Blood and smoke, a battle lost
To find the Winter's cure, what cost?
"I spent the next hundred and forty years trying to re-create my lost Sword," Arzath went on. He was standing by the family portrait, wistfully touching the picture of his mother. "It was not easy. The secret technique to forging the Swords of the Gods was known only to a few Masters, and they of course perished in the fire: all their vast lore and knowledge with them. Little was left after the explosion. Requar and I were the only survivors."
His fingers trailed down to the white-haired boy and then curled into a fist, his face bitter. "To this day, I cannot say why. At first, I believed that Requar had finally found his precious trigon counter-spell, but he revealed to me, many years later when I hunted him down, that he was still searching for it. Either he lied to me, or he found some other way to protect himself. Why he bothered to save my life as well, I cannot fathom. Perhaps he wanted someone left alive to know what he had done."
He glared hatefully at the image of his brother in the painting, then suddenly spun away, pacing up and down beside the table. Ferrian watched and listened quietly, not daring to interrupt the tale. He wanted to hear as much as Arzath was prepared to tell him. The sorcerer seemed almost to have forgotten that he was there, lost in the shadows of his memories.
"I returned to the ruins, some years later, to search for artefacts," he continued. "No one attempted to stop me. Sunsee was abandoned after the disaster. The sky remained red for twenty years, the ruins emitting a fierce heat and black glow, so intense that not even I dared to approach. Eventually, the magic disintegrated and people began to return, but no one wanted to live anywhere near the place of the catastrophe. An entire quarter of the city became derelict.
"But something had taken up residence there. Something foul and damned. It called itself the Presence. It was a collective of shattered souls, the remains of all the sorcerers who had been murdered in the School. The trigon had fused their minds into one and committed them to an eternal limbo existence, preying on the fears of anyone who entered their domain.
"The Presence was powerful. It nearly claimed me, despite my magic. It tried to convince me that I belonged there, that I was a part of it, that I should join my fellow sorcerers and share in its power." Arzath's face twisted. "It knew how much I hated Requar, how much I wanted him to die. That hate was almost my undoing. But I managed to escape.
"My search for artefacts yielded no results: there was nothing worth salvaging in the ruins. So instead, I turned my attention to the abodes of the dead sorcerers, and also libraries, museums, palaces, mansions... anywhere that anything magical might have been kept. I roamed Daroria and the other countries and continents looking for lost knowledge.
"It became increasingly risky for me to do so. Distrust of magic had been building long before the destruction of the SOMS. The violent demise of the sorcerers finally caused that unrest to boil over. Anything remotely connected with magic was now being destroyed en masse. Writings and artefacts were burned. Buildings where magic-users were known to have lived or worked were torn down.
"The exception was the Aegis, of course. No one was foolish enough to tamper with that.
"But the handful of sorcerers who had not attended the graduation ceremony due to old age or other ailments were hunted down and slaughtered. Even perfectly ordinary people suspected of being sorcerers or magic-sympathisers were put to death. Many people on both sides died in the riots. It was a bloodbath.
"My own life was threatened many times, but I eluded capture and went into hiding, as Requar had already done. I waited until the chaos died down, then resumed my search for the materials I required to make my Sword, always on the lookout for signs of my brother's whereabouts."
He paused for a moment, turning to Ferrian. "During my travels I found something… interesting in Siriaza's deep south. There I visited Verlista: a city of perpetual cold and ice, nestled in the foothills of the Snowranges, bordered by the Great Southwood.
"In the mountains above the city was said to be a crystal of exquisite beauty.
"The locals warned me not to go looking for the crystal, not to touch it. The crystal protected a great Dragon, they said, who in turn watched over their lovely storm-racked city. Anyone who disturbed the Dragon's rest would be cursed eternally.
"A charming and interesting myth, I considered, since Dragons are almost universally despised."
Arzath snorted. "I found their crystal. It was guarding nothing but a pile of old bones. A Dragon had resided there once, true, but the creature had been dead for centuries. Possibly killed in the war that led to their imprisonment on the Middle Isle. Some ancient Frost sorcerer had set a spell there to protect it, or subdue it, or whatever reason.
"To my fascination, the spell was still active. So, naturally, I took it."
He gave Ferrian an appraising look. The boy was on his feet now, eyes wide.
"I was experimenting with its magic one day in the remote town of Ness, where I had briefly set up residence. My experiment went disastrously awry. The crystal shattered into a million pieces and the 'curse' escaped."
