A fight within a blackened hall
The price of power over all.
Before anyone could move, the Cat let out a screeching howl that echoed throughout the hall, and bolted.
There was a hissing sound from beyond the statue, then a huge dark shape surged past to their left, like a rippling, liquid shadow.
Ferrian gasped. “What is—”
“MOVE!!”
Mekka grabbed him, practically throwing him to his feet and dragging him in the direction of the pillars.
As they ran, there was another loud hiss, turning into a bloodcurdling snarl. Reaching the huge column, Ferrian glanced over his shoulder and let out a cry of fright, spinning around the curve of stone.
The serpent-monster was charging straight at them, its head like that of an oversized Muron, its triangular eyes blazing yellow, its black jaws opening, full of razor teeth…
Mekka leapt, not behind the pillar but onto it, pushing off with his feet and flipping over the head of the twisting serpent, landing on its neck, and plunging downwards with both daggers.
Letting out an infuriated shriek, the creature thrashed wildly, its snakelike body twisting in all directions. Its tail smashed into the Iriph statue, the pieces shattering into white and black dust across the floor.
“FERRIAN, RUN!” Mekka screamed as he leapt and flapped to and fro, avoiding the monster’s snapping jaws.
Ferrian gripped his Sword, heart racing, paralysed with indecision. The entrance was a long way off; a small black shape streaked in that direction and vanished through the gap.
The monster crashed into the pillar he was sheltering behind, startling him. The thing was terrifyingly quick, moving across the hall in a mass of writhing scales and teeth, but Mekka was faster, darting and whirling and slashing as though in a dance, his daggers bright winks of silver where they caught the beams of light.
Ferrian knew the Angel could handle it – he had taken down a thirty-foot immortal Seraph, after all – but he wasn’t invincible and running away felt… wrong.
I swore I’d never run from anything again, and I meant it.
I’m not leaving Mekka behind.
Once more ignoring his friend’s advice, he spun out from the pillar and raced into the fray.
He was unable to summon the Winter in this trigon-enshrouded room, but he was carrying a silvertine Sword of the Gods, and this monster wasn’t even a wraith, but a flesh and blood creature judging from the black liquid leaking from multiple gashes and stab wounds in its hide.
Reaching a loop of its body, Ferrian gripped his Sword in both hands and swung back for a blow…
The coil was suddenly gone, slithering out of his reach, and instead the giant, black, reptilian head of the beast lunged at him from the side.
Ferrian tried to dodge, but it happened like lightning and his reflexes were too slow. The monster snatched his left arm and flung him around like a toy, almost dislocating his arm from its socket, causing him to drop his Sword.
In an instant, its body swarmed around him, cold black scales crushing, suffocating him.
He couldn’t move, and had no breath to scream.
Somewhere beyond the haze of agony and impending death, he heard Mekka’s scream of fury, and then a shard of silver embedded itself in the serpent’s eye with a meaty thunk.
It released him, letting out a high-pitched wail. Ferrian was left lying on the floor as the scales slid off him, the monster distracted by the Angel.
Darkness crowded the edges of Ferrian’s vision, and there was a ringing tone in his ears. He felt weak, and numb, and struggled to keep hold of his consciousness.
Passing out now would be the end of him.
His Sword lay on the floor a couple of yards away, ablaze in a beam of light. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up and started crawling towards it.
Pain lanced through his left arm and shoulder, and he collapsed.
He lay on the black and gold-lined floor, panting. The sound of the fight continued, somewhere behind him, the monster’s screams becoming more and more gargled and awful.
It was dying, but not fast enough.
The black floor was cool and smooth, and mesmeric with its faint rainbow sheen, and a heaviness crept insidiously over him. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, to fall away into blissful oblivion, but the image of his Sword in the light burned in his mind, urging him to get up and reach it.
He started pulling himself towards it once more.
It seemed to take an age, in which he expected the life to be crushed out of him at any moment, but his hand finally landed upon the hilt.
Silver and black mist streamed off it as he did so; a ghostly calling.
For a moment he just stared at it, perplexed: then suddenly everything made sense.
He couldn’t use the Winter.
But he could use his Sword.
He could use its magic, and end this fight right now.
Tightening his fingers around the handle, he allowed his eyes to close.
The connection was astonishingly rapid, with no trigonic suppression; magic streamed through his body, into the Sword in an eager, bright rush. There was no hall of mirrors; instead, his Godlike Self awakened instantaneously, in a surge of triumphant glory, as though it had been waiting for the chance.
Pain, weakness and doubt were all obliterated in an instant, becoming insignificant as the entire Universe opened itself before his might.
Silver-white light burning from his eyes, skin and Sword, the Godlike being that was Ferrian rose haughtily to his feet, and turned.
