In far east lands, a nation stirred
While unexpected news is heard.
For three days they followed the road east, winding around grassy, wildflower-speckled hills, through shady glades, and, for a time, beside a sparkling river. Farms were scattered about the sun-drenched countryside, and now and then they were greeted by locals, but Flint could do little more than raise a hat as they sped past, having no time to stop and chat.
Once or twice, their progress was impeded by cattle or sheep being driven along the road, and their pace slowed to a depressing crawl. The farm children herding the animals strolled along as though they had all week. Ben could barely sit still in his seat, and Araynia shared his impatience.
Somewhere ahead of them, their thief was galloping across the countryside on a fine horse, with all of their belongings – and, more distressingly, their companion Hawk – probably laughing uproariously as he did so.
Their own shaggy brown draught stallion was big and powerful, and not especially fast, but kept up a solid pace for long hours without rest, and they made good time.
The weather became hotter and drier as they moved further from the mountains, the sun burning down as though focussed through a lens out of a gemstone-blue sky. Ben seemed unbothered by the heat and Flint had a hat. Lady Araynia suffered, yet bore her discomfort in silence. It must have showed, however, because Flint offered to rig up a tarpaulin over the cart for shade, but the noblewoman politely declined, preferring to wrap herself up in her cloak instead and sit at the front with Flint.
Ben shared the back with his comatose sister.
Araynia closed her eyes against the glare of the sun and tried to ignore the small unpleasant irritations – the dampness of her clothing and the sweat trickling in small rivulets over her skin; the contrasting dryness of her throat; the constant flies attacking her face, and the sunburn.
They were nothing compared to what had been done to Everine.
The woman’s sickness was a chill at her back, a constant, vague sense of queasy dread. They all felt it, she knew; Flint wore an almost permanent scowl on his face, and Ben was fidgety and restless, though otherwise in good spirits.
None of them spoke of her condition. Like Hawk before her, they treated Everine in a wholly pragmatic manner: she was simply something they needed to carry around with them until an opportunity to deal with the problem presented itself.
One way or another.
Despite the heat, Araynia suppressed a shudder.
She knew that Ben was relying on her to use the Sword of Healing on his sister, and perhaps on Hawk as well – though Hawk’s condition had now changed in a way that none of them really understood. But Lord Requar had explicitly warned her not to do this.
She swallowed back the memory. She had ignored him, of course.
In hindsight, she realised how dangerous and foolish it had been to do so. Who was she, to disregard the advice of a two hundred year old sorcerer – now dead – the original owner of the Sword, just to prove something to herself?
Her face burned with shame. She had very nearly gotten herself killed and had completely failed to save Lord Arzath.
And she had not stopped Carmine when she had the chance.
Opening her eyes, gazing at the eucalyptus trees lining the road, she blinked back the sting of tears. She felt as though Everine’s condition was her fault.
And that was why Araynia was determined to save her, and anyone else if she could.
Something had changed, after she had awoken in the infirmary. The Sword of Healing had restored her to full health, removed all of her injuries. But it had done more than that.
She felt more alive than she ever had. She had thought her eyesight good before – now it was astonishingly clear. Her sense of smell and taste and touch and hearing were all improved, to the point where every sensation felt like something new.
Guilt, fear, sadness, pain – the Sword had not taken these things from her – but they no longer overwhelmed her like they once had. Her grief for Luca was still a scar across her soul, one that she would carry forever, but, somehow, it was a little easier to bear now.
And her magic…
She could feel it now, and sometimes even see it – like a soft glow beneath her skin, like some part of her that had lain dormant for many years had been suddenly stirred to life. It terrified her, yet was fascinating and… beautiful. She still did not fully understand what it was that she had been given… but she could not deny that Lord Requar’s magic really did live on within her, and she recognised belatedly how precious and unique it was.
Only one other person in the entire world felt like this: and that was Ferrian.
But her pendant no longer worked, and this scared and confused her. She had had little time to figure out why, before it was stolen from her.
Now, Araynia was without both Sword and stone.
