion, like a lump of meat it had brought to its master.
Ferrian shuddered.
Somehow, he knew he had to convince Lord Arzath that he was of some value. Somehow, he had to do this without putting the Freeroamers or Cimmeran in danger. If he could not, then he would never see the world outside these dark walls again. He had already decided that if it came down to a choice between his life and theirs, he would sacrifice his own. He was cursed anyway; he was a hazard, there was no guarantee of finding a cure for the Winter. There was nothing about him that made him any better or worthier than they were.
His greatest fear was that the sorcerer would simply read his mind, pluck out anything he wanted to know as easily as picking flowers. Ferrian could do nothing about that; he had no defence.
He swallowed against his rising terror. Why did I leave them? he lamented. Why did I walk away? They got me so far and I just abandoned them, and now I might get them all killed as well…
Struggling to fight the tears of frustration that threatened to break free, he glanced surreptitiously around the hall, searching for anything he could use to defend himself with, any means of escape… anything at all that might help him get out of this mess.
Nothing presented itself.
Perhaps if I can just get away from the Murons, he thought desperately. At least Arzath was Human; he might be more willing to listen to reason.
Who am I kidding? He has Murons as servants! He can do anything he likes!
He discounted any chance of outside help. No one even knew he was here. The Freeroamers could not know that Murons had captured him, and even if they did manage to work it out and convince Cimmeran to lead them here, it would take them at least a week to reach the valley on foot, if not longer.
Ferrian didn't know if he had that long. He didn't even know if he had another night.
He could not afford to rely on rescue. His survival, and that of his friends, was in his own hands.
I'm alone now, just like I was in the beginning. He clenched his good hand at his side. But I'm not going to give up…
Behind him, the doors to the throne room opened. He could feel a cool draught on his back, and the drapes stirred a little more anxiously. The Muron turned its head to look, but Ferrian remained staring fixedly at the floor a couple of paces in front of him. His heart leapt into a gallop.
Footsteps sounded on the marble floor: careful, unhurried. They were accompanied by a rhythmic tapping noise, like a staff, perhaps.
Don't panic, Ferrian told himself. Don't panic.
The footsteps drew slowly closer, until at last they stopped a few feet behind him. "What is this?" a voice demanded.
It sounded hoarse and slightly short of breath, but there was a clearly refined, haughty accent to it, like someone of noble upbringing.
Someone who had spent a lifetime subjugating others.
The hairs on the back of Ferrian's neck prickled. It's him.
"I have brought sssomething that might interesst you, Masster," the Muron replied.
"Oh, really?" the voice sneered. "Something that might interest me," the voice rose quickly, taking on a deadly razor-sharp edge, "would be Cimmeran! I thought I gave you explicit orders NOT to come back here–"
"Thiss boy knowsss the location of the ssservant," the Muron interjected.
"Then why didn't you interrogate him?"
"I did ssso, Masster, but he wass uncooperative…"
"THEN KILL HIM!" His shout made Ferrian jump. "Why burden me with this filth?! ARGH!" There was a gasp as though the owner of the voice was gripped with sudden pain. Then he moved around Ferrian to his throne.
The sorcerer was indeed carrying a staff: a long black one, carved with intricate designs, and was leaning on it heavily, clutching at his head with one long-fingered hand. He slumped into the ornate chair with the staff across his knees and his head in his hand.
Ferrian lifted his eyes from the floor and found himself staring at Lord Arzath in astonishment: he was not exactly what he'd been expecting. In fact, he looked quite ill; he was very pale and seemed to be shaking. Though his black hair partly veiled his face, Ferrian could see enough of it to notice deep shadows around his eyes.
He looked as bad as Ferrian felt.
"Masster," the Muron hissed, its eyes narrowing slightly. "He hass sssomething elsse that may be of worth. He hass magic."
Arzath looked up slowly, glaring at the Muron. "What are you talking about?"
"Magic," it repeated. "Can you not ssensse it?"
Arzath stared at the creature with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, as though trying to work out if he'd heard correctly or the Muron had gone insane. His gaze swept over Ferrian, then turned back to the Muron.
"Of… course I sense it!" he snapped. "Do you think me an idiot?" He waved his staff irritably. "Get out of here! I'll deal with him myself!"
"Masster," the Muron said, bowing, and leapt back up to the ceiling and disappeared.
Ferrian staggered from the sudden release, but managed to keep his feet. He returned his eyes quickly to the floor. He could feel Arzath's gaze on him, sizzling through his skull and out the back of his head.
He swallowed. I'm alone in the room with a sorcerer…
"My Murons do not lie…" Arzath's voice had gone curiously soft, as though he were half-talking to himself. "Who are you?" he questioned suddenly, the edge returning to his voice. "What magic do you possess and how have you come by it?"