His lips twisted into a wry smile. "It seems to have found itself a new vessel."
* * *
Kyosk stood panting with anger. Blood dripped down his face and armour, some of it his own, most of it the splattered result of the slaughter he had just been forced to witness. There was black blood on his halberd, but not enough. Not enough to compensate for the wash of gore and twisted chunks of rocky shell that lay spread across the floor. Not enough to cleanse the tide of shimmering golden blood that seeped around his feet, as though the castle itself were bleeding.
Three Murons took the still-screaming carcass of the last of his Griks over to a corner and demolished it. The rest of the Murons were gathered around him in a circle, cold and black and pitiless as the walls that sheltered them. Their eyes glowed in the darkness like lights in a noxious pool. Flames from torches fallen in the battle revealed their lithe, hunched bodies; harder-than-steel scales that repelled the sharpest blade and toughest fist; black flesh underneath, black all the way through.
Not Human nor Dragon, Kyosk thought in disgust. Worse than both.
He and his Griks had barely managed to bring down half a dozen of the foul creatures, and those few had fought like mad beasts. The price in Grik lives had been great. But it was too late now to regret his mistake.
And now he was alone.
Varshax yawned, revealing all his impressive teeth, and leapt down from his perch on top of the throne. The necklace of bones around his neck swung as he slunk forward, his huge taloned feet splashing in the blood and crushing bits of fallen Griks into the floor. He stopped before Kysok, bringing his long dark reptilian snout close to the Clanmaster's face.
Kyosk's hands tightened on his halberd. It made him boil inside, knowing that his own fangs would soon be joining the collection around that creature's neck. He knew that Varshax could see the fear in his eyes. He sought to repress it with a spiteful glare.
"Too bad," Varshax whispered in his snake-voice. "Too bad you losst the Ssword, Kyossk. Perhapsss you would have fared better had you not sstolen it in the firsst place."
Kyosk hated his tone, as though he were but an errant child who had brought this fate upon himself. "I don't regret nuffin'!" he lied.
There was a rustling among the assembled Murons. Varshax shot them a narrowed glare and they backed away reluctantly. "Too bad," he went on, "that your masster iss not here to ssave you."
"He was your master too, Varshax!" Kyosk snarled. "Forgotten dat already? You and your Murons were duped as well!"
The Wingmaster tilted his head from side to side, regarding him. "We Muronss have no masster. Never have we conssidered him ass ssuch. We merely abided hiss pressence, and hiss petty tasskss, for our own purpossess."
"An' why would you do dat?"
"He hass abilitiess and knowledge far beyond that of mosst Humanss. We believed him to be the besst meanss for achieving our ultimate dessign."
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Kyosk snorted. "You were after his power? Wanted some of it fer yerself, eh?"
Varshax's eyes narrowed. "Fool. We have no usse for thiss elemental vainglory that you call 'magic'. We are creaturess born of dark arcana, a messhing of Human and Dragon ssoulss, yet releassed from the weaknessess that fetter both. We are ssuperior to all racess, desstined to claim Arvanor ass our own. Lessser creaturess are ourss to do with ass we wissh.
"But our numberss are dwindling, and we cannot breed. Once, there were femaless amongsst uss, but they failed to produce acceptable offsspring, and sso we killed them. They were weak and usseless. We musst have a Queen, a sstrong Queen, to enssure our ssurvival."
"An' you fought Arzath could make you one?"
"Yess. He hass knowledge of the old wayss. He undersstandss the ssilent voicess of the old tomess, wordss written by Humanss, that Muronss cannot read. We have been patient. We aided him in hiss effortss to exterminate hiss brother becausse we could not abide any impedimentss to our own planss."
Kyosk laughed. "Too bad!" he mocked. "Arzath ain't got no more power! Too bad I ain't gonna be aroun' to see you maggots all drop out of existence, one by one!"
Varshax stared back at him, unmoved. "Hiss brother hass knowledge at leasst equal to Arzath'ss own. We will perssuade him to do our bidding, insstead."
"Lord Requar? An' if he refuses?"
"He sshall not refusse. We sshall ssee to it that he doess not."
"You fink yer gonna succeed where Arzath failed? You and dis pathetic army? It takes more'n claws an' teeth to bring down a sorcerer!"
"Yess," Varshax agreed. "But not sso a Grik."
And the last thing Kyosk saw was the flash of black claws.
