Town of white now dark as night

To face the horror, one must fight.

Dawn slunk across the plains like a furtive beast, unwilling to show its face. There was no sun, only a leaden sky rolling sullenly over a vast white blanket of snow.

At some point, Ferrian had reached another road leading east, and followed it to the edge of the Arlen Plains. It was the same road he had taken with the Freeroamers when they had set out from the Guard House many, many weeks previously, full of hope and determination, in search of a sorcerer.

It felt like half a lifetime ago.

Ferrian could not have guessed, when he started on this long journey, that the next time he found himself walking this road, he would be dead.

And poor Aari had not made it back at all.

The plains stretched away, flat and unbroken, ahead and to his right, with scattered patches of forest to his left. There was no one to be seen, and no sign that anyone had passed this way. And it was eerily quiet and still; nothing moved save the snow falling and the clouds passing silently overhead.

But there was something vastly more disturbing about this landscape.

To the southwest, a black patch of… something… spread across the horizon. It wasn’t smoke. It didn’t move. It was like a giant stain, blacker than night, despoiling both sky and land.

And it was coming from the direction of Forthwhite.

Normally, the white town could be seen for miles across the plains, glittering in the sunshine, but now…

Now, it was simply gone.

A wave of fear passed through Ferrian at the sight of the blackness. He had no idea what it was, but it looked like something created from trigon.

It was stark and horrible against the whiteness of the Winter.

Nevertheless… he had to go east.

He started forward again, reluctantly.

The huge, hulking forms of hillbeasts dotted the landscape, but they were motionless. Drawing closer to one of them, Ferrian noticed that it was just a shell, ripped open, its insides hollowed out.

The rest of them appeared to be the same.

Then he started noticing more dead animals: cattle, horses, dogs, rabbits, even birds, all scattered about and dead, frozen in the snow.

And to his horror, all of the carcasses were black, as though drowned in crude oil.

Ferrian paused, feeling shaken and nauseated. He looked again at the ghastly shadow to the south.

Something terrible is happening here, he thought fearfully.

It was definitely trigon: he recognised the distinctive, cold, unpleasant prickling sensation in his skin.

He decided to cross these plains as quickly as possible.

Turning back to the road, however, he found a Dragon crouching in front of him.

Shocked, he fell onto his backside in the snow.

How had such a huge creature managed to sneak up on him, out of an empty plain?!

He stared at the Dragon, aghast, but it made no move to attack, simply stared back at him with its great fire-bright eyes.

He thought it might be the same one he had confronted in Fleetfleer. The markings on its face seemed familiar, and there were sword wounds on its body from the Angel guards.

The Dragon watched him, filling the world with its menacing presence, saying nothing.

There was a sound behind Ferrian, and he turned quickly to look over his shoulder.

Another Dragon was there, also staring at him.

Then came movement from overhead, and a third Dragon swooped down and alighted to Ferrian’s right. This one was greatly battle-scarred, with a large burn wound to its face. One eye was half-swollen shut and charred patches marred its scaly hide. Its massive wings were even more tattered than those of its brethren.

They surrounded him.

What do they want with me? Ferrian thought, confused and alarmed. The White Dragon already told them to back off!

He remained very still, but was prepared to grab his Sword if any of them made a move.

Dragon, he pleaded silently. I know you’re angry, but please don’t let them eat me…

The Dragons merely watched, however, looming over him like scaly, deadly, charred-flesh smelling hills.

The first Dragon rumbled deep in its throat, a sound that Ferrian could feel through his bones. He started to move his arm towards his Sword, but then the other Dragons responded, turning their heads towards each other. They appeared to be communicating in some fashion.

The first Dragon turned back to Ferrian after a time, snorting a cloud of smoke from its nostrils. Then it opened its fearsome jaws.

And spoke.

“We are the last three,” it said in its deep, resonant voice. “This is all that remains of our once mighty race.”

“We escaped our prison,” the Dragon behind him said, “to find not the freedom we have craved for centuries, nor vengeance at last: but death.”

Ferrian said nothing, not daring to speak until he knew what they wanted.

The eyes of the first Dragon narrowed. “One of us has been devoured,” it went on. “Corrupted by a foul waste of misery and hatred that seeks to consume all life in its madness.”

It snorted smoke and rumbled again. “This thing you know as trigon.”