The hall remained black, but the living things within it were ghostly shapes upon the darkness.
Ferrian walked towards them, unhurriedly.
The Muron-serpent’s body coiled and swam around him in ethereal arcs, slow and graceful in Ferrian’s timeless perception; he saw all its lives at once, its entire existence in this shadowed hall. He saw it live, he saw it die, he saw every movement it would ever make; he knew where to step and when to duck and turn aside, casually as though it was of no importance to him, and the monster did not touch him.
Finally, almost with amusement, he lifted his Sword in both hands and swung it, just as the beast’s head turned gaping towards him. The long gleaming blade sliced easily through its neck, and Ferrian turned his body as the head went tumbling past, blood spewing in a bright geyser everywhere.
Nonchalantly, Ferrian slashed out at the other incarnations of its soul, destroying them one by one until the monster, in all of its realities, lay dead.
But one other being remained, flitting about the hall like a moth.
It annoyed him. He stood watching it, listening to it dare to call out his name, and his annoyance rose into anger.
It was a winged thing, an Angel, that he knew to be his friend Mekk’Ayan. But Ferrian was a God, and needed no friends; such things were of no consequence to him.
He lived at the centre of existence, the creator and destroyer of all things. He had no reason to love anyone but himself.
And the power to take life as he pleased swelled within him, not yet sated…
He allowed the ghostly form of the Angel to approach him, idly noting that the winged man seemed wary, concerned. Then, when he was close enough, Ferrian swung his Sword, up and over his head in a terrible, bright arc, bringing it down hard…
Blackness seized him.
In the same moment his power vanished, snatched away by some invisible thief, and his limbs and thoughts were paralysed. Everything ceased to exist except an enormous shape burned upon the infinite night before him.
The outline of a great blue eye.
Long seconds passed before Mekka dared to move, or even breathe.
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He stood frozen in a half-crouch, staring in horror as the magic evaporated from his friend’s eyes.
Ferrian’s Sword was poised motionless an inch above Mekka’s head.
He’d had barely time to flinch, let alone raise his daggers to defend himself. It had happened with shocking suddenness – one moment, Ferrian was simply standing in the middle of the hall, blazing with light, covered in black blood after spectacularly killing the Muron-serpent, faster than thought.
Mekka, stunned with awe, had approached him, and then…
Slowly, the Angel moved out from under the blade, backing away.
Ferrian was embraced by tentacles of trigon. They were curled around his legs, arms, body, neck and head in a gleaming mass, binding him in place.
Mekka realised that the Watcher had just saved his life. His earlier conversation with Ferrian returned like an arrow from the dark, piercing his heart:
I believe it was trying to determine whether or not you were a threat…
Maybe I am…
Eyes widening, he whirled in panic, then caught sight of the gigantic black triangle occupying the far wall.
A massive, glowing blue outline of a dispassionate eye now loomed there.
“Watcher!” Mekka cried, his voice echoing in the now quiet hall. “Ferrian is not an enemy; he is my friend! He does not know how to control his power! P-please! Do not… kill him!” He sank to his knees.
The Watcher did not speak, nor was Mekka granted any further visions or impressions of thought.
There was nothing but a dreadful silence.
Mekka stared down at his silvertine daggers, wondering desperately how he could cut through the trigonic bonds without hacking Ferrian to pieces in the process, and what the Watcher would do if he tried…
His hands shook. With a sob, he rose to his feet. He would release Ferrian from the Pyramid’s grasp, whatever it took, even if it killed them both…
The tentacles moved, sliding away from Ferrian’s body, retreating into the floor.
Sheathing his daggers, the Angel leapt forward, catching the young sorcerer as he slumped forward. His Sword slipped from his limp fingers, clattering to the ground.
“Ferrian!”
“M-Mekka…” Ferrian said weakly. Tears trickled down his face.
Ferrian’s left arm was soaked in blood. Mekka hooked his shoulder under Ferrian’s good arm, taking his weight.
He hesitated, staring down at the Sword lying at his feet.
At the insidious dagger lodged in its hilt, a black scar marring the weapon’s exquisite craftsmanship.
That accursed dagger, he thought. A violent urge to kick the Sword into the furthest corner of the hall gripped him, but with a supreme effort he resisted, and gingerly picked it up, instead.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he muttered, and helped his stricken friend from the hall.
* * *
Dust danced across the plains, forming and re-forming into sinuous, ghostly shapes, glowing in the light of the lowering sun like the souls of things long forgotten, vanishing once more in the shadow of a mighty creature waiting to join them.
The Dragon lay as a white-jewelled hill gilded with gold; huge, ice-blue wings outstretched upon the sand. Beneath one of them, two small figures sat, and two more lay unmoving.
