A shining sword to freeze the way
So much is lost on this cold day.
"H-how are we going to get across?" Ferrian asked in dismay. He and Arzath were standing on the riverbank, Ferrian huddled in his cloak in a futile effort to fend off the freezing wind and both of them breathing heavily from pain and fatigue. It brought him little comfort to see that the other man appeared to be in far worse shape than himself.
Arzath looked completely spent, sagging to one knee on the ground as though his legs could no longer support him. One gloved hand was clamped over the cut on his arm: the makeshift tourniquet was already soaked through. They had been forced to pause in their hasty flight down the bluff path to tend to their wounds as best they could; despite this, Arzath had left a trail of bloody specks all the way from the castle that would be impossible to miss by anyone following. Mercifully, Ferrian's own injuries had not been as serious as they felt and had stopped bleeding quickly. If nothing else, the cold helped to extinguish the pain.
It was also numbing his thoughts. The unpleasant repercussions of using his magic were dawning on him very quickly: his strength was failing rapidly. When he had summoned the Winter for the first time in Arzath's throne room he had fallen unconscious almost immediately; he supposed this was his body's way of shutting down before too much energy was expended, to give itself time to recover and heal. But on this occasion, he had not allowed that to happen and it was just now returning spitefully to take its toll.
The brief surge of exhilaration he had felt at witnessing the awesome power of his curse was barely a memory, and he was now fighting a strong desire to close his eyes and sink away into oblivion, anything to escape the freezing nightmare he found himself trapped in. Only fear, crystallised around his brain like sharp icicles, kept him from losing his grip.
For a long moment Arzath did not answer, his eyes glazed beneath whipping black hair as he stared at the thunderous, churning mass of foam that the river had become. Finally, he muttered, without lifting his head, as though half-talking to himself: "The ford d-downstream will be w-washed out." His voice was coarse and weary. "The only other r-route across lies that way." With an effort, he pointed to the north end of the valley, which was lost in a heavy bank of fog.
“The w-waterfall path," he continued. "In this weather, it will be a long and tr-treacherous climb. I have come too close to losing my life from that cliff once already. I do n-not care for an encore performance."
Ferrian stared into the swirling gloom. "But the… the Griks won't be able to follow us easily," he pointed out.
Arzath grimaced. "They would be fools to try, and s-so would we. More likely, we will f-freeze to death before we get halfway–"
A shout tumbled down over the rocks, cutting him off. Ferrian caught a glimpse of the Griks as they ventured out of the castle. They were clustered in a group, studying the ground, torches blazing smears against an achromatic background. A few moved forward to the cliff edge to search the valley below. Ferrian lifted his gaze anxiously to the forest of black spires that pinned the sky, searching for winged silhouettes, but nothing moved there except rolling dark clouds.
He turned back to find Arzath shaking violently. At first he was alarmed, thinking him racked with convulsions, before realising that he was in fact laughing.
"The M-Murons cannot f-fly in this wind!" he cackled with vicious glee.
Ferrian scowled at him. "But the Griks can still come after us," he insisted. "W-we can't stay here…"
As though in answer to his words, further shouts were carried down to them from the bluff top, snatches of sound tossed about by the wind. Ferrian looked about desperately, praying that the snow and fog would provide some cover. Apart from the two protruding bluffs, the valley was narrow and stony and sheer-sided, slick with ice. There was little vegetation to be seen save clumps of gorse and heather, and a few tall spindly pines high up on the bluffs, thrashing in the gale, some already shattered or lightning-scorched. The north and south ends of the valley were completely invisible, and the sky lowered inexorably to envelop the white castle as well, making it appear a ghostly apparition through sullen clouds. Through the middle of it all, the river was a stormy serpent spitting at them, barring them from their last hope of salvation. There was no telling how far they were from any other Human habitation: it felt like ten thousand miles.
Arzath was right; if they didn't find shelter somewhere, the Winter would claim them both, long before the Griks did.
Lord Requar's castle is our only refuge…and we still have to find a way inside…
He shook his head against an overwhelming flood of hopelessness, yet was unable to come up with a better alternative. "We'll have to risk the waterfall path," he said decisively. "We don't have any other choice."
