Deep in frosty, frozen night
A glimpse of shadow; a spark of light.
“Well, this is familiar!”
Hawk stood in the warm glow spilling from the shelter’s entrance, hands on hips, breastplate glimmering. Ferrian sat in the icy darkness outside, amongst the frozen weeds, in exactly the same place he had sat some weeks previously, when they had first passed this way.
He was glad he had an excuse not to stay inside. The heat of the fire was unbearable, but the curious glances from his companions even more so. Thankfully, he had been spared a conversation with Lord Requar: the sorcerer had collapsed into an exhausted slumber the moment they had set foot inside the cave.
Now Ferrian sat in the falling snow, staring into the blackness of the night, his mind once again conjuring thoughts he wished it wouldn’t. He felt lonely and hollow inside, as though he wasn’t really a part of the group; he couldn’t sit with them, couldn’t eat with them, couldn’t share their warmth and laughter. He was even more of a freak now than he had been when this journey had started.
Until now, he had been so intent on finding Grath Ardan that he hadn’t really given much thought to how he appeared to others. But meeting Grisket and the Freeroamers again had made him painfully aware of how much had changed since they had last seen each other.
“Hmm,” Hawk said, when Ferrian made no response. “You’d better not be blaming yourself for Constable Dogwyn’s death.”
Of course I am, Ferrian thought bitterly. Practically everyone he had come into contact with for the past couple of months had suffered in some way or been killed because of him. The enormity of the destruction that his Winter had caused was something that he had still not yet fully come to terms with. It was a huge, numb hole in the middle of his mind, pulling all thoughts in towards it. He just took it for granted now that wherever he went, someone was likely to die…
Hawk crunched over the frosty grass and sat down beside him. For a long moment the Freeroamer simply stared at the drifting snowflakes with Ferrian.
Then he lifted an arm and punched Ferrian lightly in the shoulder.
Ferrian ignored him, continuing to gaze into the darkness.
Hawk punched him again.
Again, Ferrian did nothing.
Hawk punched him hard enough that he had to flail a hand out to stop himself falling over.
“Okay!” Ferrian burst out. “Alright! Geez! Don’t put a hole in my arm!” He glared at Hawk.
His friend merely gave him an amused look. “To go with the one in your shoulder there,” he said, pointing, “and the one in your chest...”
Ferrian’s glare turned into a flat look. “Funny.”
Hawk chuckled, evidently thinking so.
“So,” the Freeroamer mused after a moment’s silence. “Found those sorcerers after all, eh? Never expected that! Nor Commander Trice with them, just wandering down the road looking for us!
“And that Lord Requar...” Hawk shook his scruffy, snow-dusted head. “From what I hear, Constable Raemint should have perished. Run through with a trigonic sword...” He shook his head again, as though unable to believe what had happened. “That Sword of Healing… it just… brought her back. Banished the trigon from her body. Just like that...”
He rubbed his injured arm as he said it, staring down at the improvised bandages. “He didn’t know her from a bar of soap,” Hawk went on quietly, half to himself, “and he spent all of his energy saving her life. Can’t say I’ve met many blokes that would’ve done the same, even with incredible power like that. He seems like a mighty decent–”
“He’s not.” Ferrian cut him off abruptly. His glare had returned, smouldering not at Hawk but into the blackness beyond the mist, as though he could burn the night away with the force of his silver stare alone.
Hawk stared at him, taken aback, but Ferrian did not elaborate.
“You should get him to fix that arm, though,” he went on, not looking at Hawk, his voice sounding colder than he meant it to. “You’re infected, too.”
The silence that followed was deep and awkward. The soft, murmuring chatter that had been filtering from the cave mouth had ceased; the others had obviously retired for the night. Now Hawk and Ferrian sat alone in the chill by the side of the road, with the last dying embers of the campfire dancing on the snow.
Slowly, Hawk leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands before him. “You learnt something in Grath Ardan,” he said quietly. It was a statement rather than a question.
Hawk wasn’t looking at him, but Ferrian turned his head away anyway. “A… few things,” he answered uncomfortably.
Hawk was silent. Ferrian expected him to say something more, but he didn’t, which made him feel unaccountably guilty for keeping things from his friend. Plucking irritably at the frozen grass, he decided suddenly that there was no reason not to tell Hawk what he had discovered.
He let out a long, slow sigh. “He gave me to the gypsies,” he stated.
Hawk looked up at him in surprise. “Whoa,” he replied. Then he frowned in confusion and shook his head. “Wait… what?”
“I thought…” Ferrian paused, then went on uncertainly. “At first I thought… maybe, he murdered my parents. Or killed them by accident, and decided to give me up out of… guilt, or something. But… now…” He hesitated again. He didn’t need to breathe, but took a deep breath anyway. “Now I’m afraid… I think… he might be...”
