Winter’s path leads cold and true
In windswept lands where folks are few.
Wind tossed the Centaur’s braided hair around her face as she knelt on the ancient, lichen-carpeted cobblestones. Though her eyes were closed, she sensed the light shift from bright to dark, warm to cold as sunshine chased the clouds across the sky.
The wind came directly from the north, sweeping an icy chill across her skin, like the first frosty touch of winter. The stones beneath her slender brown fingers were warm and dry, the lichen brittle, but as she concentrated, she could detect a faint coldness beneath them. A coldness that could not be entirely dispersed by the sun’s rays, that made the tips of her fingers prickle and grow slightly numb.
To Centaurs, magic was not unnatural. It was simply another element, as much a part of the world as the seasons or the weather or the turning of the days. The feel of it was just as distinctive, and this particular magic was unmistakable.
Winter had passed this way; the memory of it could still be found in the stones of the old road to Arkana.
Opening her eyes, she pushed herself upright with her spear and turned to Constable Dogwyn, who sat atop his mount beside her.
The young Constable had been irritable and restless the last few days. Though he didn’t directly complain about the mission, Raemint knew that he grew impatient with the chase, and didn’t like where it was headed. His face had worn a permanent scowl ever since they had turned down the road to Arkana.
“We must continue,” Raemint said simply.
Dogwyn let out a loud, reluctant sigh, but refrained from commenting, choosing to look sour instead. He would not disobey a direct order from Commander Trice, though Raemint could practically hear his thoughts: This is a waste of time.
She turned to look ahead, to the north, where the Tentaryl Ranges loomed, their characteristic, oddly shaped peaks high and grey in the distance.
She had to admit to feeling a little trepidation herself. If Ferrian had indeed gone into Arkana, as seemed evident, then their mission was going to turn a great deal more complicated. The border would likely be in chaos, and negotiating their way through would require a far greater authority than two Freeroamer Constables. The Angels were as likely to attack them on sight.
The scenes of destruction that she and Dogwyn had witnessed on their way here twisted Raemint’s gut. She could not tell if it was done accidentally or with malicious intent, but she hoped it was the former. Ferrian had seemed like an intelligent and level-headed young boy when she had met him, but he was still just a boy, trying to deal with a strange power that he didn’t understand. If he had met a sorcerer who had influenced him the wrong way…
Raemint shook her head. The thought of Ferrian creating such tragedy deliberately made her impossibly sad.
She desperately hoped that the Angels had not suffered a similar fate.
“How do you suppose we’re going to get through there?” Dogwyn asked grumpily, gesturing at the mountains, obviously sharing her thoughts, as they continued walking.
“Likely, we will not,” the Centaur replied, staring ahead. “We will observe what has happened at the border, and whether it is safe for us to proceed. If it is not, we shall return to the Guard House. If we should happen to catch up to Ferrian, we shall return to the Guard House.”
Dogwyn huffed another sigh. “Is there any reason we can’t return to the Guard House now?”
Raemint kept her gaze fixed ahead. “We must be sure.”
Dogwyn muttered something under his breath, then fell into a sullen silence. For awhile, there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the grass and hoofbeats on stone, and the faint creak of Dogwyn’s harness. Raemint remained watchful. She could no longer feel the magic unless she stopped and focused on it, but there was only one road and Ferrian appeared to be following it.
It was an empty and rather bleak corner of the country that they found themselves travelling through. There were no settlements or even so much as a lonely house. Sel Varence lay three or four days to the east, right up against the Tentaryl. If they were to backtrack and take the coastal road that hugged the cliffs down to the sea, they would end up in Ashen Cove: a vast ocean cave that was also a bustling trading hub, where ships offloaded cargo onto barges for transport along the Sel River. She imagined those barges moving stealthily beneath her feet at that moment, as they made their slow way upstream to the city through the underground river system.
It was a good place to hide from the Dragons, and she was mentally prepared to flee there if the need arose, though so far they had seen no sign of the great beasts that Commander Trice had warned them about.
“I don’t like this place,” Dogwyn declared suddenly, as though he had definitively made up his mind about it. “Something about those trees...”
Raemint looked around. There was nothing much to see apart from windswept grass studded with grey boulders, and stunted, dark-leaved ti-trees bent over as though the wind had broken their backs. They rattled like skeletons in every gust.
Her dark brow lowered a little. “Hmmm.”
