The snow is cold, the wind is chill

One shall fall beside the hill.

Brightness stole quietly over the town of Forthwhite. It was not a warm brightness, or welcoming. The sun did not show her face, and clouds brooded overhead, stretching across the plains. It was dim, and cold, and snow blew in on the wind.

But the darkness was gone.

Ferrian drifted to the ground, amid dancing snowflakes. He came to rest lightly on the cobbled road.

In front of him, hunched over in a swath of scorched ground, was Lord Requar. Snowflakes were caught in his long hair, which fell about his lowered face.

He was quietly sobbing.

Ferrian watched him sadly. “Requar?”

Requar lifted his head slowly and looked at him. His face was streaked with tears. He looked away, his expression broken. “Leave me alone.”

The Sword of Healing lay at his side. Ferrian moved over to it and picked it up. He placed it carefully in front of the sorcerer. Then he lowered himself to the ground, dismissing his wings.

Requar stared at him. Ferrian held his gaze.

“I shouldn’t have run away,” Ferrian told him. “I’m sorry.”

Requar put an arm across his face in an attempt to hold back further sobs, but failed.

“I’ve destroyed the Dragon-wraith,” Ferrian went on. “You don’t have to worry about it any more.”

Requar did not reply.

Tentatively, Ferrian reached out and touched Requar’s arm.

“Father?” he whispered.

Requar lowered his arm and looked at him. Then he shook his head.

Ferrian stared at him, stunned. “You’re… you’re not?”

Requar swallowed. “For a time,” he replied softly, his eyes brimming with tears. “For a time.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “You were everything to me. It broke my heart to give you away. But I could not look after you. Not as a sorcerer.”

Ferrian looked away. He had been so sure…

He didn’t know what to say.

Why had he been so mad at Requar? Why had he not thought it through properly? Why did he always assume the worst of everyone?

His breath left his throat wordlessly. He stared at the ground. He no longer had the ability to cry, but an ache began to fill up his chest.

“I meant to come back for you, Ferrian,” Requar said. “I never intended to abandon you. I never wished for you to be alone.”

Ferrian just nodded mutely. After a moment’s silence, he asked: “My… my real parents. Did you know them?”

Requar shook his head. “No. I’m sorry.”

“They died at Ness?”

“Yes.”

Ferrian stared at the snow, at the soft, cold, ordinary Winter mist drifting across the plains. No terrors lurked in it.

Only sadness.

“There’s something I need you to do for me,” he said finally, looking up at Requar. “I’m carrying the soul of a White Dragon inside me. She seems to think that you can help her.”

Requar shook his head despondently. “I haven’t the power to help anyone.”

Ferrian picked up the Sword of Healing and held it out to him. “Yes,” he said. “You do.”

Requar stared at his Sword in despair, but after a long moment, held out his hands and took it.

“You have no life force, Ferrian,” he said quietly. “Your Dragon’s magic is the only thing keeping you alive. If I were to use my Sword on you…” he swallowed. “You will die.”

Ferrian gestured at himself. “Look at me,” he said soberly. “I’m already dead! I’m falling apart! I can’t live or grow or eat or sleep or do anything normal! I’m not ever going to see sunshine again! I can’t be around people.” He shook his head. “This isn’t a life. I don’t want to be like this forever. And…” He sighed. “I’m not afraid to die. But the Dragon is.” He looked up again. “Please. Let her live. She doesn’t want to exist like this either.”

Requar closed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Ferrian had never been more sure of anything. “Yes,” he replied firmly. “I’m sure.”

Requar held the Sword of Healing on his lap for a long moment, head bowed. Snowflakes settled on the gleaming blade. “I am tired,” he whispered finally. “But I will save your Dragon.”

He lifted his head again, and there was such incredible sorrow in his eyes that Ferrian felt guilty. It must have shown in his eyes, because Requar reached out an arm and drew Ferrian against him.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The sorcerer’s sigh was deep and sad. “I cannot promise that it will not hurt,” he whispered.

Ferrian nodded, closed his eyes, and tried to prepare himself.

He felt the Sword go through him, sliding effortlessly through his body. It did not hurt, at first. But then magic began to pour through it, and he felt the pain begin.

The magic was not cold and clear like his own; it was hot. Hot and fierce, like fire. It burned through his flesh and entered his head, and something felt as though it was being wrenched out of him.

The burning sensation increased until it became agonising. His mind felt as though it was being torn out of his skull. His vision went red, behind his tightly squeezed eyelids. He clutched at Requar, struggling to keep from screaming.

Requar held Ferrian as he doubled over the Sword, gasping in pain, as the boy’s hands clawed at his clothing, and as he began to cry out in pain. Requar kept the magic flowing, even though it seemed his own soul was being torn out with it.

His Sword was never meant for this. It was supposed to calm and soothe, to heal, to reassure. To put right what was wrong.

But Ferrian was wrong. He was a half-dead thing that should not exist.

And he was terribly right as well; he could not exist like this.

Through blurred vision, Requar watched a glowing silver stream of magic pour from the end of his Sword, which protruded from Ferrian’s back. The glittering mist swirled, mingling with the falling snow, and began to take form.

It took a long time. Requar had expended a lot of energy already; the fight with the demon-wraith and his futile efforts to extinguish himself had taken their toll. His own mind had fallen apart when Flint had triggered carefully concealed memories; the foundations of his self confidence had crashed into a heap.