But she still had the magic.
And since she had finally come to accept the idea, she had become curious, wondering what she could do with it, so… she had decided to practise.
Over the past few days, while they travelled, she had been testing it; a little at a time, secretly, so as not to make a fuss in front of the others. Back in the infirmary, she had been able to summon the Sword to her, with her will, and so had tried to do such a thing again with small objects such as pebbles and leaves.
To her great disappointment, however, she hadn’t been able to make it work again. Nothing happened when she tried to move things. Nothing happened when she tried to use healing magic, either – to revive insects, or even soothe the itchy sunburn on her own skin.
Frustratingly, for all her efforts, she couldn’t make her magic do what she wanted it to. Or do anything at all, for that matter, apart from seeing auras.
Except for one time, last night.
She had waited until the other two were asleep, wrapped in their blankets, and had then attempted something that was perhaps, not the wisest idea.
She had tried to move a fresh log onto their dwindling campfire and…
… the fire had exploded.
Ben and Flint had woken with alarm to find their grove of trees on fire and the noblewoman and the horse panicking.
Thankfully, no one had been injured, but Araynia's clothes had suffered a few scorch marks and they had wasted most of their water trying to put the flames out.
She had stammered a breathless apology, and had not dared to use magic at all since then.
A few hours later, as the sun burned low and golden at their backs, they reached a crossroads.
A small, potholed track continued straight ahead, mostly overgrown. The dirt road they were following, well-travelled and clear of debris, turned to the right. At the intersection stood a rickety, ancient sign made of two planks nailed together. Through the lichen they could just make out two roughly engraved words: THE LINE, and an arrow, pointing mostly at the ground, though presumably it had originally indicated the better-used road. There was no indication of what lay in the direction of the overgrown path.
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Flint stopped only long enough to contemplate the sign, go for a toilet break, swig some water, attend to their horse, and then they were on their way again.
“Where even are we?” Ben moaned, looking around at the rather barren landscape, which seemed to consist mostly of old lava flows, weeds and a scattering of painted eucalyptus trees. “We haven’t seen a farmhouse or even a person for an entire day!”
“Northern edge of the Arlen Plains,” Flint replied. He indicated the road ahead. “A few more hours this way, an’ we’ll reach The Line. Big highway runnin’ east to west through the Outlands. Major tradin’ route. Loads o’ merchants cartin’ all kinds of crap back an’ forth. Refugees, too.”
Ben slumped back against some grain sacks. “And that’s where we’ll lose him.”
“Nah,” Flint waved a fly casually out of his face. “I know where he’s headin’.”
Araynia and Ben both looked at him in surprise. “You do??”
Flint nodded. “Once we hit The Line, we turn east again. Next big town we come to is Watchroads. Fella won’t try sellin’ the Eliminator there: place is full of Freeroamers. Once we meet up with ‘em, we’ll put out an arrest warrant.”
Ben looked at him. “What makes you so sure he’ll just pass through?”
Flint grinned at him. “Bridgetown.”
The boy and the noblewoman looked blank. “Bridgetown?” Ben frowned. “Where’s that?”
Flint snapped the reins. “The border with Siriaza.”
Araynia made a small noise and Ben exclaimed: “The border? But… but that’s hundreds of miles away!”
Araynia looked confused. “I… do not understand. Why would he travel so far? Why not Sel Varence?”
Flint shook his head. “Selvar’s full to burstin’. Place’s locked up tight: the Watch is everywhere. Ain’t no one gettin’ through those gates ‘scept them fancy Sirinese merchants sellin’ handkerchiefs to the nobles.”
He glanced at them. “Bridgetown’s a notorious black market town, sittin’ right on the border, literally, spannin’ a huge chasm. Neither Daroria or Siriaza make claim to it. The Imperial Guard turn their noses one way, the Watch the other, an’ what happens in between ain’t nobody’s business save the Redwick family, who rule the place.” His expression turned grim. “You can sell anythin’ in Bridgetown. An’ I mean… anythin’. Just as long as yer pay the Redwick tax. Violence, though?” Flint shook his head. “That’ll get yer kicked inter the chasm quicker than yer know what’s happened. You wanna do away with someone, yer better do it quietly, behind closed doors. Daggers in the dark, smilin’ in the streets, as they say.”