Ben stared out at the shifting colours of the desert, the white sand deepening into yellow with the ageing of the sun; at the clusters of stark pale bones in the distance, grasping forlornly and forever at the wide blue sky.
The thought of the beautiful White Dragon joining those skeletons in this vast graveyard – or worse, haunting it as a wraith – pressed close against his mind.
It tried to clutch him, to drag him down into despair but failed, because Ben was certain, now, that that was not to be her fate.
For something incredible had happened.
They had all seen him.
The extraordinary, shining bright figure of a man that Araynia had summoned when she had healed Sergeant Flint. He had seemed to be conversing with her, but no one could hear his words save the Lady, and none of their group recognised him. The Sky Legion were utterly dumbfounded, their leader, Reeves, visibly disconcerted, which filled Ben with more than a little delight.
Because Ben suspected he knew who the man was. Of course, there was only one person he possibly could be.
Lord Requar!
The fact that the dead sorcerer still existed in some form was monumentally stupendous, and Ben’s excitement, hours later, had not abated. That Araynia had kept such a huge secret from everyone all this time was mind-boggling, but he supposed she had her reasons.
But Requar’s existence changed everything. If the sorcerer had been helping her to use the Sword of Healing, then there was no doubt in Ben’s mind that Araynia absolutely could cure trigonis.
There was nothing she could not heal!
She had managed to save Flint’s life, even without the Sword, though the Freeroamer had not yet woken. Araynia, too, remained unconscious, having collapsed after her magical energy was spent.
Commander Reeves had winged off shortly after the attack, searching for assassins, while the other Legionnaire, named Nix, had tended to Lieutenant Tander’s injury. When Reeves returned, Ben had asked him anxiously about a woman in a red coat, but the Angel had replied curtly that he had found only one black-clad man, dead with his horse, and no other bodies.
Ben was disappointed.
One Bladeshifter was down, but Jewels and her cronies were still out there.
Reeves was fuming, impatient to be on his way, but his Lieutenant had been struck with an arrow and could not fly. Having witnessed Araynia’s miraculous healing skills, however, he was not willing to leave until Tander had been granted the same treatment.
So they had all made a tense camp together.
The Sky Legion disdained to rest near the Dragon. They had found a merchant’s wagon – minus its driver and draught animals – abandoned in the crowd’s panic, and commandeered it, tossing its cargo of expensive silks carelessly out onto the sand. Reeves and Tander sheltered within it; Nix sat outside in the wagon’s shadow, against one of the wheels, ostensibly keeping guard but in reality dozing with his head forward on his silver breastplate.
Li sat hugging her knees beside Ben, under the protection of the Dragon’s wing, with their backs against her cool, lustrous hide. Earlier, Ben had found their horses some way off in the desert, but try as he might, could not persuade them to return with him to the Dragon. Spooked and agitated, they had bolted across the ivory sands and he had been forced to watch them go in dismay.
Traffic on The Line had all but vanished, with only the occasional brazen traveller willing to pass. No one else dared to stop and gawk.
The Dragon, Ben’s party and the Sky Legion were alone together in the middle of the Bone Sea.
A long, hot, exhausting day passed, in which everyone tried unsuccessfully to sleep, and there was little conversation. Ben wore Flint’s hat and held the crossbow in his lap, keeping watch despite his tiredness in case Jewels was bold enough to make another attempt on their lives. He didn’t trust the Sky Legion to defend them; Tander was the only one of them to have shown any kind of compassion, and if he hadn’t been hit, Ben was under no illusion that the Angels wouldn’t have simply flown off and left them all for dead.
That’s exactly what they’re going to do, as soon as Tander is healed, Ben thought bitterly, glancing down at Lady Araynia, recovering on the sand. Flint lay just beyond her, all trace of his fatal wound completely gone.
As though summoned by his thoughts, a glimmering figure strode into the Dragon’s shadow, with his long white coat and white wings.
Ben groaned. Oh boy. Here we go…
Stopping in front of the boy, the Angel Commander glanced beneath the wing, irritation flicking across his turquoise eyes like lightning amongst storm clouds.
“You, boy!” he demanded, straightening with his hands on his hips. “Wake the noblewoman!”
Ben stared up at him, not moving an inch.
Reeves regarded him icily. “Fine,” he stated. Then, stooping under the wing, he moved over to Araynia and kicked her in the back with a silvertine boot.
Ben leapt furiously to his feet. “Hey!” he yelled, pointing the crossbow at the Angel. “Leave her alone! She needs to rest!”
Reeves whirled on him. “And my Lieutenant needs to fly!” His glare turned into a snarl as he backhanded the crossbow aside. “And get that pathetic toy out of my face!”
