The last one stands, amid the snow
A Sword to use, to test, to know.
Morning arrived with grim reluctance, the black velvet hood of night slipping away to reveal the pallid visage of a frozen day. Sun and sky remained hidden beyond a layer of listless cloud. One or two sounds made tentative intrusions upon the deeply packed silence; a mournful bird called, far off in the forest, answered a few seconds later by another. Then the hush returned, as though even that small disturbance was a blasphemy upon the wasted mausoleum of the ruined clearing.
Ferrian awoke more slowly still, his body dragging him from mindless, dreamless oblivion into the light. He resisted, wanting to sink back into nothingness, but thoughts and sensations gathered like tiny creatures scrabbling inside his skull, until they could no longer be ignored.
He was lying on the cold ground, but he made no effort to get up. It was some time before he bothered to open his eyes. When he did, his blurred and groggy vision saw only charred wood and smouldering ash.
Lord Arzath was dead.
An empty sickness rolled through him. He had known this was coming, of course. But the knowledge was bitter consolation.
Groaning, he rolled over onto his back, gazing up at the pale, uncaring face of the sky. It wasn’t as though he and Arzath had been close: they hadn’t even liked each other. But for all his callousness and cruelty, his master had never caused Ferrian any real harm. He had shared his knowledge of magic freely, indeed insistently, as though determined that his student learn absolutely everything there was to learn, all at once.
At first, Ferrian had felt overwhelmed, confused and resentful, until he came to realise that this was just Arzath’s way. And underlying it all, there had existed a strange, unspoken bond between them, of shared grief for a man that both of them had hated, yet had influenced their lives in maddening and irrevocable ways that they had only belatedly come to understand.
Requar’s death had affected them both more deeply and painfully than either wished to admit.
Ferrian forced back a tightness in his throat that threatened tears. Now Arzath was gone as well. Any remaining questions Ferrian might have wanted to ask were forever without answers.
And now it is just me.
The last sorcerer.
Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his muscles. Reaching out, he grabbed his Sword and used it to push himself up.
He looked around for Mekka and the Dragon, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Ferrian’s breath puffed out before him in a sigh. It wasn’t unusual for either of them to go missing for lengthy periods of time. Hobbling over to a rock scarred with blackened lichen, he sat down on it, wincing. His legs and feet ached from walking in circles all night, and he felt abominably tired: the Vigilance ritual had taken a lot out of him.
Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his temple, trying to think through a brain that seemed to have turned into thick porridge.
Why had Arzath chosen this particular spot to finally end his long and terrible life? This lonely, random patch of forest? Had he taken the opportunity to do so because he was far enough away from the castle, and all other civilisation?
Something monstrous had entered Castle Whiteshadow, had slaughtered poor Luca, and Arzath had fled along with Ferrian’s guests. Had Arzath then abandoned them all, merely to destroy himself? Or…
Opening his eyes, Ferrian stared at the distant, gnarled trees crowded around the edge of the clearing like pensive mourners at the scene of a tragedy.
Or had this been some sort of a defence? A last stand, a final, desperate attempt to take his pursuer down with him?
Was it... was it actually possible that Lord Arzath had been trying to protect the others, to provide a distraction so that they could get away?
Ferrian’s throat felt tight again. Will I ever know the answer to that? he thought sadly.
He looked around the clearing again. There was little to be seen in any direction save a thick blanket of snow with the shattered, burnt carcasses of once venerable ancient trees protruding from it. If anyone else had fallen here with Arzath, their bodies were effectively hidden.
He assumed that that was what Mekka was doing right now; searching for evidence, a trail, anything to indicate whether anyone might have escaped Arzath’s Fatalis spell.
Ferrian sighed and closed his eyes again. There was nothing to do but wait until his Angel friend returned.
Ferrian woke with a start, to a world that was considerably greyer than it had been. An icy wind had picked up, blowing the snow into drifts that covered his feet and the end of his Sword, which was still gripped loosely in his right hand. Peculiarly, there was a bare circle around the site of Arzath’s ashes, the Winter avoiding that spot as though in deference.
The clouds overhead were slate grey, swirling sluggishly. The pure white snow around Ferrian almost seemed to glow in the murky, twilight gloom.
Ferrian blinked the bleariness out of his eyes: he must have dozed off. Night was drawing in.
There was no White Dragon.
And no Mekka.
He stood up abruptly and cursed as he almost fell into the snow.