Hawk grabbed his arm suddenly, startling Ferrian and silencing the rest of his sentence.
Hawk put a finger to his lips.
Ferrian gave him an anxious look. Hawk was peering intently into the night.
“Hawk?”
“I thought I saw something,” Hawk whispered, nodding to their right.
They both watched the darkness beyond the gently swirling snow. Ferrian’s vision wasn’t good in the dim light; to him they faced a black, velvety cold wall, with a few white specks fading in and out of it.
If something was out there, Ferrian couldn’t tell.
“Are you sure?” he whispered back nervously.
Hawk hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “It’s damned dark out here!”
Ferrian was glad that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t see anything, but it was hardly a reassuring thought. An irrational joke welled up despite himself. “I thought you had eyes like a hawk.”
He could barely see Hawk’s face in the gloom, but he was certain the Freeroamer rolled his eyes. “Funny!” Hawk hissed.
They were both on edge now, however, and Ferrian knew that Hawk was thinking the same thing he was:
Black soldiers.
Then an even more horrible thought crawled insidiously over the top of that one, baring its pointed teeth.
What if I didn’t kill all of the Murons?!
He had assumed that he had wiped out the last of them in Grath Ardan, but what if he hadn’t? What if there was one remaining, lurking in the forest? What if it had followed them all the way from Arkana?!
They stared into the night; tense, waiting.
But nothing happened.
“Maybe it was the mist?” Ferrian ventured. A Muron wouldn’t attack them now, surely? With two sorcerers in the cave behind them? “You could have imagined–”
They both heard it clearly.
A soft, sharp crunch in the silence: like a footstep.
Hawk shifted position, quickly but quietly, rising into a crouch, hand on his sword.
Ferrian did likewise, sliding his Sword of… Sword of… Doom from its sheath as silently as he could manage.
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“Go inside and warn the others!” Hawk whispered, leaning close. “I’ll go and–”
“Don’t be stupid, Hawk!” Ferrian hissed back. “I’m already dead: you’re not! I should be the one to--”
“Kid!” Hawk glared at him in the dimness. “Did you see that horse carcass back there?! You may be dead, but you can still lose your–”
Their arguing cost them valuable seconds. Something appeared out of the mist, a shadow detaching itself from the surrounding darkness.
They both froze for half a second. Then Ferrian leapt forward, hoping to draw the thing’s attention before Hawk had a chance to do something equally as crazy.
Lifting his Sword, he began to swing it at the black figure before Hawk’s sudden cry of warning threw him off balance. He tried to pull up short and his attack flew wildly past the thing as he slipped on the icy cobblestones, spun in a half-turn and fell clumsily onto his back.
“Oh Gods!” Hawk gasped. “Oh Gods!”
“Hawk!” Panicking, Ferrian scrambled to get up, his footing treacherous on the ice and snow. Snatching up his Sword, he spun…
To see the black thing fall in a heap in front of Hawk.
The Freeroamer dropped his sword, a glimmer of silver in the reflected firelight, and sank to his knees.
“Hawk!” Ferrian cried again, running towards them.
Then a gasp left his own throat as a shock of realisation flashed through him. He threw himself to his knees as well.
“Mekka?!”
It was indeed the black-winged Angel. His wings were stiff against his back, slick with frost, his clothing stuck to him. He was hunched over, his arms hugged against his chest, black-gloved hands curled into immovable claws. Dark hair, where it fell across his face and eye patch, seemed frozen there.
“Oh, Gods, Hawk, did you…”
“No!” Hawk shook his head. “I… I didn’t touch him!”
Hawk seemed to be having trouble breathing, and Ferrian glanced at him in alarm, wondering if he was in pain. But the Freeroamer was merely trying to stifle sobs of relief. He put an arm across his face.
Ferrian turned back to the Angel. “Mekka! Are you all right? How did you get here? Did you follow us all the way from Arkana?!”
Mekka’s voice was a barely discernible whisper over his pale, cracked lips. “F-follow… f-follow… no s-sleep… Angels… d-darkness… d-dead Angels, d-dead Angels… whispering, c-calling… f-follow… c-cannot stay… f-follow… the d-darkness...”
“Hawk, we have to get him inside, he’s delirious!”
Composing himself, Hawk wiped at his face and helped Ferrian get Mekka to his feet. Carefully, they half-carried, half-dragged him into the shelter. The Angel didn’t seem capable of walking any further, and appeared only vaguely conscious. They set him down beside the fire. Hawk immediately began gathering fresh wood and stoking the flames back to life.