Ben knew that the weapon was useless against him, and he didn’t care. He turned it straight back onto the Angel’s arrogant face, even taking a step closer. He had stood up to many cruel people in his young life, not least Lord Arzath, a morbidly-depressed sorcerer. He wanted Reeves to know that he was watching every damned move he made and wasn’t going to be brushed aside easily, nor let him harm his friends. Ben would thwart the Angel at every moment, if he could.
Reeves recognised this in Ben’s eyes and his look was dangerous. It was the expression of someone about to inflict pain in the next few seconds…
A soft groan at their feet saved him. Lady Araynia was stirring.
“About time,” Reeves snarled. Reaching down, he dragged the noblewoman up before she was properly awake, then hauled her out from under the wing and shoved her into the sand.
“You jerk!” Ben cried. “She won’t be able to heal anyone if you hurt her!”
Reeves ignored him. He waited only seconds for Araynia to regain her senses before grabbing her again, yanking her to her feet and pulling her in the direction of the wagon.
Ben trained the crossbow on the Angel’s back. He was mostly protected by his armour, beneath his long coat, though he wasn’t wearing his helmet. Ben wondered if he was a good enough shot to get a bolt through one of his pretty wings, decided he wasn’t, and let the bow drop with a frustrated sigh.
Dammit, I wish Flint was awake!
Or better yet, the Dragon…
Briefly, he glanced at the Dragon, but her eyes were closed and she showed no sign of awareness.
“Stay there, Li!” he said to the Angel girl, who was on her feet, looking anxious. “Watch Flint!” Dropping the crossbow in the sand, he took off Flint’s oversized hat, shoved it on the girl’s head, then ran off after Reeves and Araynia.
Araynia struggled to comprehend what was happening. Something had slammed into her back, waking her brutally from a deep, restful slumber. Then she was being dragged about like a piece of meat.
A low, hot sun glared into her face, making her eyes sting and water. Squinting, she made out the shape of a white-dressed Angel soldier striding beside her. A long, confused moment passed before she remembered that he was Commander Reeves of the Sky Legion.
His silver-gauntleted hand was clamped painfully around her upper arm, and he was yanking her along none too kindly.
His expression could have cut through stone.
“What is… happening?” she said hoarsely.
Reeves did not look at her, his gaze fixed determinedly ahead. “Someone else requires your assistance,” he replied brusquely.
It was then that she remembered that one of the Legionnaires had also been struck with an arrow.
An arrow sent from the Bladeshifters. An arrow meant for her.
She swallowed. “Is he… badly hurt?”
“He will live, but he cannot fly. That is unacceptable.”
She hesitated. “Was anyone else injured?”
The Angel did not answer the question. They stopped beside a blue-painted, ornate roofed wagon. The Legionnaire with green-tipped wings was waiting outside it, on the shaded side.
The Commander released her, pointing at the open rear door. “In,” he ordered.
Araynia reached for the pendant at her throat, and found that it wasn’t there. She patted herself and looked around in alarm, beginning to panic.
“My… pendant…!”
The green-winged Angel suddenly stepped forward, levelling his spear as someone ran up behind them.
Araynia turned to see that it was Ben.
“I think you need this!” the boy said, holding up a glittering blue stone.
“Hand it over,” the green-winged Legionnaire said.
But Ben held onto it, eyeing them all distrustfully.
“Ben,” Araynia sighed, holding out her hand. “It’s all right.”
Ben met her gaze. “Are you sure?”
Araynia nodded. She tried a reassuring smile, but the pain in her back turned it into a grimace.
Ben frowned uncertainly, fidgeting with the stone.
Reeves reached for his spear, where it was propped beside the door of the wagon. Walking forward, he spun it and levelled it at Ben, giving the boy a sharp smile of his own. “I suggest you do as the Lady says,” he said. “Before she is required to heal anyone else.”
Araynia sighed again. “Ben, please,” she begged. “I owe this Angel my life. I will only need to use a little more magic. I am fine.”
Ben hesitated a moment longer, then finally sighed in resignation and started forward. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes widening at something beyond them. “Hell’s bells,” he breathed. “What is… that??”
Reeves exploded with fury. “Oh, please! Do you honestly expect to fool us with something so obscenely childish—”
But the other Legionnaire’s spear was lowering, his own face going pale. “Commander…”
Araynia and Reeves turned.
The sky behind them was aflame with orange and pink light, fading into a pale greenish-blue the colour of Reeves’ eyes. The sun was a burning coal below as it died.
And above that baleful ember could be seen a black shape, a mass of immense knife-edge fragments with a single long blade like that of a giant sword protruding downwards from its base.
And atop that tangled nest of insane trigonic shards rose a smooth, perfect, glistening Black Pyramid.
And it was cutting a dead straight line towards them.