Araynia blanched. “That sounds like a… charming place,” she said stiffly.
Flint’s grin returned. “Ain’t everywhere?”
“So did you go to…” Ben started awkwardly, then hesitated. “I mean… when you were with the Bladeshifters…?”
Flint snorted. “Ha! Nah. Eltorian never went near the place. That little rat liked hangin’ around small towns, pickin’ on people weaker’n he was. But we met up sometimes with… ehhh… disreputable types. Some of ‘em were pretty-lookin’ con men like our thief. Most of ‘em just thugs. But some of ‘em had stories. Bridgetown was one of ‘em.
“But my point bein’…” Flint dug a cigarette and match tin out of his pocket with one hand, the other holding the reins. At a look from Lady Araynia, however, he shoved the matches back in and stuck the unlit cigarette in the side of his mouth. “My point bein’,” he went on, “that Bridgetown has a silvertine smith.”
Ben’s eyes went wide. “You think he’s going there to melt down our stuff?”
The Freeroamer nodded.
“Including Hawk?”
“Includin’ Hawk.”
“That is not going to happen,” Araynia declared suddenly, her blue gaze surprisingly fierce.
Flint touched the brim of his hat. “Damned right it ain’t, Lady,” he agreed, and turned to focus on the long road ahead. “Yer damned right it ain’t.”
* * *
General Corvus Pine of the Imperial Majestic Army leaned on his map desk, studying it intently.
Pine was a tall, well-toned man in his late thirties, his long, dark brown hair sprinkled with grey and tied back with a blue ribbon, his skin a light shade of brown like most of his fellow Sirinese. His finely-tailored military coat was dyed in contrasting shades of blue, separated by curling, silver embroidery, the front lined with polished buttons. An ornate rapier hung from his hip, and beneath the coat, sleek, intricately-engraved silvertine armour sparkled in the light from the overhead chandelier.
Pine’s brow was furrowed as he contemplated the map, his mind sketching out troop movements and other scenarios. The map did not depict the entirety of Arvanor, but only the two biggest countries – Daroria and Siriaza – with the border a curving dotted line from the Red Ranges north to the Great Southwood.
The General mentally corrected himself. No. The map depicted only one country, now.
The Great Empire of Siriaza.
Just that morning, mere hours ago, he had received news that the Queen of Daroria had ceded sovereignty of her kingdom to Siriaza.
Though dramatic, this had come as no great revelation to Pine. Rumors had been mounting ever since Queen Minoa had fled to the northern island continent of Enopina; the only mystery was why it had taken four years.
In her letter of treaty, she had practically begged the Twin Emperors to deal with the demon-wraith plague, stating that she had not the means to do so, having lost her entire army, and that most of Arvanor was under threat if the wraiths were not stopped.
She had ceded the Middle Isle as well, though this was a formality as the Emperors had already moved to seize control of the island shortly after the Aegis fell, while the Darorian army was in disarray and the Dragons scattered.
The Emperors had accepted the cession, agreeing that the demon-wraiths were indeed an existential threat, especially in light of the strange Black Pyramid which had appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the Empire.
Pine rubbed at his forehead, trying to put this sinister event out of his mind for now, in order to focus on the mundane logistics of getting his army into Daroria to eradicate the wraiths, and exactly how many soldiers and supplies he would need. Nearly the entire Imperial Army was outfitted with silvertine weapons and armour – he was confident that they were prepared. There was already a sizeable force stationed at the border; it would take four weeks to get there himself. Or he could travel by sea with a smaller contingent, landing them on the western coast in the very heart of the plague, but there had been reports of the northern ocean having been contaminated with trigon…
The General’s planning was interrupted by a brief knock on the door, before his second-in-command burst into the room. “Urgent news, Sir!” he declared in his gruff voice, before Pine had a chance to react.