Ferrian looked around anxiously. The others were all asleep. The Centaurs lay on the floor in one corner, curled up against each other beside the horses, who dozed standing up. Grisket was wrapped in his cloak opposite. The sorcerers were off to his left, in the far, narrow end of the cave. Arzath sat with his back to the wall, head forward on his chest, eyes closed.
The Sword of Healing lay on the sandy floor at Requar’s back.
Ferrian’s eyes lingered on it, and on the sleeping form of its owner, wrapped in his blue cloak.
He’s exhausted, Ferrian thought. He used all of his magic to save Raemint. Is he capable of helping Mekka?
Ferrian’s eyes went back to the Sword. Could I do it? I used it once… didn’t I?
Getting to his feet, he walked quickly across the floor to Commander Trice, and shook him awake. “Commander!”
Grisket turned over grumpily and peered up at him groggily.
“Commander, it’s Mekka!”
Grisket blinked at him and pushed himself upright. Rubbing his face, he stared at the black, frozen, winged form by the fire. His grey eyebrows raised. “By the Gods!” he exclaimed. “What…”
“Please… I need your cloak.”
The Commander relinquished it at once, bundling it into Ferrian’s arms. Ferrian took it over to the Angel, draping it around him as best he could.
Grisket got up and came over, kneeling on Mekka’s other side. He put a hand on the Angel’s shoulder, face drawn in concern. “Where’d the lad come from?” he asked incredulously. “I thought he’d returned to Selvar.”
Hawk, attending the fire, shook his head. “Decided to tag along with me at the last minute,” he replied, and sighed. “Damn him.”
Mekka was oblivious to all of them, whispering something undecipherable under his breath.
He wasn’t shivering, Ferrian noticed. That was a bad sign.
Ferrian looked over his shoulder again, at Requar’s Sword.
Mekka is NOT going to die! he thought vehemently.
Getting to his feet, he balled his fists, steeling himself. Then he walked towards the sorcerers.
Arzath’s legs were stretched out across his path, blocking access to Requar and the Sword. Ferrian hesitated, staring down at them.
He had just worked up the courage to step over those golden-black boots when Arzath opened his eyes and lifted his head.
Crap, Ferrian swore. He wasn’t as fast asleep as Ferrian had assumed…
The sorcerer gave him the kind of look Ferrian thought a tired Dragon might if a Human suddenly woke it up by stabbing it in the nose.
Arzath turned his gaze from Ferrian to sweep around the cave, and it came to rest on Mekka.
He got to his feet quicker and more gracefully than Ferrian would have expected. “What is this?” he demanded. “An infirmary?! Get him out of here!”
“He’s my friend!” Ferrian retorted. “He needs help!”
Arzath took two steps towards him. The sorcerer was a couple of inches taller than he was, and looked ready to shred Ferrian with his bare hands, but Ferrian held his place, and returned Arzath’s glare.
“I do not care,” Arzath said, voice lowered in anger, “if that is the last Angel in Arvanor! Get. Him. OUT!”
“No.” Ferrian reached back and withdrew his Sword.
Arzath did not move. “You will not use that,” he sneered. “You and I both know it. You aren’t capable of controlling that kind of power.” He raised a hand. “I, on the other hand…”
Ferrian clutched his Sword tightly with both hands, knowing that Arzath was about to try and fling it out of his grip. A rush of desperate anger surged through him. He refused to abandon Mekka to his fate because of Arzath’s arrogance.
The sorcerer could do to him whatever the hell he wanted, but Ferrian would NOT stand by and let another friend die!
The Winter responded to his fury. He felt the white light blaze through him. Not even bothering with a concentration spell, he let it come. Let it fill him. Somewhere on the edge of his mind, he sensed the danger, but he no longer cared.
The anger solidified into a cold, hard ball. Frost rushed outwards from his hands, his feet, covering anything it touched. Wind and snow raced in through the entrance, flattening the campfire and causing everyone to shield themselves.
Before he realised what he was doing, the Sword in his hands glowed to life. A high-pitched keening sound filled the air.
Arzath stepped backward hurriedly, a stunned expression crossing his face, his purple shield flickering protectively into place.
Ferrian could feel himself being drawn downwards, into his Sword, and suddenly, he panicked.
No, he thought, his anger fleeing in blind fear. No, this isn’t what I want!
The keening sound was deafening now, his Sword trembling as though seeking to leap from his hands. His vision began to darken and distort, his sense of reality dissolving. The shelter seemed to fade into the distance…
NO!
He didn’t know how to stop it, his mind was tangled up with emotion… so he did the only thing he could think of: he tried to drop the Sword.
But his hands seemed fixed to the hilt, as though part of it. To his horror, he couldn’t tell where his body ended and the Sword began…
“Dragon!” he cried. “Help!” He focused with all his might on the place he thought his hands had been, trying to pull them apart, trying to pull his whole body apart if he had to…
Darkness.