Ferrian glanced at the black shadow to the south. The Dragon to his right shifted aside so that he could behold it.

“That’s…” he stammered, “t-that’s a Dragon? A wraith?”

The Dragon with the burned face turned to regard him. “Indeed,” it replied.

“It will destroy everything,” the Dragon behind him growled. “It will grow in power until every life force within its grasp has joined it in everlasting death.”

Ferrian stared at the black stain, wide-eyed.

“We cannot approach it,” the first Dragon explained, baring its formidable teeth in anger. “We cannot stop it. This black wraith is an enemy beyond our means to fight.”

“And the means of all other races,” the burned Dragon added ominously.

Ferrian tore his eyes away from the distant wraith with an effort. “I… I don’t see what it has to do with…”

But he realised then that he did.

He shook his head quickly. “No,” he said vehemently. “No way.”

“You are dead,” the first Dragon pointed out, staring at him intently with its huge eyes. “And you possess a weapon that is capable of banishing this abomination.”

Ferrian kept shaking his head. “I’m… not a sorcerer…”

But the words trailed off, sounding weak, even to him.

And he knew they weren’t true.

The Dragons knew it, too. They laughed; all three of them, at once.

Ferrian cringed. He couldn’t help himself. The laughter of Dragons boomed around him and through him, crushing him like the mockery of Gods.

Ferrian, the White Dragon’s voice whispered in his mind, a gentle, soothing sound amid the overwhelming noise. Listen…

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Ferrian didn’t want to listen. He wanted to get up and run away as fast as he could, prevented from doing so only by the fact that his leg was broken.

Instead, he gathered up his crutches and pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. “Why are you asking me to do this?” he said furiously. “There’s a real sorcerer out there who could kill that thing! Lord Requar has a Sword of Healing that can destroy trigon!”

The first Dragon regarded him, amused. “He comes.”

Ferrian hesitated. “What?” he looked around at the Dragons. “Requar is on his way here?”

The Dragons stared at him. “Yes,” the first Dragon replied.

“How… how far away is he?”

“Closer,” the burned Dragon answered, “than you think.”

Ferrian scowled and looked away from them. “Then you don’t need me!”

The first Dragon lowered its great head, peering at him. “You would abandon the world to darkness?” it asked curiously.

Ferrian stared at the snowy ground, frowning. Who do they think I am, he thought bitterly. A hero?

He was a stupid, dead kid who had abandoned his friends and caused people to die. He was cursed with magic he barely understood and couldn’t entirely control. And his Sword was arguably more dangerous than the thing he was supposed to slay with it.

When he looked up again, his silver eyes were cold and hard as they met the Dragon’s fierce orange gaze. He held it for a long moment, as gloom surrounded them and death gripped sky and land across the plains.

Then, tightening his hands on his crude crutches, he started forward, heading east.

The Dragon was directly in his path, but he no longer cared.

It made no effort to move, but it didn’t need to. In an instant, Ferrian was yanked into the air.

He thought it was over. For half a terrifying, relieved second, he thought his dead life was at an end.

And then he saw that the Dragons were below him; all three of them, looking up.

He blinked, disoriented, and then gasped.

His wings were back. The White Dragon had borne him aloft.

But not to save him.

Against his will, the wings sped him towards the black terror consuming Forthwhite.

* * *

Mekka circled the ruined war camp. It sprawled as a large, burned scar from the red cliffs beneath him, all the way to the docks reaching out into a clear, blue bay. He had been drifting over the camp for a long time, but had seen no sign of life.

There was much death, however.

The most prominent corpse was that of a Dragon, which had crash-landed almost directly into the middle of the camp. There were other bodies, too, blackened lumps scattered about the scorched ground amid the wreckage.

Many of them.

Mekka carefully kept his fear in check. The bodies were charred beyond recognition: any one of them could have been Carmine or Sirannor. But he wasn’t yet willing to come to that conclusion.

Not yet.

Something was wrong, however – something that the Angel couldn’t quite put his finger on. He had first assumed that the Dragon had attacked the camp and the soldiers had slain it, but something about the way the beast had been slaughtered didn’t add up. Its massive jaw was completely cleaved in two: only a trigonic or silvertine weapon could have achieved such a thing.