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Ferrian hesitated, trying to decide how much about himself he should reveal to Arzath. The sorcerer seemed to have forgotten about Cimmeran, at least for the moment. If Ferrian could keep him interested in the magic, perhaps the other reason he was brought here might be overlooked…
"Tell me," Arzath inquired suddenly, silkily. "Do you know who I am?"
Ferrian forced his voice out through his parched throat, not looking up. "Yes. You're Lord Arzath, the sorcerer."
“No," Arzath picked up his black staff and pointed it at the boy. Ferrian gasped and stepped backwards, startled. The sorcerer grinned and leaned forward. "I am the worst thing you have ever encountered in your life," he whispered. "And you will answer my questions, every single one of them, or your worthless little life ends here. You are nothing to me; you are an insect, and I can crush you as easily as one. Is that perfectly clear?"
Ferrian nodded. "Yes," he added quickly, unable to take his eyes off the end of the staff and trying desperately not to visualise what might come out of it.
"Wonderful," Arzath sneered. "Now, I repeat. Who the hell are you and how have you come to possess magic?"
"M-my name is Ferrian. I… I don't have proper magic, I mean, I'm not a sorcerer. I'm cursed. I don't know how or why, but if I stay in one place for too long, the weather goes bad. It gets cold, and there are storms and blizzards, and I don't know how to stop it except to run away."
Silence fell, deeper than the shadows draping the corners of the hall. Arzath seemed frozen in position, eyes locked on Ferrian, staff still raised. Thinking the sorcerer was waiting for further explanation, he swallowed and continued: "Sometimes – just recently – there is light, as well. A blazing white light. It spears out of me without warning, sometimes so bright that I pass out…"
Arzath rose slowly to his feet, his staff lowering. "Look at me," he ordered.
Ferrian forced himself to meet the sorcerer's fierce green gaze.
Without warning, Arzath lunged forward and grabbed Ferrian's chin, forcing his face so close that their noses were almost touching. Ferrian gasped and cried out at the sudden jolt of pain through his injured hand.
Arzath ignored him, staring deeply into his eyes, as though searching for something. Ferrian felt his skin crawl and his resolve begin to crumble. He tried to cringe away, but the sorcerer's fingers dug into his skin, holding him in place.
"Your eyes!" Arzath breathed. "Your… eyes…"
Arzath's own eyes widened: recognition and disbelief flickering through them. "Where were you born?" he asked quickly. "Your parents, who were they?"
"I… don't know where I was born," Ferrian answered, wincing. "I don't… I never knew my parents! I was raised by gypsies, they wouldn't tell me…"
"Ness!" Arzath exclaimed. "Ness! Does that name mean anything to you?"
"N-no…" he hesitated. "I… think it's a town in the south of the Outlands… an old, deserted town…"
"Do you remember?"
"No! N-no, I don't remember anything!"
Arzath released him and took a step back. His shaking had become more pronounced and his expression was one of incredulity. "No," he murmured, turning away from the boy, apparently lost in his own thoughts. "The crystal… the White Dragon… surely, it couldn't have…?"
Crystal? Ferrian remembered the huge sparkling diamond in his dream, and wondered if it was a coincidence. His heart and mind raced madly.
"Show me!" Arzath ordered suddenly, whirling back. His eyes flashed with excitement.
Ferrian blinked. "Sh-show you?"
"Your magic!" the sorcerer snapped impatiently. "Let me see it! Now!"
"I…" Ferrian's heart leapt in terror. "I've n-never tried to summon it before, not intentionally, I don't know if I—"
"TRY!" The staff swung back up.
Ferrian stared at it unhappily. This is a bad idea, he thought.
He had never done this before; he had no idea how to use magic. He could not predict what would happen.
He didn't know if he was more afraid of failing or succeeding.
But what did he have to lose?
Reluctantly, he closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of Arzath and the staff and the hall and the flickering torches. Vaguely, he searched around inside himself, willing something to appear.
Long moments passed.
Nothing happened.
Ferrian shook his head in frustration.
"Try harder!" Arzath persisted. "The magic is there, inside you! Let it out! Stop holding back!"
"I'm not holding back!" Ferrian objected, but as soon as he said the words, he knew they were untrue. Fear and pain were preventing him from concentrating, but more than that, his deeply ingrained hatred of the Winter. After so many years of vehemently pushing it away and trying to suppress it, to call it forth willingly was no easy task.
He thought of the devastation it had caused and all the people it had hurt or disadvantaged. He thought of the terrible journey through Demon Heights, of poor Aari's fear of the tunnel collapsing and Ferrian's spontaneous outburst of magic making that happen.