The General sighed heavily. “Again?”
“Aye, Sir!” Lieutenant Driffin was a burly man with biceps almost bigger than his bald head, with feathered Angel wings tattooed on both. His beard engulfed the lower part of his face in a round black bush, making his head appear strangely as though it were upside down, and his light blue eyes held a perpetual look of alarm. Right now, they looked even wilder than usual, which was not a good sign.
Pine waved him to continue, wondering how much drama one day could hold.
“Sergeant Caskin’s squad has been found!” Driffin said.
Pine looked startled. “Caskin? The last squad I sent into The Grey? Are they alive or dead?”
“Alive, Sir!”
“All of them?!”
Driffin nodded.
The General came forward at once. “Goddess’ mercy! What condition are they in? Have they been quarantined? Is there any sign of trigonic infection? Is Caskin able to give a report?”
Driffin answered none of the General’s questions. Instead, he looked anxious, rubbing his shiny, tattooed head. “Ehhhh,” he said. “You might wanna see this for yerself…”
The Gaol of Trystania sprawled like a small, dark fortress atop a high promontory to the south of the city. The barred, semi-circular windows of the cells protruded from sheer rock walls looking out over the vast Sea of Forever. On stormy days the waves smashed almost to the height of the cells, though today the bay below was a beautiful aquamarine, shaded by the cliffs as the sun lowered in the west, and circled by seagulls, who decorated the black stone walls and blue roofs of the Gaol with their own particular white artistry.
In a large cell at one end of the complex, as far away from other prisoners as possible, resided the twelve men and women of Sergeant Caskin’s squad. Sunlight streamed through the windows on the landward side, flooding the room with stripes of amber light and shadow, but leaving no doubt as to what it contained.
General Pine stood like a statue, staring though the salt-rusted bars.
“Open the cell,” he ordered finally, after several minutes of silence had passed, accentuated only by the gentle slap of waves and the scent of seaweed.
Lieutenant Driffin shifted uncomfortably, growling: “Sir, are yer sure yer want to…?”
“Open it!”
Looking unhappy, Driffin signalled to the Gaoler, who produced a key and unlocked the cell door. She opened it with a screech to let the General through.
Despite his order, Pine remained where he was for a long moment more, listening to the cry of a gull.
Then he stepped inside.
Sergeant Caskin and those under his command were indeed alive, or at least, their eyes followed him as he entered, though there was no expression on their faces, no hint of recognition. They studied him like wary animals, but otherwise made no movement from where they sat silently on their straw pallets. They were still dressed in their blue military uniforms, though their silvertine armour and weapons were gone.
They did not appear to be physically injured, and there was no sign of any black infection.
Pine moved a short way into the cell, then crouched, very slowly, looking around at each of them in turn. His gaze came to rest on their officer.
“Caskin?” he said quietly.
The soldier stared back at him, his deep blue eyes unblinking beneath the strands of his dark hair, and said nothing.
Pine studied his expression carefully, but found nothing recognisably Human. It was like meeting the gaze of a cat: watchful, bright, dispassionate and completely inscrutable.
Finally, the General nodded and lowered his head, closing his eyes, a sudden swell of emotion overtaking him. He let it pass, then carefully regained control of his features, and stood. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I… I will inform the Twin Emperors myself,” he said, his voice more shaky than intended. Then he turned abruptly and strode from the cell, not looking back, his blue coat flaring out behind him. There was another loud screech as the door closed, and the key clicked in the lock.
Driffin lingered, scowling at the prisoners, then backed away and followed the General. The Gaoler put her key back on her belt, regarded the prisoners for a long moment, then came after.
Sergeant Caskin and the rest of his squad watched them retreat down the long, dark hallway, listening to the sound of their footsteps dying away.
Each of them sat perfectly still, silent as the ocean rock, as the sunlight faded from their cell. But the deepening shadows could not hide the black-feathered Angel wings, shimmering with raven colours, at each of their backs.