Retaliation, condemnation

Snow and wind and devastation.

Ferrian was shoved aside as Arzath ran up the stairs. The man seemed to have forgotten everything, his eyes gone wide, riveted on the sword in the Grik's hand. "That weapon!" he gasped. "Where did you find it? Give it to me!"

The Grik lifted the blade, regarding it thoughtfully. "You want dis?" He levelled it at Arzath. "Come an' get it."

Halfway up the stairs, Arzath paused. "What are you doing?" he said angrily. "I am your master and I am ordering you to give it to me!"

"Den take it."

Arzath hesitated.

"Go on. Whadda yer waitin' for? Use yer magic an' take it!"

A deep, unnerving silence fell as master and minion glared at each other. Arzath's free hand closed into a fist, but he didn't move.

The Grik's eyes narrowed. "You ain't my master," he growled. "You ain't nothin' no more, 'cept a pretender. A scrawny, lyin' Human!"

"I AM A SORCERER!" Arzath screamed.

Ferrian wondered whom it was he was trying to convince, the Grik or himself.

"Yer a Human," the Grik repeated. "A dead one." He began to descend the stairs, swishing the sword lazily as he did so. It was so sharp that it made a humming sound as it passed through the air, and left a curious blurred trail.

To Ferrian's amazement, the failed sorcerer held his ground, lifting his own sword in both shaking hands.

He's not seriously going to fight that thing? He couldn't even fend off ME!

"You… you can't kill me, Kyosk," Arzath threatened, but his voice had lost its power now, taken on a desperate tone. "Th-the Murons need me, I am the only one who can give them what they desire most! If you destroy me, you will face their wrath!"

"We'll deal wiv der Murons."

"All of them? I don't think so!"

"Don't matter what you fink. Day will die just like you. Me an' my Griks will fight 'em off like Great Chief Dukogeg fought off an army of five fousand Angels an' take dis castle fer OURSELVES!" With a battle cry that shook Ferrian's bones, Kyosk swung his blade at his former master.

Somehow, Arzath managed to parry, but the force of the blow knocked him back and he was forced to grab the balustrade to keep from tumbling down the stairs. Struggling to regain his balance, he brought his sword up again, only to find that the blade had been sheared off.

What little blood was left in his face drained away.

There was sudden movement and noise above them as more Griks appeared. Streaming from left and right, they spread out across the balcony, blocking all escape routes. All of them were armed for battle, faces warpainted, feral eyes craving the taste of death.

Ferrian backed away in horror.

Arzath's broken sword clattered onto the steps.

He fled.

The Griks surged forward to the railing, cheering and howling. With a great roar of laughter, Kyosk thundered after.

Ferrian darted for cover amongst the statues and pillars on the left. The duplicitous sorcerer went the other way, scurrying around like a trapped rat. His demeanour had completely changed, now: he was terrified. Gone were the taunts and threats, his entire attention was focused on staying alive.

The Griks were throwing things down into the hall, trying to hit him: pottery, candlesticks, weapons, cutlery, burning torches, anything they could lay their hands on. He sought cover behind the pillars on the opposite side of the hall, but Kyosk flushed him out. The big Grik came after him unhurriedly, enjoying the game immensely.

Desperately, Arzath snatched up bits of debris and hurled them at his attacker, but they either bounced pathetically off his shell or were demolished by the shining sword, which seemed to cut through everything.

Then a flying object caught Arzath in the shoulder, and he went down.

Kyosk charged towards him as the onlookers screamed for blood. The sword swept down, but Arzath managed to roll aside and stagger to his feet while the Grik extricated the blade from the floor.

Mingled boos and howls of laughter followed.

Watching from the shadows, Ferrian felt sick. He was about to see a man slaughtered before his eyes. None of the Griks paid him any notice; to them, he was simply another useless servant. But once they had finished off Arzath, he had no doubt that they would come after him, as well.