His feet were numb. Sitting back heavily onto the rock, he shook the ice off his boots and placed his hands on first one leg, then the other, taking some time to carefully draw the cold out of his extremities.
Ferrian might have regained control over the Winter, but he wasn’t immune to its effects. It was a dangerous, unwieldy beast, and he could succumb to it just like any other person. That had already been put to the test four years ago, he reminded himself soberly, when the Winter had killed him.
It had killed a lot of other people too, whilst he had been wrapped up in its trance.
I must not become complacent like I once did, he thought, shivering with the memory. I must be aware of its power at all times.
When he was done with the spell, and could move his toes and fingers freely, he stood up again, more slowly this time. Retrieving his Sword, he held it tightly. Wind whipped his grey cloak around, and there was a strange, tight knot in his stomach.
Something felt… wrong.
It wasn’t just that Arzath was dead or that his companions were missing, or that the Winter was oddly agitated. There was an ominous sense to the air, as though the rapidly descending darkness was bringing with it something terrible…
He threw out a Mind Sweep, turning in a full circle, scanning as far into the forest as he could.
He saw nothing. Absolutely nothing at all – not even birds, or mice.
That… wasn’t right.
A terrifying thought occurred to him, then.
What if the monster – the demon-wraith – whatever it was, what if…
What if Lord Arzath hadn’t killed it??
Letting his Mind Vision fade away, Ferrian continued to search the darkness for any glimpse of a shadow, blacker than black, that might be lurking on the edge of the clearing, watchful.
But he saw only swirling snow and the restless shifting of the trees.
He shook his head in denial, even as his heart beat rapidly and the first stirrings of panic fluttered in his gut.
No, he thought determinedly, trying to reason with his fear. It was not possible that the wraith was still here. It couldn’t have… it could not have got to Mekka and the Dragon. The Dragon would have raised an alarm. He would have heard her scream…
And yet…
Where were they??
Ferrian began to pace up and down, his boots scrunching in the snow, his Sword a liquid silver gleam at his side. He wasn’t aware of how tightly he was gripping it until his hand began to hurt.
Looking down at it, he stopped in shock.
Black mist was leaking out of the trigonic dagger, twisting and warping to avoid coming into contact with the glittering silver mist wafting from the Sword. Ferrian stared at the twin vapours, mesmerised, ignoring the throbbing ache in his hand, then suddenly looked up.
There was still nothing out there to be seen. No demon-wraiths, no terrible and beautiful silvertine Angel ghosts.
Nothing.
What, then??
In frustration, he looked back at his Sword. What was…?
He went very still then, all of a sudden, as realisation buffeted him with the wind.
It wasn’t a warning.
It was…
Beckoning??
It wants me to use it! Ferrian thought in astonishment. The throbbing in his hand grew stronger, making him wince. Perhaps it was a trick of the dim light, but the dagger embedded in the hilt seemed to move, to liquefy. He thought he could feel its influence, coldly seeping through his skin, into his bones and blood, travelling up his arm and into his thoughts, a seductive, chilling whisper.
You can change things, it breathed.
You do not have to accept this reality…
It was the very thing he had vowed never to do, from the moment he had become aware of the immense power the Sword of Mirrors held within it. He had thought such a power obscene, and had tried valiantly to be responsible with its use.
But his resolve was crumbling now under a siege of confusion, fear, anguish and fatigue, and his shoulders slumped, the Sword slicing into the snow.
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What did it matter, any more? If all of his friends truly were gone… then what else did he have to lose? What could he possibly do to this world to make it worse than it already was?
And what if there was a chance to make it better?
I have to know the true potential of this Sword, he thought. At some point, I HAVE to test it, have to know what it is capable of, otherwise, I’m just a clueless kid waving a dangerous magic stick around!
Was he a sorcerer, or wasn’t he?
Before Ferrian quite knew what he was doing, his feet were carrying him onto the bare, leaf-strewn circle of ground surrounding the undisturbed ashes of the pyre.
It was oddly calm here. Snow continued to dance around the circumference of the circle, but inside it, Ferrian’s cloak fell still and the wind seemed distant, and the air felt warm, as though he had stepped into a peaceful dwelling.
He looked down at the ash.
Slowly, he lowered his Sword point downward into it, positioning both of his hands firmly around the hilt. Then he took a deep, steadying breath, closed his eyes and concentrated.