This in itself was not a surprise; he had learned from Hawk that an entire company of the army had been issued with the vile black swords. But the injury didn’t seem consistent with a retaliatory attack, and the bodies lay about randomly, as though killed fleeing in panic, with no evidence of formation or a concerted assault.

What happened here? Mekka thought, frowning.

His gaze swept once more across the surrounding hills, but there was nothing to be seen. Barren, rusty-red rock rose in steeply sloping peaks into the distance. A thin haze of smoke wafted from a nearby volcano.

Vibrant blue sky curved overhead, all trace of the Aegis gone.

Mekka descended in a slow arc to the ground, his shadow a dark doppelgänger swooping to meet him. He landed quietly, his wings stirring the dust.

A piece of burned canvas rustled gently in the sea breeze.

Nothing else moved in the ruins.

Charred support posts rose around him, like the remains of a razed forest. Mekka started forward, watchfully, into the open area that formed the centre of the camp.

A few of the bodies were clad in trigonic armour, gleaming sickly in the sunlight, unmarred by the fire. One or two black weapons lay about, as well.

Mekka accidentally caught his reflection in one of them.

And found that he couldn’t look away.

A cold darkness gripped him as he stared at himself in the polished surface of the sword, at the wind playing through his hair and feathers, at his eyes…

His left eye was a black hole in his head. Something dark trickled from it, down his cheek…

With a gasp, Mekka wrenched himself away, putting his hands to his face.

But no blood, or anything else, came off on his gloved fingers. He touched his eyes, and found that they were both still there, still whole.

Requar had repaired his ruined eye, restored his sight. The Sword of Healing had put his thoughts in order as well, had banished the despair that had plagued him for so many years. But Mekka could feel it beginning to return, trying to claim a hold of him again…

He staggered away from the sword, dropping into a crouch, placing one hand on the ground to steady himself. He was shaking and sweating. Memories of the trigonic dagger flashed brutally through his mind: The Seraph. The Governor. Tek’Hari.

The Pit. The madness.

Swallowing against a sudden wave of nausea, he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, gaining control of himself. The memories were bad, and they would always be there. They were a part of him, now. But he would not let the trigon abuse them again. He refused to listen to the dark thoughts creeping up on him…

A small sound caused him to open his eyes. A soft scuff, as of someone trying to be quiet.

He whirled, spike shinging from its sheath, in time to parry a blow from a black blade.

He spun away, blocked another swing, then leapt back.

And reeled in shock.

A woman stood in front of him; a woman he barely recognised. Her hair hung dark and lank, tangled and filthy. Her face was so caked in layers of reddish dirt or blood – it was impossible to tell which – that the colour of her skin was unidentifiable. She wore a long, oversized greatcoat with orange chevrons on the folded-over sleeves. It was open at the front, revealing black armour gleaming horribly underneath. Her hands and legs were clad in it as well, and she held a black sword two-handed in front of her.

But her grey eyes, however strange they looked, were unmistakable.

“Carmine?!” Mekka gasped.

“This is my island,” she whispered, her eyes wide and filled with madness. “This island is MINE!” She screamed the last word, and attacked him again.

Her blows were swift and strong. She had become much better than the last time he had sparred with her.

But Mekka had fought a Seraph – and won.

Carmine was not a challenge.

He allowed her to press him, however; let her think she had the advantage. But when the moment was right, he rolled under her swing, sweeping her legs out from under her.

She crashed onto her back on the ground.

Mekka moved quickly, flicking her sword away with his spike and throwing himself on top of her, pinning her arms to the dirt. “Carmine!” he said. “Do you recognise me?”

She screamed again, struggling wildly, trying desperately to throw him off.

“Carmine!” he repeated fiercely. “Do you recognise me?”

She did not reply, just continued to thrash about, shrieking and squealing in panic, like a trapped animal. He held her down until at last she wore herself out and lay still, panting heavily.

He stared at her for a long moment. “Do you… recognise me?” he said again, softly and sadly.

She did not reply at once, but then finally, to his great relief, she nodded her head. “Yes,” she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. “M-Mekka...”

The tears overflowed, spilling down her filthy cheeks.

Mekka’s throat tightened. He took a chance and released her arms, very slowly.

She did not attempt to struggle or attack him. He stood up, removing his weight from her, and crouched instead by her side.

She continued to lay there limply, tears running down her face.