Arzath did not reply. He had gone silent, gazing up at the white castle as he knelt in the snow, his arms wrapped tightly around himself like a child. Without his cloak, he looked terribly gaunt. Ferrian was reminded of his tormented servant, Cimmeran, though Arzath's fine clothes only served to underline the irony of his situation.
He is lord of nothing. He can't control anything any longer, not even his own destiny, and he knows it.
And he brought his downfall on himself, Ferrian thought, not wanting to feel sorry for Arzath, but doing so all the same.
"I'm going to the waterfall," he repeated, a little more sympathetically. "You don't have to come, but I still have something to live for." His own words surprised him. Not so long ago, he would have given up as well.
Arzath made no move or response.
The Griks were starting down the bluff path: they had found the trail.
Pulling his hood further over his head, Ferrian glanced at Arzath one final time, shook his head, then started upriver, pushing through the frozen reeds.
"Ferrian."
The sound of his name stopped him at once. It was the first time that Arzath had used it since they had met.
He turned.
Arzath climbed unsteadily to his feet. He picked up the wrapped sword, stumbled towards Ferrian and to the boy's great astonishment, shoved the weapon into his arms.
"Take it," Arzath whispered, his gaze turned away. His face was twisted with despair and resentment, as of one being forced to give away their only child.
"I… I thought you told me not to touch this?" Ferrian said, suppressing a shudder of revulsion at the memory of what it had done to his hand.
"Th-that was before you completely ignored me!" Arzath replied through gritted teeth.
Ferrian resisted the urge to drop the bundle. "But it's your sword. Why are you giving it to me?"
This time, the ex-sorcerer met his eyes, a familiar angry fire flaring within them. "Because," he replied, "you are the only one who can use it!"
A terrible silence fell, the wind howling its mockery around them. "W-what do you mean?" Ferrian stammered. A mixture of confusion and icy dread crept through him.
Arzath took back the sword, shook the cloak away with a flick of his arm, then swept it back under Ferrian's nose. The blade was dazzling in the frosty air, snowflakes whirling and sliding off the metal like tiny dancers.
"The moment you touched this Sword," Arzath explained coldly, "it was bonded to you by b-blood and magic. No other l-living soul may ever harness its power! So, let me offer you my sincerest congratulations."
He stabbed the blade into the snow at Ferrian's feet. "You've just made yourself a Sword of Frost!"
"No!" Ferrian cried suddenly, leaping backwards, staring at the Sword in alarm. "No, I, I never wanted to be…"
"You made your choice when you sought to claim something you d-did not understand!" Arzath snapped. "Now you must accept the responsibility! You are a s-sorcerer now, boy, whether you c-care to admit it or not, so you may as well make use of your new power!"
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Ferrian stared at him, agape.
"Or," he continued spitefully, "we can stand here and f-freeze to death in this storm you've created!"
They stood silent for a moment, glaring at each other. Finally, out of pure anger, Ferrian stepped forward and snatched the sword, wincing at the pain in his hand. But it was not a fresh, searing pain; this time the blade did not flare or react strangely to his touch. He was so tired, cold and upset that he could not have cared if it had turned into a fish.
"I did not create this," he rebutted, fighting back a spring of furious tears that had emerged without warning from his frayed emotions. "I never wanted anything to do with magic! I didn't ask to be cursed: I don't even know why this has happened to me! If your Murons hadn't abducted me, I might have found Lord Requar with Cimmeran and the Freeroamer's help and none of this–"
"Requar?" Arzath spat. "If you have been counting on him to save you, then your quest has been folly from the start!"
Before Ferrian could utter another word, Arzath grabbed his sword hand and dragged him over to the river's edge. "Do not let go!" he hissed, and thrust the blade into the water.
There came a flurry of howls and shrieks from behind them, and Ferrian saw at once the reason for Arzath's hasty reaction.
The Griks had finally spotted them.
They were charging down the path, some a little too recklessly. Those that stumbled or were too slow were shoved off the cliff along with their torches and weapons and smashed onto the rocks below.
"What… what are you doing?" Ferrian cried. But he did not need an answer, he had already guessed the man's unbelievable intentions. "This is impossible, it will never work!"