As usual, his consciousness split in two, so that he was partly aware of standing in the clearing with his Sword, and at the same time he was inside his Sword, in the middle of a vast hall of mirrors. This time, however, he didn’t want to throw something into them: he wanted to bring something out.
He wanted to merge another world with his own.
Stretching his arms out to his sides – a thousand reflections mimicking his action – he slowly brought his hands together. In response, the mirrors moved; warping, melting into silvery puddles. Those puddles converged, shrinking as they did so until the whole of the mirrored space had coalesced into a single giant, swirling, gleaming sphere in the centre of endless darkness.
For a moment, Ferrian almost forgot who and where he was. All versions of him – of everything – were inside the sphere, and he was outside of it: separate and mighty. A surge of euphoria flooded him, nearly overwhelmed him; it was as though he had suddenly been transformed into a God – the God of all Gods – and was standing at the centre of existence, with everything ever created – or yet to be – at his command. He could do whatever he wanted, shape this silver globe of infinite life however he pleased – or indeed, destroy it utterly… and there was no one to stop him.
He laughed at the thrill of such a realisation, and his laugh caused silver globules to detach themselves from the sphere and burst like bubbles, causing nebulas of reality to bloom around him in breathtaking colours, teeming with life. Stars scattered themselves across the void like so much fine, glittering sand on a dark beach… he felt that he could walk across them, scoop them up in his hands…
Had he been a little less trained than he was, Ferrian might have been lost, then, absorbed into the vast, incomprehensible power of the Universe, obsessed with his own, glorious, fact of being. But the long hours of discipline kicked the back of his brain, reminding him of his essential Human-ness, his smallness, that one minuscule speck of dust in infinity that was nevertheless impossibly important… Regaining perspective was difficult; it was devastating. The part of himself that was Godlike resisted, howled at the knowledge of his frailty, his insignificance…
But Ferrian had learned how to accept his own power, his whole self, no matter how terrifying or wondrous it might seem.
An awareness of himself standing in the clearing with his Sword returned. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the tight feeling of heartache in his chest, he forced his consciousness back together, bringing his Godlike Self like a burning piece of the sun with him.
When he opened his eyes, the clearing was silver.
Spreading out all around him was a reflective plain, lumpen with the shapes of fallen trees and rocks, like a warped mirror. The sky overhead was a featureless dark grey, with no moon, stars or clouds.
And rising between quicksilver ground and empty sky was the ghost of a forest.
Huge myrtles surrounded Ferrian, pale and translucent, lifting once more from their shiny stumps. Their mighty, gnarled boughs intertwined with the other trees of the forest, which crowded round like an army of inquisitive grandparents. As Ferrian watched, things... changed in a curious way. Trees disappeared, only to reappear somewhere else; bushes and ferns and flowers were there, and then weren’t. Animals ran about, vanishing or changing into something else mid-leap; birds were glowing, flickering smears upon the twilight air, their songs haunting echoes in his mind.
Ferrian waited, wonderstruck and silent.
People appeared, briefly and randomly, and were gone again. Hunters stalking with bare feet, clad in nothing but furs and drawing back sturdy bows… a group of a dozen robed and hooded figures, all clutching long swords, who converged around Ferrian in a circle, chanting… Centaur children, frolicking in the dappled shadows…
Many more, people and creatures and even buildings, the shades of a hundred other worlds passed by, flickering in and out of existence. They were colourless and ethereal, yet all as real as each other.
Ferrian’s Godlike Self raged with impatience, and he concentrated harder.
And there he was, quite suddenly, striding out of the trees to Ferrian’s left, all misty white but clearly recognisable.
Lord Arzath.
Ferrian watched the sorcerer pause just in front of him, discarding his cloak and gloves, contemplating the circle of ancient myrtles for long moments. Then he moved purposefully to the edge of the clearing, held out a hand and walked slowly around the circumference, enclosing the clearing in a ring of bright runes that glowed upon the ground.
When it was finished, he surveyed his work, then returned to the centre and knelt there, quietly waiting.
There followed a long pause, in which nothing happened. The image of Arzath flickered now and then into different positions: sometimes kneeling, sometimes standing, sometimes pacing around, but always in the same approximate spot. Ferrian’s Godlike Self flared again, and he willed the scene to progress more quickly.
Finally, there was further movement within the ghostly trees. Another figure approached the clearing, from the same direction Arzath had arrived. It was a woman with shoulder-length hair, clad in something pitch black beneath an oversized military long coat. Ferrian didn’t recogni--
Wait.