He was shaking, and sweating despite the chill of the hall. Panic and the terrible jeers of the Griks were making him dizzy. There was no way out. Apart from the stairs, which were now impassable, the only other exit from the hall was via the main doors, and he couldn't move the bar, even with Arzath's help. He realised suddenly that it was a carefully constructed trap; the Griks had locked the doors on purpose, had planned this attack. Which meant that they must have known of their master's deception even before Ferrian had arrived.

That was not a comforting thought. It meant that all other exits were probably locked or heavily guarded as well. Not that he could get to any of them, in any case.

Oh, Gods! he thought. How did I end up in the middle of this mess?!

Because I was stupid enough to go looking for a sorcerer, and found the wrong one…

He tried to breathe. He would have given anything in the world to have Sirannor, Grisket and Aari here with him right now: they would have known what to do. But they weren't here. He didn't even know if they were still alive.

The fight moved to his side of the hall and Ferrian hurriedly shifted position, trying to keep out of sight. There was an immense cracking sound as Kyosk's sword scythed through a statue and the Grik threw his weight onto it, seeking to topple it onto his victim.

Once again, Arzath's dexterity saved him, though he was weakening quickly. He fell to his knees, straining for breath, but was forced back to his feet as the big Grik approached relentlessly.

Ferrian put his face in his hands, not wanting to see any more. Then all of a sudden he thought: I have to do something. I have to help him.

The Grik's retaliation and hatred towards their master was understandable, but nevertheless he pitied Arzath. He couldn't just stand here and watch another Human being get hacked to pieces, however narcissistic and sadistic Arzath was. Maybe there's some way to distract the Griks…

A sudden, tremendous roar engulfed his hearing. Tentatively, Ferrian peered around the pillar.

Kyosk had Arzath finally cornered beside the stairs. The ill-fated lord of the castle was slumped on the floor against the wall, too tired to continue running. The Griks crowded around the balcony and onto the stairs, chanting and thumping their fists together, some of them trying to hack at the man from above.

Kyosk raised his sword in the air triumphantly. This was the moment.

"Ilulu elé!" Arzath's cry resounded throughout the hall, a final act of desperation.

At once the chanting ceased and the Griks fell silent, uncertain. Kyosk hesitated, his eyes flicking around in a moment of confused, wary doubt.

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Only Ferrian knew what the words really meant.

The Winter. He wants me to summon the Winter.

He stared despondently at the Griks. If I pass out in front of them all, he thought, I'll never wake up again.

The Griks stirred and resumed their chanting with excited vigour, as though the fact that nothing had happened was final proof of the traitor they knew their master to be.

Arzath cowered, awaiting the deathblow.

Ferrian's expression hardened. "I'm going to die anyway," he said aloud, in case they were the last words he ever had a chance to speak. He picked himself up and took a trembling breath. "This is for you, Aari," he whispered.

And with that thought firmly in mind, he ran out into the hall.

Most of the Griks ignored him, too intent on their prize to care about a black-clad servant running about. But some, hungry for their share of the bloodletting, rushed down the stairs towards him, weapons raised.

Ferrian positioned himself in the centre of the floor, facing the attackers, and closed his eyes. It was the most terrifying thing that he had ever done, and took unbearable willpower to force himself to remain rooted in place. His heartbeat was so loud it almost drowned out the sound of the Griks' thumping footsteps on the floor. Expecting to feel the bite of steel in his unprotected flesh at any moment, he concentrated.

Please let this work. Please…

Arzath screamed, and he couldn't tell if it was a scream of pain or fear, or both, but it clinched his resolve. In his mind he visualised the main doors being torn asunder by the claws of a monstrous wind, rain streaming through the breach like silver arrows, ice flooding over the Griks...

Burning heat and burning cold flushed through him, and the familiar light appeared almost before he was expecting it, bleeding through his eyelids. Once again, he felt his thoughts disintegrating, pushed to the back of his mind by the blinding glare.

"Ilulu elé!" he said desperately. "Ilulu elé, ilulu elé, ilulu elé…"

The light continued to grow, consuming all sensations, closing around his awareness and crushing it in a white fist. All thoughts slipped away until there was nothing left but the words running through the void in a glimmering whisper: Ilulu elé.