"It has to work!" Arzath yelled back. "Summon your magic!"
"I don't know how to use it!"
"The Sword will focus the energy, just summon it!"
"But…"
"Would you rather fight them?"
Something whizzed between Ferrian and Arzath and disappeared in the river. Another arrow glanced off a reed, thrown way off course by the wind. Panicking now, Ferrian struggled to call up the Winter, wondering if it would even respond after having been summoned so recently.
Unfortunately, his fear proved correct. Nothing stirred inside him except his own hammering heart.
"It's no use, there's nothing left!"
A small axe hurtled towards him and thunked into the mud inches from his foot.
Arzath screamed a curse, then closed his eyes and began speaking very rapidly and fluidly in a language that Ferrian did not recognise. He gripped Ferrian's hand in both of his own, crushing it into the hilt, while the two of them attempted to maintain their balance on the slippery bank, fighting the pull of the wind and water. Ferrian's hand was so numb that he could barely feel the pain any longer…
And then, all of a sudden, he felt a jolt from the blade. An icy sensation swept up his arm, penetrating deep into the core of his being as though a single artery had frozen. Then, at last, the white light responded, sluggish at first, then flooding with unnerving familiarity throughout his body, into his mind. Ferrian quickly repeated the chant that Arzath had taught him, the only spell he knew, praying that it would once again ward off unconsciousness…
Abruptly, the magic drew away from his mind and vision and gathered itself into a piercing ball inside him. Then, like a diverted stream, it rushed down the icy conduit through his arm and into the Sword.
The flare stopped the Griks in their tracks.
The wind picked up speed until it was a shrieking white hurricane with two black clad figures hunched at its centre. Disoriented by the light and movement and strange sensations passing through him, Ferrian lost his balance and fell into the river, taking Arzath with him.
One brief thought flashed through his mind: My life is over.
But instead of plunging into frigid water, he landed on something unexpectedly hard.
Before the light died away, Arzath dragged him to his feet and Ferrian stumbled after him, looking down in shock.
The river was frozen solid, all the way to the opposite bank. Waves and troughs had gone still, paralysed in time like a magnificent sculpture. Neither he nor Arzath stopped to admire their handiwork, however: the ice bridge was creaking and groaning as the river dammed up behind it.
The Griks gathered on the bank and began arguing amongst themselves. One hapless victim was pushed onto the bridge.
The ice along one side was beginning to shift now, the pressure of the water breaking it up piece by piece. The Grik tried to turn back, only to be met with a wall of scythes, spears and halberds.
"Get after 'em, maggot!" Kyosk yelled. He grabbed the Grik next to him and shoved him out as well. "An' you too! All of yers! Don' let 'em get away!"
"Dey got magic!" one complained. The others growled their agreement until the Grik who had spoken lost his head.
"AN' DERE STILL RUNNIN' FROM US!" Kyosk roared, swinging his halberd at the rest of them. "NOW GET AFTER 'EM!"
Spurred on grudgingly by the wrath of their Clanmaster, the Griks charged onto the bridge.
A crack like a whiplash cut the snowy air. The first Grik, who had made it halfway across, suddenly disappeared as the ice gave way beneath him. Then another hapless Grik plunged into the icy river.
The whole ice bridge splintered.
The remaining Griks on the bridge tried to struggle onwards, but the ice collapsed beneath them, not strong enough to hold their weight.
Arzath had already reached the safety of the bank, but Ferrian was lagging behind. He felt the ice become unstable and made a desperate leap for the bank.
He hit the frozen mud but slipped and fell back onto the ice, which broke and tilted dangerously. He scrambled to regain his feet, but at that moment the bridge failed completely, the river breaking through the obstruction and crashing over everything in its path.
Ferrian toppled into the water and was engulfed.
He would have been lost to the icy torrent if not for Arzath, who caught his wrist at the last second. But the current was immense, and Arzath's grip was not strong enough to hold him.
He began to slip.