The whole scene shimmered precariously, going dark as a bolt of shock passed through Ferrian’s veins.
Carmine Vandaris.
The women the Freeroamers were supposed to have locked up at the Guard House.
Hawk’s fiancée.
Sirannor’s daughter.
Mekka’s secret love…
Ferrian’s Godlike Self surged with anger and ecstasy, wanting to rip the woman to shreds. He struggled to keep it under control, while a flood of different emotions and questions rushed through him in a torrent of disbelief.
No, no, he couldn’t answer them right now, he had to regain concentration...
With great effort, he forced himself to look down at his hands gripped on his Sword, and focussed. His Godlike Self and other emotions subsided, though the allure of Universal power lingered within tantalising reach of his consciousness.
He did not want to witness the rest of the scene, but he had to. He had to know exactly how and why Lord Arzath had died.
Those questions, at least, were soon answered.
Once the scene had stabilised again, Ferrian steeled himself as he watched Carmine advance to the ring of protective runes and stop. She exchanged a few words with Arzath, though their conversation was a dim echo that Ferrian couldn’t quite make out. Then she stepped across the ring as though it was nothing and held out a hand. A monstrous blade grew from it like an extended limb, and she attacked Arzath.
There followed a breathtaking fight. Arzath used his magic, bombarded the clearing with lightning bolts, but it was completely ineffectual. Carmine slashed at him with quick, agile, expert movements. Having no weapon of his own, the sorcerer could do nothing else but dodge.
Ferrian could only watch, holding back horror.
Then, unexpectedly, a third figure appeared from out of the trees.
Lady Araynia??
Horror was replaced with sheer astonishment. She was carrying a long, exquisite blade, instantly recognisable as a Sword of the Gods by the black and white snakes curling around the hilt.
There were no other Swords of the Gods beside his own Sword of Mirrors, except, obviously...
What…??
Again, pushing aside the absurdity, he watched the scene progress.
Araynia lingered for a moment, watching the battle, clearly as horrified as Ferrian was. Then, quite suddenly, she darted forward and swung her Sword at Carmine.
It was a clumsy swing, carving a low arc through the woman’s right leg, though the limb remained unharmed, enhancing Ferrian’s disbelieving suspicion. Part of Carmine’s black armour fell away and melted.
Carmine rounded on Araynia, furious.
Ferrian’s stomach quivered, but before Carmine had a chance to attack the noblewoman, Arzath activated his Fatalis spell.
White light engulfed the scene, brighter than anything imaginable, though dimmed for Ferrian by time and magic. When it subsided, the clearing was in its current ruined state, and three bodies lay on the ground.
There was another long, ominous pause.
Only Arzath was lying here, the thought travelled through Ferrian’s mind. Something else must have happened…
He continued watching.
To his immense relief, Lady Araynia stirred and got up, though she looked in bad condition. That she survived a Fatalis at all was a miracle… He watched her stagger over to Arzath and try to use her Sword on him.
It IS the Sword of Healing! Ferrian thought, astounded.
The Sword didn’t work, however. Araynia collapsed, sobbing. The ghost of her crying was heart-wrenching, echoing through eternity.
Then Carmine slowly sat up, and hugged herself, looking bewildered. Araynia stared at her for a minute, then bolted into the forest.
Carmine rocked back and forth on the ground for awhile, crying. Then finally, she got up, stared silently at Arzath’s body, then limped into the forest after the girl.
Nothing further happened.
Ferrian waited.
Nothing.
No… he physically shook his head. No, this is what DID happen. In just one reality!
He felt his hands tightening on his Sword. But it didn’t have to be like this!
His Godlike Self filled him, blazing bright and eager, and he let it. His eyes glowed with light.
He replayed the entire scene, from the beginning, but demanded a different version. This time, Carmine attacked and slew Arzath almost straight away, beheading him with her vicious black sword.
No!
Again.
Carmine attacked, and they did battle as before. Carmine killed the sorcerer again, just as Lady Araynia showed up. She charged at the noblewoman, deftly dodged the swing of her Sword, and cleaved her horribly in two…
No!!
Ferrian replayed the scene several times more. Carmine slaughtered Arzath, or Araynia, or both, in every one.
In another, after the Fatalis spell, all three of them remained sprawled and burnt on the ground, dead.
In yet another, a fourth figure showed up.
Ben.