* * *
Smoke drifted through the bloodstained corridors, eddying in the cold draughts, flecks of ash dancing with snow before shattered windows. The Winter still raged, but few were left to hear its desolate moaning.
In the middle of a wide, window-lined hallway a black shape moved, raising itself from a cluster of smashed and burned bodies, its wings flopping limply. Then its head rolled and it slumped to one side.
Grogdish extricated himself from underneath the dead Muron and peered about cautiously before climbing to his feet.
Nothing moved in the hallway save the distant flickering shadows of the fires that were slowly burning themselves out. There was nothing to be heard, either: no echoing sounds of battle, no clash of weapon on claw, no roars or Muron shrieks. Nothing save the wind.
He stared at the bodies around him. The battle hadn't gone well, then. He had known it wasn't going to go well from the first moment Clanmaster Kyosk, in his bloodlust and anger over losing Arzath and the boy and the sword, had ordered them to attack the Murons. That was why he had hid himself as soon as the first of the blackwings had fallen.
Dukogeg had indeed been a Great Chief, the pride of the Grik race.
But he was a dead Great Chief.
And Grogdish didn't feel like dying, at least not to Murons.
He pulled a cudgel off one of the corpses and wandered down the corridor, eyeing the shadowy spaces carefully. Crysk was supposed to have been leading their contingent, but he had disappeared in the chaos. Grogdish was disappointed to find his body not amongst the fallen, but there was always the hope that he had been crushed into very small pieces of rock and thrown off the walls, or dragged away to the Muron's eyrie and hung up on the chains for supper.
If I'm da only one left, he thought, does dis make me Clanmaster? He entertained himself with the thought for awhile, but eventually decided, with much remorse, that it meant nothing if there was no one alive to lead.
He trudged slowly through the silent castle, not quite sure where he was going or what he was supposed to do. He had never been in command of himself before. Somewhere in the depths of his mind he hoped vainly that the Murons would find no further use for the castle, perhaps return to their mountain eyries or wherever they had lived before Lord Arzath had brought them into service. In that case, all he had to do was hide until they went away, if they hadn't already, but it was too much to assume that they had all been killed as well. He hadn't passed many of their corpses…
After awhile, he found himself at the stairs leading down to the kitchen. Another great battle had been fought here: two dead Murons and ten dead Griks. Their blood mingled in a gleaming black and gold stain that trickled down the stairs like a gilded mural to death.
Grunting indifferently, he perused the bodies in case anything was worth stealing. Finding nothing of particular interest, he shoved some of the hulking corpses aside and started down the stairs. With any luck, the kitchen hadn't been torched.
It hadn't, but it had been ransacked. Arzath's last remaining Human servant – or what was left of him – lay sprawled on the table in a bloody mess. Provisions and a rucksack were scattered on the floor beneath him. Grogdish picked up a piece of him and stuffed it into his mouth as he wandered through the room. A trail of footprints leading through the spilled Human blood on the floor gave him pause, and he followed them suspiciously, cudgel raised as he rounded the bench…
Crysk lay there on the floor, in a wet, gleaming stain.
Grogdish stared down at his motionless form. Then he snorted in disgust, and kicked the body.
It gargled, faintly.
He looked at the nearby broken ale barrels, which were oozing their dark contents all over the floor, and stood for a moment, considering.
Then finally he shrugged, tossed his weapon aside and dunked his head into the nearest barrel.
* * *
The three men trudged wearily through the ruins of the forsaken city, the morning sun blinding their eyes as it rose high into a clear sky. A salty breeze and the cry of seagulls swept away the last traces of the Presence, its memory fading like a dream upon waking. Hawk wasn't entirely sure that it hadn't been just a dream. He wasn't sure exactly how close he had come to dying or losing his sanity and that troubled him. On the Middle Isle, he had honed his instincts to alert him to any dangers, and his instincts had probably saved his life here. But what he had been forced to fight and defeat in these ruins wasn't even tangible. Who could really say how much had been real?
He wished the part about Carmine being here hadn't been a lie. He needed to hold her, to lose himself in her touch, to forget about everything but the two of them. Closing his eyes, he comforted himself with the knowledge that she was safe and well in Sel Varence, waiting for him…
He stopped his train of thought abruptly, feeling guilty. At least he had someone to hold on to. Not so Sirannor and Cimmeran. The Captain of his own choosing, perhaps, but Cimmeran…
Hawk glanced back at the servant trailing behind them. His head was bowed, shoulders slumped, feet dragging through the sand, the saddest creature Hawk had ever seen. Cimmeran had made no eye contact with anyone since the Presence had released him from its grasp, as though embarrassed and ashamed of what he was.