Slipping an arm under her shoulders, he eased her up into a sitting position. She did not resist or speak, just sat slumped over, head bowed, like a broken doll.

He hesitated for a moment, but it didn’t appear to be a bluff. Reaching out, he took her chin in his hand and lifted her head, and brushed her hair gently out of her face. “Redfeathers,” he whispered. “What has happened to you, hmm?”

She wouldn’t look at him. “My father,” she said raggedly, “is dead.”

Mekka felt his heart plummet. Oh, Gods.

“Dreikan… killed him.”

“The General?” Mekka glanced around at the ruins, suddenly alarmed.

“He’s dead,” Carmine went on. Her lip quivered. “I killed him.”

Mekka looked at her in surprise. She killed the General?

He took a deep breath, and swallowed. “Carmine,” he told her. “You will need to take off that black armour. It is made of trigon and is affecting your ability to reason.” He took her cheek in his hand. “You are safe now. There is no need to–”

The backhanded blow caught him completely by surprise, sending him sprawling.

She lunged past him and grabbed her sword. He recovered in time to catch her arm as she swung it down at him.

Her eyes were full of rage again, swimming on the edge of insanity. “No!” she cried. “NO!”

He grabbed the hilt with his free hand and twisted it out of her grip. A cold, prickly sensation rushed through his fingers as he did so. Gritting his teeth, he flung the blade away and pushed himself upwards, twisting Carmine’s arm behind her back in one swift movement and shoving her face downwards into the dirt.

“Take it off,” he ordered.

“No!” She began to fight him again. “I can’t!”

“You can.”

“LET GO OF ME!” she shrieked.

“Take it off!”

“I CAN’T!”

He yanked her up and spun her to face him, gripping her arms. “You will take it off NOW,” he demanded furiously, “or I will do it for you!”

She glared at him with all the fury of a storm, breathing heavily through her nose. Then her eyes filled with tears again. “I...” she choked. “I… can’t…”

She began to sob.

Mekka stared at her, and a dark, sickening feeling began rising in his gut again. His eyes widened.

Releasing her arms, he hurriedly pulled off her coat and began to inspect the black armour. It was very close fitting, the plates seamless. His heart pounding in his chest, he ran his fingers over her shoulders, arms, sides and back, ignoring the unpleasant shiver that passed through him at the touch of trigon.

There were no clasps or buckles. No gap where one piece fitted into another. It pressed right up against her skin, which had gone dark, like a bruise, where the trigon touched.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no...”

She was telling the truth. She could not remove the armour. It had sealed itself onto her body.

He was speechless with horror.

“I...” He placed his hands on her shoulders, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. His own eyes filled with tears. “I will… find a way to… get this off you...” He looked away, lowering his head and closing his eyes.

How could this have happened? he thought, devastated. Hawk or I should have been here for her, should have kept her safe.

He knew that there was no possible way of knowing that this would happen, but he couldn’t help feeling responsible…

Something brushed his cheek and he flinched. Opening his eyes, he saw that Carmine was touching his face, her eyes wide.

He hadn’t noticed that he’d been crying until he felt the wetness on his face. He felt embarrassed, but he realised a moment later that this wasn’t what she was staring at.

His eye.

Of course.

His eye. Lord Requar had healed it, with his Sword that could cure anything, including trigon.

His breath caught in his throat. Is it possible…?

Reaching up, he took her hand in his own, and met her gaze. “There is hope,” he whispered.

They stared at each other for a long, intense moment, as ash blew softly around them, and waves slapped against the pier in the distance. The flash of wonder in Carmine’s eyes faded, replaced with a sad, haunted bleakness that made Mekka’s chest ache, because he recognised it.

She didn’t believe him, even when faced with a miracle. Her father’s death, everything she had experienced here had crushed her so badly that hope no longer held any meaning.

So it had been for him, once. And he had come back.

He squeezed her hand, wanting nothing more in the world than to take her pain and sorrow away. But he had nothing with which to convince her but his gaze alone.

He loved her madly; his heart raced with it. But that was another pit that he wasn’t willing to fall into.

Swallowing, he sighed brokenly. What could have been…

Picking up her coat, he settled it back onto her. Then he gathered her against him, resting his cheek on her hair. She buried her face in his shoulder.

When Hawk arrives, he thought, we will leave this island of horror behind.