Silence.
“NO!” he yelled into the eerily familiar black void. “No! Dragon, where are you? Please, I have to get out of here! My friends are in trouble!”
Silence.
Ferrian squeezed his eyes shut, though it made no difference. Focus, he thought desperately. Focus, focus! The Dragon can’t hear you in here, she can’t help…
But his fear was overwhelming. He didn’t want to go back into that shattered room, didn’t want to see the horrifying alternate outcomes of which he was forced to choose…
You are capable of controlling this power, a soft, melodic voice floated through his distraught consciousness.
It was the most wondrous thing he had ever heard.
Be free, Ferrian…
And then his vision returned.
He found himself kneeling on the floor of the cave. The sand had turned to granules of ice; his Sword lay in front of him.
He looked down at his hands, stupefied, half-expecting them to be shredded to pieces. But one was bound in dirty bandages, the other as pale and dead as it had been for some time now.
He looked around himself.
Ice covered the walls of the shelter, and the floor, with mounds of snow piled up around the edges. In the furthest corner, the horses cowered. Cairan and Raemint had hold of them, the Centaurs very much awake now, looking cold and alarmed.
Grisket and Hawk sheltered Mekka. The fire was all but extinguished; a single flame flickered forlornly in the embers, scattering a dim light about the cave.
Ferrian watched the Freeroamers unfurl themselves. Hawk shook snow out of his hair, then checked Mekka’s condition.
“Not good,” he told Grisket worriedly. “We’re losing him. He’s hardly breathing…”
Ferrian turned to find Arzath.
The sorcerer crouched beside his brother, his face pale but his eyes burning with mingled fury and fear. He hadn’t expected Ferrian to call his bluff.
Ferrian hadn’t expected to, either.
“W-wake Requar,” Ferrian ordered, his voice hoarse.
Arzath made no move to comply.
“WAKE HIM!”
Ferrian’s scream filled the shelter, a fresh wave of frost crackling softly outwards from where he knelt.
Wordlessly, Arzath turned and attempted to rouse Requar.
The white-haired sorcerer was deeply asleep, and did not respond.
Hell, Ferrian thought despondently, he didn’t wake up with a Winter storm on top of him…
Arzath shook his brother several more times without success. Finally, he placed a trembling hand to Requar’s temple. A soft purple glow leaked from his fingers.
Requar stirred. Assisted by magic and Arzath’s reluctant coaxing, he gradually awoke.
Arzath helped him up into a sitting position and handed him some water. Requar blinked and rubbed at his eyes, trying to keep them open. He looked wrecked, as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
Ferrian would have felt guilty about dragging him out of his rest if Mekka’s life hadn’t depended on it.
“Lord Requar,” Ferrian said quietly. “I’m sorry, but my friend is going to die without your help.” He looked down at the sand and added: “Please.”
He could feel the sorcerer’s eyes on him, but Requar said nothing. He just reached out for his Sword and used it to push himself to his feet.
Ferrian got up as well and stepped quickly out of the way as Requar walked slowly through the cave, supporting himself with his Sword, stooping a little as the ceiling was low. Hawk moved aside, allowing him to kneel before Mekka.
Requar took the Angel’s deathly pale face in his hands and gently lifted it. “Arzath,” he whispered. “A light.”
Arzath came forward and provided one without question, summoning a globe of bright purple light into his hand. He looked over at Ferrian as he did so, his expression far from friendly.
Requar touched Mekka’s forehead lightly with his fingertips, and closed his eyes.
Everyone watched and waited breathlessly.
After a long moment of silence, Requar whispered: “Hypothermic. Prolonged cold exposure. No physical trigonic infection. But… he has come into contact with it. His thoughts are black. His mind… collapsed. His body is on the point of failure.”
Opening his eyes, Requar moved his fingers down to the eye patch. Very carefully, he peeled it aside, examining the old wound beneath. He prodded the skin gently. “The eye is intact.” He nodded. “Good.”
He turned to the Sword on his lap and unsheathed it, then hesitated, looking at everyone gathered around the room. “This may look a little gruesome,” he apologised, “but I assure you, he will not be harmed.”
Taking up the Sword of Healing, he positioned it point first in front of Mekka’s blind eye. Then, holding Mekka’s chin up with his free hand, he slowly slid the Sword into his eye, until the gleaming blade protruded from the back of his head.
Hawk drew an audible breath, and Ferrian winced and looked away. There was no blood on the Sword, of course, but it was indeed a disconcerting sight.
Arzath allowed his light to go out as blue magic flared along the Sword.
Ferrian sank to the ground and rested his back against the wall of the cave.
Relief flooded through him.