She would have dismissed his comment as part of his usual obstinate, whiny self – she had patiently endured many along the way – except that she felt something, too.
It wasn’t Ferrian’s magic.
There was nothing inherently evil about magic, merely that the way it was used could be questionable. But something about the feel of this landscape was… wrong.
Unnerving.
Like something watching, stalking… hiding amongst the boulders or the trees…
She stopped on the road and looked behind her.
Nothing could be seen there except racing cloud shadows.
She stared for a long moment, before taking a firm grip on her spear and moving forward once more.
Dogwyn followed, too quiet.
They had gone only a few hundred yards further when the feeling returned, in such a rush of warning that Raemint’s blood ran hot and her heart thumped in her chest…
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She spun.
Two black figures followed them on the road, at some distance. Their armour gleamed in patches of sun like a beetle’s carapace. It was so well-fitting that they moved with a smooth grace and did not clink – indeed, they were practically silent. Their swords were drawn; also black. They advanced at neither a slow pace nor a fast one, but with an assurance that was unmistakable.
Raemint took her spear in both hands.
Beside her, Dogwyn unsheathed his sword. “Who the hell are they?” he said nervously.
Raemint did not reply. She did not know. Soldiers? Mercenaries? They did not look like the Watch. Nor had they any reason to be out here in the wilderness unless they were also tracking Ferrian.
Or them.
Raemint felt irritated that she hadn’t sensed them earlier; she had been so focused on finding the boy…
Dogwyn’s horse became jittery as the armoured men approached and at the same time, a wave of revulsion washed over Raemint. It was like a bad smell but she could feel it in her bones and oozing under her skin, oily and foul. Every hair on her body prickled in distaste.
What is this?
It wasn’t magic, or it was like no magic she had ever experienced. It was pure corruption.
“Be prepared,” she told Dogwyn quietly. Her voice sounded tight, her body tense.
The horse beside her was struggling with its own panic, Dogwyn trying to calm it. A heavy cloud slunk overhead, spitting a few droplets onto her cheeks.
There was something wrong with the men’s faces, too, she noticed as they neared. Their skin was too pale, she could see veins through it, and their eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, as though they had not slept in some time.
Both of them were also smiling faintly.
Every instinct urged Raemint to flee, but she gritted her teeth and held firm.
Centaurs did not run from a fight.
No matter what.
Instead, as the armoured men drew close, pulling apart from each other – one heading for Dogwyn, the other for her – Raemint lowered her spear and charged.
Normally, such an intimidating sight would have made any Human soldier hesitate, but this one did not. He simply kept walking towards her, strange eyes unblinking, with that unnerving grin.
She struck hard and fast at his chest. The force of the blow should have impaled him, even through his breastplate, but instead half her spear simply disappeared.
Shocked and momentarily puzzled, she used her momentum to swerve to the side, bringing the remainder of her shaft up to parry the backswing. But again, the soldier’s black sword cleaved straight through it like butter – she barely felt any resistance – and caught her upper leg.
Dancing away awkwardly, she stifled a cry as pain lanced up her leg and straight into her chest, but it lasted only a second, replaced almost immediately by an odd needling sensation and an intense cold, as though a block of ice had been pressed against the wound.
The second armoured man was now to her right, attacking Dogwyn’s horse. She watched as his sword, too, sheared straight through her companion’s defence, slicing open the chest of his mount.
The animal screamed in pain and reared, throwing Dogwyn to the ground.
Then the black-armoured man swung his sword in a great, two-handed blow that decapitated the horse.
Blood sprayed across half the roadway, splattering against Raemint and showering Dogwyn’s attacker.
Dogwyn had pushed himself to his feet and now stood paralysed, his face bloodless, as though he was about to be sick, half a sword still clutched in his left hand.
Raemint dodged a sweeping strike from her own attacker, tossing away the useless stub of her spear.
She realised with thunderous dismay that they were not going to survive this battle. Whoever these men were, their weapons and armour were vastly superior to theirs. A thin black mist leaked off the metal, as though it were smouldering, and with it wafted a feeling of dread and hopelessness so heavy it was almost a physical weight upon her shoulders.
Raemint fought it, but despair clenched her heart.
She had fled from a desperate battle once before: her and Cairan. Cowardice was a grave crime among Centaur clans; abandonment of one’s fellow warriors was intolerable. With that one terrible decision they had dishonoured their family, their tribe, and the whole Centaur race, and their sentence had been banishment.