His memories had been altered, deliberately. He supposed that Arzath had done it to try and protect him.

Now he was drowning again, and he didn’t have the strength to pull himself out of it. But he did his best to grant Ferrian’s last request. He owed the boy that much.

At some point, Ferrian stopped moving, going limp in his grasp. And some time after that, when the magic finally trickled away, Requar lifted his head wearily to find something magnificent standing before him.

The White Dragon regarded him in all her cool, crystalline-spiked glory, her eyes giant, mournful mirrors reflecting the snow.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

But he spared her only a brief gaze, instead lowering his eyes to the boy he held in his arms. Removing his Sword from Ferrian, he laid the boy gently on the ground. The last remnants of white light faded from Ferrian’s eyes, replaced with dim silver.

He was gone.

The snow stopped falling; the world went quiet and still.

The Dragon lowered her great head to the ground and closed her eyes, and tears leaked over her scaly, pearl-white nose.

Slowly, as though in a dream, Requar picked up his Sword of Healing again, and stared down at the long, perfect blade.

It should not be like this, he thought.

His Sword could not bring someone back from the dead if their life force was lost.

Except… that it could.

He turned back to Ferrian.

But it could only do so once…

He closed his eyes. There was not much of himself left to give.

But perhaps it was enough.

Turning the Sword over in his hands, he lowered it, point downwards, into Ferrian’s ruined chest, into the stone and dirt beneath, pinning him to the ground. He clasped one hand around the handle, the other around the blade, just below the heads of the black and white snakes.

Then he closed his eyes again, and summoned the very last of his magic.

There was only a trickle, but it was all he needed.

He sent it into the Sword… and sent himself with it.

He tightened his hand around the blade, and felt it cut into his skin. For the first time in its creation, the Sword of Healing drew blood. It ran over his hand and down the blade.

He squeezed it tighter.

Burning pain shot through his hand, and along his arm, and in moments his entire body was screaming with it. He felt much as Ferrian must have as his soul was pulled out of his body, borne out of him on a stream of magic.

At some point the agony dwindled, along with his consciousness. Faintly he was aware of hands on him, trying to pull him away, to break his connection with the Sword.

But he would not. He could not.

And then everything just faded away.

* * *

The bar was lively, filled to capacity with patrons enjoying the autumn evening. A Grik served drinks ponderously at the counter, his sapphire-studded shell glittering in the lantern-light, foam slopping over the sides of the tankards as he slapped them down in front of the customers.

Griks mingling with Humans – and not trying to eat them – was an extraordinary sight, but Skywater was not a typical Darorian town. It sat right on the border of the Outlands and the Coastlands, perched proudly on grey cliffs at the southernmost arm of the Barlakk Mountains. It was famous for its unique Grik-run brewery; folks of all races travelled from across Arvanor to try the thick black mead, and usually had to be picked up off the floor afterwards.

Even members of the Watch lounged about, chatting and laughing freely with Outlanders.

There was no prejudice in Skywater; differences were carefully forgotten, borders existed elsewhere. All here were considered friends, and were obliged to become drunk on throat-sticking mead together. Anyone who disagreed or disturbed the peace was dealt with very quickly, and were generally never seen in Skywater again.

One corner of the common room, however, was unnaturally quiet, distanced from the merriment. Commander Trice sat at a table with Middry, Valeran and a few other survivors from Forthwhite. He had just finished relating everything that had happened to him – it took a few hours – and warning them of the rogue black soldiers that were liable to turn up anywhere.

A sombre silence met the end of his tale; the others took sips of their drinks: Grisket had none.

He found himself worrying what had become of Ferrian and the others, but there was little to do now but wait for news.

It came sooner than expected.

A young boy of about ten weaved his way deftly through the crowd towards Grisket’s table. His brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and he wore a red handkerchief around his throat. “Um,” he ventured. “Commander Trice?”

“Aye,” Grisket replied, turning to him.

“Do you know an Angel named Mekka?”

Grisket got to his feet at once, his chair scraping.

The boy waved at him to follow.

He started to do so, but Middry whistled him back. He turned and the barman flipped Grisket his badge.

Grisket touched the point of his hat and went after the boy.

He pinned the badge to his cobalt sleeve as he stepped out into the cool night, and quickly followed the boy through the blue-lantern lit streets. Being high in the mountains, the air in Skywater was never warm, always sharp and crisp, but winter snow had not yet descended. From somewhere in the distance came the steady sound of rushing water.

The boy led him out onto a curved terrace overlooking the lake that Skywater was built on. The thunderous, musical rush of a waterfall rang off the mountain rock as it plunged into the lake from the cliffs opposite. Moonlight rippled on the dark water.

A small group was gathered by the ornate stone balustrade. Grisket paused in surprise, then his heart plummeted and he broke into a run.

“Hawk!” he gasped as he fell to one knee beside the wheelchair in which Hawk sat. The Sergeant’s eyes were blank, unfocused, oblivious to everything about him.

Grisket looked around at the others. Mekka stood behind Hawk’s chair. Beside him was a blonde-haired woman Grisket didn’t know, and on the ground next to her sat Carmine, her back to the railing, arms behind her as though bound there.

Grisket looked up at the Angel, baffled and anxious.

“Commander,” Mekka said quietly, his face grim. “We have a problem.”