Hawk felt cold and dark inside whenever he looked at Cimmeran, not only because of what he had done, but because of what had been done to him. The suffering that the man must have endured was unimaginable. He shook his head, wondering if it would have been merciful to kill him after all, regardless of what the Presence had wanted. Cimmeran was going to have to live with his true identity for the rest of his life, and there was nothing anyone could do to help him.
"Arzath is a right bastard," Hawk muttered aloud.
"The sadism of the Human race knows no bounds," Sirannor said.
"I wouldn't grace someone like that with the title 'Human'," Hawk replied, scowling. He glanced uncertainly at the Captain. "Are you still gonna take him back to his master?"
Sirannor paused for a long moment, not looking at Hawk. Finally, he replied, emotionlessly: "No. He has suffered enough. As have we."
They walked on in silence for a time. They were nearing the old wall that separated the Old Quarter from the city proper. The din of the awakening city drifted to them on the breeze: the clatter of cartwheels and horses' hooves and blacksmiths' hammers and living voices. Hawk thought there was nothing so wonderful as the hustle and bustle of peaceful, everyday life.
A short way ahead, Sirannor came to a halt. So engrossed was Hawk in thoughts of collapsing onto a nice bed that he barely noticed. He continued walking until Cimmeran's sharp cry jolted him out of his reverie, and his skin. "What's going on?" He whirled in alarm, hand on the hilt of his sword.
Sirannor was peering through a gap in a ruined wall. "There was a shadow..." he murmured.
Cimmeran scurried towards Hawk and tried to hide behind him, shivering like a frightened child. "It, it's the Presence!" he whimpered. "It's coming back for me!"
Sirannor stepped away from the wall and held up a hand for them to stay where they were. Then he moved silently back the way they had come, keeping in the shadows, until he reached the end of the wall, and looked around the corner.
After a moment, he gave a grunt and straightened. He glanced back at Hawk and Cimmeran. "Have no fear," he assured. "It is not the Presence." He pointed to something in the ruins, hidden from their view.
Hawk came forward. The wall fell away to reveal a beautiful black mare standing a few yards away, still in her saddle and bridle, reins trailing in the sand, eyeing them warily.
Letting out another cry, this time one of astonished joy, Cimmeran darted out from behind Hawk, running to the horse. He threw his arms around her neck, burying his face in her mane. The horse nuzzled him affectionately.
Sirannor folded his arms. "Ardance," he remarked.
"He seems attached to that horse," Hawk said, smiling.
"I expect," Sirannor replied, "that without the sky, a swift steed is the next best thing."
* * *
Grisket Trice threw his hat in the dirt, swearing at the Muron footprints that led nowhere. Behind him in a grove of ti-trees he had found the remains of one of the creatures, torn to pieces, the flesh stripped from its black bones. Despite a thorough, fearful search, he found no other bodies.
Flies buzzed everywhere. He swiped at them in frustration, trying to ignore the foul stench that lingered in the air. The Muron had not been dead more than a few hours. Clearly, it had been killed by one or more of its own ilk: no other creature was capable of such decimation. He guessed it had been the crippled one, judging from the trail: he couldn't imagine it would have travelled this far on foot unless it was injured.
So the Muron had kidnapped Ferrian and passed him on to its healthier brethren. Grisket scowled. But why? Why hadn't they killed him, out of sport if not hunger? They wanted him alive for some reason, they had taken him off somewhere…
He turned to look at the distant mountains. Might it have something to do with his magic? Had they sensed it? Did they think they could make use of him, somehow?
Of course, Grisket realised. Of course, Ferrian would be of interest to their master. Dammit, they've taken him to Arzath!
All along, Ferrian had wished to meet a sorcerer. But not like this!
The Barlakk Mountains were a hazy shadow lining the horizon from north to south, a giant wall separating the Coastlands from the Outlands. A wall that encircled half of Daroria. Somewhere within those thousands of miles of grey stone, Ferrian was at the mercy of a pack of Murons and a sorcerer with unknown intentions.
Grisket spun suddenly, snatched up his hat, jammed it back on his head, and hurried back towards the forest. Cimmeran is going to talk, whether he cares to or not…
He had just passed within the shadows of the trees when something hit him hard in the back of the head, pitching him forward and sending blackness sweeping across his eyes.