Carmine and Arzath did battle. Araynia attacked with her Sword, wounding Carmine’s leg. Ben rushed forward with a silver dagger…
The Fatalis spell erupted, and all four were knocked down.
Only Ben climbed to his feet, this time. Seeing the fate of the others, he let out a cry of anguish, snatched up the Sword and rushed towards Carmine. He beheaded her just as she sat up, then fell to his knees, sobbing. After long moments, he stood, went to Araynia and pulled her up on his shoulder, then dragged her with him into the forest.
Ferrian quivered. In this version, Carmine was dead… but so was Arzath and perhaps Araynia as well.
No.
His Godlike Self was weakening; he could feel his energy rapidly dwindling. He wouldn’t be able to sustain this magic for much longer. He could feel the cold bite of the Winter on his skin; the connection was fading…
No, no…
He tried to continue. He had glimpsed the Universe and it was infinite, there were many more realities to go through, he just had to find the right one…
His Godlike Self surged hard and fast and incandescent through the possibilities. Dozens more ghostly scenes flashed past, then scores, then hundreds…
They were all as horrific as the first, or worse…
His magic crashed without warning. A wave of intense dizziness blinded him and his Godlike Self lost its grip, screaming in a blaze of righteous fury, and Ferrian collapsed panting into soft ash. He tried to push himself back up, but his muscles wouldn’t respond and he spiralled into oblivion.
When next he awoke, it was to a bright, silver-white gleam. At once, Ferrian thought he was back in the Hall of Mirrors, or the Universal Void, but he didn’t feel like an Almighty Being. Quite the opposite, in fact. Blinking, the gleam gradually came into focus.
It was his Sword, its power spent, reflecting the moonlight, rising above him like a cold totem.
Realising his failure, he closed his eyes, despair swallowing him.
Remembering what it was he was lying in, Ferrian forced himself to his knees. The air was still and warm, and strangely heavy, and the sky was clear, revealing a pristine slice of moon and stars that now seemed like expensive jewels, far out of his reach.
His face was wet, and he wiped it with his hand.
Tears. They trickled down through the ash stuck to his cheeks.
He had felt so powerful. He had found out what his Sword was capable of, and it was both frightening and exhilarating, as he had expected. He knew he could have changed things, but he had found no reality in which Lord Arzath survived past this clearing.
The sorcerer was supposed to die here. He had wanted to die.
Perhaps Lady Fate had the final say, after all. Perhaps, as Godlike as he was, he was a mere child compared to her.
I know I can do it! his mind rebelled stubbornly. I’ll try again. I’ll rest, recover my energy, then try again…
But how long would that take? He could try for days, or weeks, or years, and still never bring Arzath back…
His stomach clenched suddenly in nauseating pain, and he gasped, doubling over. It wasn’t his dire thoughts that had triggered it, though, it was something else…
Confused, he looked around, but there was nothing to be seen but patches of melting snow amid the charred, moon-washed wreckage of trees. Cold crept over him, then, and it was not the Winter returning. It was not the crisp, invigorating cold of ice, but the chill of a fever, the sweat of a nightmare…
A shadow passed over his Sword, dimming it to steel grey. Slowly, Ferrian looked up.
An immense black thing sailed in absolute silence over his head, blocking out the night sky. Ferrian saw a mass of gigantic, jumbled shards like metal, the moonlight sliding over their lethal edges. A single long shard, a hundred feet long, protruded from the underside of the thing, its knife-like point ending only two feet off the ground. As the shard passed in front of Ferrian, only a yard or so away, he saw his own reflection in its polished, oil-dark surface, leering at him strangely…
Without a thought Ferrian leapt to his feet, grabbed his Sword and swung it with all his might at the shard…
The Sword bounced off with a loud ringing sound and a shower of white sparks, sending Ferrian reeling.
Ferrian stared at it, eyes going wide in disbelief.
As the thing continued moving slowly across the clearing, completely unmarred by his attack, Ferrian looked up again, and up even further, craning his neck. Far above the twisted mass of metal – of trigon – a smooth-sided, perfect triangular shape came into view…
The Black Pyramid.
The thing that had toppled Caer Sync onto the Angel city of Fleetfleer.
The thing that had spilled an entire Pit of trigon into the northern ocean, creating whale-wraiths and demon fish and gods-knew-what else…
It was here.
Ferrian did the only sensible thing he could think to do in that moment.
He turned and ran.