How long he repeated them for, he never knew, but eventually the light began to subside. With grudging slowness it pulled away, releasing its grip, sinking back inside him. He let the chant trail off, waiting for his thoughts and memories to return. He could not tell if he was still conscious or not; he could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing.

Slowly, Ferrian opened his eyes.

He was not prepared for what he saw.

The glow was still there, still emanating from his body, but it had settled into a steady aura and he could see beyond it. The hall had gone dark as night, save for the ice, gleaming like a crystal cavern. Snow swarmed past him and around him in a great whirlwind, wild and angry like frozen bees. The Griks were scattered, flung everywhere like debris, shadowy shapes heaped on the floor and against the balustrades.

He could not see Arzath or the big Grik Kyosk anywhere.

Amazed, he stood in the heart of the storm, watching it rage around him, a small, glowing figure in the darkness, yet untouched by its vengeance. He turned slowly in his silent peaceful space to look at the doors.

They had indeed been ripped apart, just as he had wanted. The heavy iron bar still bound them, but was buckled and twisted, the wood forced open in a huge ragged hole above it. The Winter poured in through the gap, a great beast that had come to him with merely a thought, disastrous and merciless and horrifically beautiful.

He was enveloped in its power, and it could not hurt him.

Ferrian lifted a hand as if to touch the invisible face of the monster, not understanding it, yet for the first time in his life, unafraid.

The storm reflected in his silver eyes.

My Winter.

Then his trance-like state began to fade, the light to dim, and whirling ice stung his skin. His hair and cloak ruffled as the wind caught them. "No!" he cried, feeling himself losing control, feeling the energy that had been coursing through him draining away. He tried to maintain it, but it was like trying to hold snowflakes that melted at a touch.

Then the magic was gone, and he was just another helpless victim in the storm.

Wind elbowed him about, and Ferrian put up an arm to protect his face. He felt suddenly weak and empty inside, and somehow betrayed.

Is this what it feels like to be a sorcerer? he wondered.

He moved over to the wall, seeking shelter. To his dismay, he noticed that the Griks were not dead: there was movement on the balcony and the glint of weapons. Torches flared, streaming sparks in the wind. Guttural shouts could be heard as they attempted to regain some semblance of order. Despite the magic, they're not cowed, Ferrian thought. They're determined to see their murderous intentions through.

With that thought he looked around, trying to see what had become of Arzath, and something over by the ruined statue caught his eye.

A sliver of light. An impossible reflection.

The strange sword that could cut through anything.

If there was one certainty in Ferrian's mind, it was that that sword in the hands of the Griks was a very bad thing.

Wrapping his cloak around him, he hurried towards it.

"No!" The cry was almost inaudible over the moan of the storm.

Ferrian paused, peering through the snow and darkness, and saw a black shape crawling in his direction across the frosty floor.

Lord Arzath. He was still alive.

"D-don't… t-t-touch it!" he gasped. "D-don't touch… my S-S-Sword!"

Your sword?" Ferrian replied, voice raised over the wind. "I don't think so!" He headed for it with increased determination.

"No, NOOO!" Arzath wailed. With a mammoth effort, he pushed himself to his feet.

Ferrian picked up the weapon. Immediately, he knew that something was wrong. An unpleasant itching sensation crept through his hand, like pins and needles, followed by a jab of acute pain as though a spike had been rammed into his palm.

He screamed and tried to drop the sword, only to find to his horror that he could not let go. The blade started to vibrate, and glowed with a white light similar to his own magic, pulsing like a heartbeat. The pain was quickly becoming excruciating. Desperately, he tried to release his hand, to no avail. Frost was seeping out of his skin, sealing it to the hilt.

Arzath grabbed his arm, frantic in his effort to prise Ferrian's fingers off. The sword made an eerie sound as it quivered, like an out of tune harp string increasing in pitch. Nausea flooded through him. He could feel his skin start to tear as Arzath forcefully separated it from the hilt. "Stop!" he cried. "My hand!"

And then, all of a sudden, his hand came away. The sword, unexpectedly deprived of its bond, leapt like a creature alive and fell to the floor, spitting sparks.