He thought of the Freeroamers, who had risked their lives to help him find a cure.
He was sick and tired of it. He understood exactly how Cimmeran felt: being constantly chased and harassed, forever living in fear, but Ferrian's cruel master had no face, no soul.
His hand closed into a fist, his eyes squeezing shut tighter.
Fine, he thought, anger flaring in the silence of his mind. You really want to see the Winter, Lord Arzath? You want to see what I have to live with? I'll show it to you, and I hope it rips your stupid castle off the cliff!
With that, he summoned every ounce of willpower he could muster and bent it towards calling forth the power he had been cursed with since birth.
For the first time in his life, he wanted the Winter to appear. He wanted it to come roaring through the castle in all its fearsome, freezing fury…
Arzath paced restlessly in front of his throne, waiting for the boy to summon his magic. It shouldn't be this difficult! he thought in annoyance. True, the boy was pathetically naive: he had never been taught how magic worked or how to harness it. But in his rare case, it was innate; therefore, he should be able to summon it instinctively.
Nevertheless, Arzath could barely contain his excitement. Who would have thought the unexpected consequences of a failed experiment many years past could have turned out to be so beneficial? Ferrian was serendipity incarnate! If Arzath had known of his existence, he would have taken the child and raised him, moulded him into a glorious living weapon.
He grinned, studying the silver-eyed boy gleefully. It's never too late…
If Ferrian possessed the sort of magic Arzath suspected he did, then Requar was already just a blot in a history book. One sorcerer he could defend against, but two? Hah! He didn't stand a–
The flash of white light was so sudden that Arzath took a startled step backwards, throwing his arm up to protect his eyes. It exploded into the darkness, growing like an expanding star, filling the entire hall, every nook and crevice with soul-piercing brilliance. Arzath gasped as his eyes began to burn with pain… and then the light diminished.
Slightly dazed, he lifted his head, blinking, to see Ferrian buckle and collapse to the floor. Frost seeped out of his body, spreading out across the black floor in white, fern-like tendrils.
A penetrating cold enveloped the room, snatching the breath from Arzath's lungs.
Then a peal of thunder sounded, as deep and threatening as anything that Arzath had ever summoned himself. It did not fade away, however, but continued to gather in strength and volume, shaking the entire castle as though a fist from the heavens had gripped it. The great, heavy oaken doors at the entrance to the throne room burst open and the narrow window above them shattered, glass spraying everywhere like falling ice… and, out of nowhere, a monstrous gale surged into the room.
Howling and shrieking like a wild beast, it snatched up the sorcerer and threw him sprawling across the floor like a leaf. It caught the drapes and tore them from the walls and hammered the torches into submission, plunging the chamber into freezing darkness.
Illuminated by flashes of lightning, snowflakes poured through the open window and swirled into every corner.
And the temperature continued to plummet. Ice flooded over the floor in a crackling, ghostly white tide – up the pillars, up the walls, over the throne, over everything.
Mortally afraid now, Arzath clawed his way to his throne and hunched behind it, seeking what little shelter it provided, his cloak thrashing around him. He could feel his lungs tightening, and frost was gathering on his skin, on his clothes…
The storm raged on, unstoppable, completely out of control.
"God of Darkness!" he cried, his voice disintegrating into the merciless wind.
* * *
Kyosk stared in shock at the scene before him.
The Murons were attacking each other!
Or rather, to be more accurate, Varshax was attacking his subordinates.
Kyosk had never seen the Muron Wingmaster so enraged. His jaws were frothing and his eyes blazing with a manic fire reminiscent of Lord Arzath. He was grabbing anyone and anything within claw's reach and hurling it against the walls of the eyrie with bone-shattering force, all the while screaming epithets in his own guttural language. The chamber was filled with flapping wings as lesser Murons hastened to get out of his way, ducking into arch-holes or fleeing out the ceiling.
Lying littered amongst the mound of bones were many black bodies, some of them still alive, crawling around like battered moths. Kyosk looked down at his feet to see one missing its head.
Strangely, there were no lacerations or other injuries on the body. The creature appeared to have been decapitated with a single, clean swipe.
Kyosk stared, his brow raising in surprise. It would have taken an extraordinary blade or an extraordinary wielder to achieve such a thing. Peering at the other corpses, he saw that most of them exhibited similar injuries.
Someone or something had painted the wall of the eyrie with their blood.
"What the hell," Kyosk exclaimed, "is goin' on here?"
He immediately regretted opening his mouth, as Varshax looked down sharply, caught sight of him and dropped onto the bones (and the head of a crippled Muron) with a crunch.