No other clans would have them, or even speak to them, so they had left the verdant, sunlit forests of Remast and gone to live with Humans.
With the Freeroamers.
Tears rose in the corners of Raemint’s eyes, born on a sudden wave of emotion. She and her partner had joined the Freeroamers to redeem themselves. She would not shame herself, or Cairan, or the Centaur race by giving up again. Though it may mean her death, that she may never see anyone she loved or cared about again: she would not flee.
She could not.
Her fists and jaw clenched tightly, the tears forced back. Death was preferable to the eternal mark of a coward.
She circled her attacker, limping, trying to reach Dogwyn. If they could not flee, then at least they could make a final stand together.
“Dogwyn!” she cried. “To me!”
The young constable ignored her. He seemed rooted in place, buffeted by the wind like the weeds waving on the road, staring wide-eyed at the still-twitching body of his favourite horse, at the blood gushing like a flooded river across the stones.
“Dogwyn!”
His attacker walked over the corpse, stepping on its flank to reach him.
Dogwyn fled.
Straight through the pool of blood, leaving a trail of frantic red footprints down the road.
Heedless of Raemint’s cries, he ran.
The black-armoured soldier gave chase.
Raemint tried to go after them, but her own attacker blocked her path, forcing her to dance away from his blade on her injured leg.
She could do nothing but watch in horror as her companion ran… as the black soldier gained on him…
Dogwyn glanced over his shoulder and tried to veer up a small embankment into the grass, but his pursuer caught him and threw him down onto the roadway.
The black blade flashed in the sun.
Dogwyn’s cry was terrible and brief.
Watching from a distance, Raemint felt light-headed, disbelieving as the black sword came down again and again. The light seemed suddenly too bright, the wind too cold, her leg a dead weight that threatened to topple her…
And then something red and hot boiled up within her, consuming her soul.
She screamed.
Recklessly, she twisted her body and lashed out with her hind legs. It was a wild, desperate and dangerous kick...
But it hit its mark.
She heard and felt an iron-shod hoof connect with the man’s unprotected face. Bone crunched audibly, followed by a heavy, clattering thump.
Raemint staggered as she righted herself – the kick had been awkward, with most of her weight on her right leg – but turning she saw her attacker felled on the road.
The second black-armoured man walked back towards her, unhurriedly.
A mist of rain washed over them, sparkling in the shifting rays of the sun. Cruelly, a rainbow arced between them, overlaid upon the dark form of the murderer.
Outwardly, Raemint shivered as rain slicked the exposed skin of her arms and face.
Inwardly, she burned.
Stooping, she picked up the black sword from the lifeless fingers of the unknown soldier at her feet, and waited.
Shadow fell once more, all warmth banished from the world, save the mighty fire of grief and rage that roared inside her.
The black-armoured man lifted his sword and ran at her.
He was still grinning, even through the blood and rain on his face.
This time, their swords clashed, the sound ringing through the air, scattering droplets.
They fought. Raemint attacked viciously, throwing all her strength into her blows, hammering her opponent, not allowing him a chance to strike at her.
Several times, she slipped past his guard, but her blade slid off his armour as though it were greased.
She herself had no such protection.
They were both experienced fighters, but the outcome was inevitable.
Letting out a furious cry, she struck at his head.
She missed, but her blade caught his helmet, flinging it away.
He used the opportunity to duck and roll to her injured side.
She swung again, desperately twisting away, yet already knowing that she was too slow…
She felt the blade plunge into her side, a mind-numbingly cold shock of pain.
But her two-handed swing carried through its momentum, directly into her attacker’s neck as he straightened.
They fell together, in almost graceful slowness: her body, his, and his head gently toppling to the ground.
She almost didn’t feel the impact of the cobblestones, or the spasming twitches of her body, or the blood streaming from her. Mostly, she just felt a clenching cold that gripped her body and stilled her mind.
She lay there, listening to her breath falter and watching her fingers slowly release the black sword still in her hand.
There was blood between the cobblestones. Incongruously, a small clutch of forget-me-nots poked through, bobbing their tiny blue heads in farewell.
As her vision darkened around the edges, the rain eased and a bright patch was illuminated on the road ahead.
A sad, dark figure lay there, unmoving.
I died bravely, she thought. I am redeemed...
Then, at peace, she allowed her eyes to close.