Ferrian staggered backwards against a pillar, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest, gasping and in shock. Arzath quickly removed his cloak and wrapped the sword in it. "I w-warned you!" he hissed.

Through his daze, Ferrian noticed that Arzath was keeping his left arm close to his body, and saw that there was a deep cut in it. A trickle of blood ran down his face as well from a blow to the head.

He realised they were both very lucky to be alive.

"What… what now?" he asked weakly.

Ignoring him, Arzath picked up his bundle, glanced around quickly, then ran for the doors. Not knowing what else to do, and deciding he preferred to take his chances with Arzath and the weather than face the Griks and Murons again, Ferrian followed.

The gale had lessened somewhat by now, most of it having moved back outside the castle. Snow gusted through the doors and windows in random drifts. The Griks on the balcony were moving guardedly down the stairs, alerted by Ferrian's scream but still watchful of any further signs of magic. A large bulky shape stirred close to where he and Arzath had just been struggling with the sword, and Ferrian's heart sank.

Kyosk had survived as well.

It seemed that none of the Griks had spotted the two black-clad escapees yet, but it was only a matter of moments…

Arzath had already disappeared through the rent in the doors. Ferrian struggled to clamber out after him, but found this very difficult considering both of his hands were now in agony. "Lord Arzath!" he pleaded. "Give me a hand!"

Icy air washed over him, making him shiver. The jagged edges of the doors loomed against a brooding grey sky. The Griks were spreading out around the hall, waving their torches into the shadows, directed by the booming shouts of their commander. Ferrian crouched on the metal bar, pressing himself against the frozen wood, trying to diminish his silhouette. Arzath's abandoned me, he thought, trembling.

Then a black-gloved hand reached through the hole and snatched his wrist, giving him just enough leverage to pull himself through. Sharp splinters scraped his leg but he didn't have time to check on it. Landing awkwardly in the snow, he hurried after Arzath, grateful that the man had at least had the presence of mind to leave him his boots.

Then he looked up, and limped to a halt. Instantly, Lord Arzath, the castle, the Griks, the Winter, his pain, everything was forgotten, blasted into oblivion by shock.

A Dragon stood on the bluff, directly in front of him.

It was not one of the Red Dragons of the Middle Isle, angry and fierce and filled with fire. Instead it was cool and serene and intense, with scales of pearl and long spiral horns clear as spun glass. Some of these horns curved downward from the sides of its head, others swept back over the massive quartz-crystal plates that were clumped in a ridge along its spine. It had two pairs of wings: the larger two were leathery for half their length, ending in vast silken feathers of white and pale blue. The smaller pair were butterfly-like, delicate and lacy, drifting on the air as though on a summer breeze, not a fierce winter storm.

Its claws were huge icicles and its eyes…

Its eyes were silver.

They were identical to the eye in his dream.

Ferrian was breathless. It was like the Winter incarnate.

With a blurred, dreamlike movement, the great majestic head lowered until it was so close that he could have reached out through the falling snow and touched its iridescent scales, had he possessed the courage and willpower to do so. The gleaming horns surrounded him, enclosing him like a cage.

Quicksilver gaze met quicksilver gaze.

Child of Humans, it said, its voice high pitched and musical, like water trickling over pebbles or a spoon tapped on a glass. Eye of my eye, but not of my blood. Betrayer of my kind. Keeper of my mind. I am shattered. Make me whole again.

Ferrian was speechless, mesmerised by its strange words. The Dragon stared at him a moment more – it felt like a lifetime – then at last lifted its head away, spread all of its wings and with single, immense flap let the wind carry it aloft. There against the clouds it began to fade and lose form, until finally it was torn apart by the storm and trailed away like mist.

A hand grabbed his cloak, making him start. "Keep up if you want to live, boy!"

Ferrian let himself be dragged along, still overcome by what he had seen. "Y-you… you didn't see that?" he stammered.

"See what?" Arzath snapped.

Ferrian looked up into the sky, blinking stinging snowflakes out of his eyes, and whispered: "Never mind."