"You! Grik!"
Kysok backed away hastily as the big Muron stalked towards him, wings spread, dramatically increasing his size and ominousness. He loomed in the doorway. "Where isss it?" he snarled.
The Grik frowned. "Where's what?"
Varshax screeched in fury and advanced on Kyosk further. "The Sssword, you fool!"
Kyosk backed away to the edge of the stairs, looking perplexed. "I don't know nothin' 'bout no sword!"
"Do not lie to me! One of your ssstupid Grikss, not an hour passt, tresspassed in our eyrie and sstole ssomething of great ssignificance to Lord Arzath! If he disscoverss it iss misssing, there will be conssequencesss!"
Staring at his infuriated face, Kyosk couldn't suppress his snigger, but cut it short as Varshax's eyes narrowed and his jaws snapped threateningly. He growled instead. "Grrah, fine. Keep yer scrawny wings on, I'll fetch it."
He started to turn away, then paused, remembering suddenly the reason he had come up here in the first place.
He looked back at Varshax curiously.
"Quickly!" the Muron snapped. His eyes widened dangerously. "Or I ssshall take great pleassure in retrieving it myssself…"
Kyosk's eyes narrowed. I'll bet you would, he thought. He stared at Varshax a moment longer, considering, then turned away wordlessly and trudged down the stairs. Only when he had rounded the corner did he stop and glance over his shoulder in case the Muron was following him.
Nothing moved save the flickering shadows cast by his torch.
Consequences, eh? For whom?
The Murons' incompetence amused Kyosk, but at the same time, he was puzzled as to why they were still so wary of Arzath. They could sense magic, surely they should have noticed that something was amiss with him by now? Were the Murons stupider than they looked, after all?
Or, could it be that Kyosk had made a dangerously wrong assumption?
He stood in the darkness, thinking hard.
No, he decided at last. Arzath was definitely not himself, that much was obvious. He was extremely reclusive, jumped at his own shadow and looked as though he couldn't fend off a maggot.
Kyosk didn't know much about magic, but he knew when someone was weak.
Eyes narrowing again, he continued down the corridor. Perhaps it would be more interesting to let Varshax remain ignorant for awhile…
The door to the mess hall banged open to admit Clanmaster Kyosk.
"Alright!" he roared. "Which one o' you liddle maggot 'eads stole somethin' from the Muron's eyrie?"
As one, every single finger in the room pointed towards a small Grik at the back, who was standing on a table demonstrating, with great vigour, how to kill a horde of Murons.
A rapt crowd stood watching, or rather, ducking hastily.
Crysk froze mid-swing as Kyosk strode towards the table. He scrambled down quickly and stood to attention, remembering just in time not to give the Grik salute with his sword arm.
"Gimme dat!" Kyosk growled, snatching the long shining sword off the young Grik. He lifted it up to the light, examining it.
After a few moments, he swung it at the table, scattering a few Griks who were crowded around it. The sword cleaved through a stack of half-eaten chickens, continued through the table and embedded itself in the stone floor.
Kyosk yanked it out and turned to Crysk. "You were the one who cut up dose Murons? Wiv dis?"
Crysk attempted to shrink into his own shell. "I didn' mean to!"
Kyosk snorted. "Right. Day just tripped and cut dere own 'eads off."
"Day was attackin' me!" Crysk whined. "Day was gonna rip me to bits!"
To his surprise, Kyosk burst out laughing. "You're promoted," he said when he had regained some self-control. "To Second Grach."
"What?!" A gold-shelled Grik at the table stood up abruptly. "But, dat's my posi–"
"Shuddup!" Kyosk barked.
Grogdish hammered the table with his fist and slumped back in his seat, looking mutinous. He gave Crysk a vicious glare.
Crysk merely looked scared, glancing around as though waiting for the mob to beat him up.
Kyosk looked back at the sword, impressed. The blade was so highly polished it looked almost liquid in the torchlight. A very faint, silvery glow lingered in the air whenever he moved it, like a ghostly aura.
Magic, he thought. Perfect.
With a weapon like this, he stood a fair chance of annihilating both Arzath and the Murons.
He grinned.
He turned to face the room. "Listen up!" he boomed, immediately silencing the leers and jeers and angry outbursts and disappointed mutterings of those who had expected spilt blood.
"Who 'ere is sick of sittin' around?" His voice resounded off the greasy walls. "Who wants ter taste battle? Who wants ter hear the hallways ringin' wiv steel and screams? Who wants to smell Muron blood on dere fists?"
The hall shook with cheers and howls.
Kyosk lifted the sword high. "Den sharpen yer fangs and blades, coz we're gonna take us a castle!"