Ferrian could not breathe. Cold crushed his lungs in an iron fist. But he still had enough sense left to know that he had to do something to help save himself: Arzath was injured and weak and would not be able to pull him out alone. His right hand was all but useless, and his left was still clutching the Sword of Frost…
Arzath seemed to read his thoughts. "Do not… let go of the… Sword!" he cried.
But Ferrian had no choice. He was not prepared to sacrifice his life for a piece of metal, no matter how powerful or useful or precious in Arzath's eyes.
He opened his fingers and released it. The Sword tumbled away, glittering like a fish in the foam and disappeared.
Arzath cried out in despair and his grip suddenly slackened. For one horrifying, uncertain moment, Ferrian thought the man intended to let him go as well…
Then his grip tightened once more and he resumed his effort to pull the boy out of the stream. Ferrian flailed at Arzath's wrist with his now unoccupied hand and caught it.
Slowly, laboriously, Arzath dragged him out of the water. When Ferrian was high enough to catch the rocks with his feet, he used them to bear his weight, providing more leverage. At last, they both collapsed, exhausted and freezing onto the snowy grass.
Ferrian could not feel his body.
He could not feel anything any more, not even the cold, and knew that was a bad sign. He should have been panting but his breath was barely a whisper from his lips. Snowflakes spun past his vision, which was going dark around the edges.
He knew then that he was not going to get up again.
His strength had been sapped away completely. He did not have the energy to break into Requar's castle; he could not even move his lips to thank Arzath for trying, futilely, to save his life.
Distantly, Ferrian wondered if that determination was more than just a desire not to lose a powerful source of magic. He wondered if Arzath was capable of compassion. He wondered what had happened in the man's life to misguide him, to turn him so hatefully against his own brother and the world.
He would never know.
You are a sorcerer now, boy, whether you care to admit it or not.
No, he wasn't. He never had been. He was just a boy. All he had ever wanted was to live a normal life, to have friends he could trust, to wake up in the morning without worrying how many days he had woken up in the same place. The Winter had always been too huge, too frightening, too impossible to deal with… and now… it had finally come to claim him.
I should never have touched that sword.
He saw it again, vanishing forever in the swirling river.
Just let it go…
He closed his eyes and let go.
* * *
The storm was subsiding.
Arzath was barely aware of the fact that the snow had stopped falling.
He could not explain what had possessed him to squander the very last of his energy dragging Ferrian all the way to the top of Requar's bluff.
The boy was dead.
He lay motionless on the ground beside him, his skin porcelain. There was no breath from him, or heartbeat. The plunge into the freezing river had finished him off, his wet clothes had leached the life from him.
He had also taken with him something irretrievable.
The last dying flicker of Arzath's hope.
The magic was gone, evidenced by the fact the Winter was dispersing.
Arzath looked bitterly into the valley below. There was no sign of the Griks: those that had survived had retreated back to the castle.
His beloved castle. The one that he had so painstakingly built, not only with Grik and Human labour, but his own magic, to speed up the construction process. It had been the perfect place to lay siege to Requar's home, a strategic victory… but in the end it had all come to nothing.
Tears of frustration and anger welled in his eyes as he watched fire flaring up in many of the windows. Tendrils of black smoke curled into the sky amongst the spires.
The Griks were torching his possessions. All of his books, all his research, artefacts from the School of Magical Studies… the castle was theirs now and they had no use for such things. The plans and materials for his weapon would be destroyed: he had no chance of ever creating another one.
And the Sword of Frost was essentially worthless without the boy to wield it, even if he managed to recover it somewhere downstream.
If only Requar had been the one to fall from that cliff. If only it had been he who had lost his magic, not I – everything would have been so simple!
Leaving the boy's lifeless body in the snow, he crawled away into a sheltered niche beside his brother's castle, using his good arm to drag himself along. When he was amongst the cluster of boulders, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his match tin.
Opening it, he took a match in unfeeling fingers and lit it. There was nothing to burn: the bits of heather in the rocks were stiff with frost. Instead, he simply stared at the tiny dancing speck of brightness – a mirror of the large angry orange ones in the distance – until it burnt itself out. Then he lit another one. And another after that, and another, until all of them were spent.
The last match he blew out prematurely and mordantly flicked away. Then he leaned back on the cold stone and decided to close his eyes for awhile.