Morning bright, friends reunite

But one of them now gone from sight.

Hawk’s stomach awoke before the rest of him did, grumbling in anticipation as the scent of frying eggs crept into his nostrils.

Roused by his mouth watering, Hawk pushed himself up off the sandy floor, wincing at the stiffness in his back and shoulders. He had fallen asleep in his armour again. It was a bad habit that he seemed to have picked up recently; he had taken more care of himself in the army. He took off the beautiful golden breastplate but not without a strange sense of reluctance and discomfort as he did so. It almost felt as though he was peeling off a part of himself.

Still, the armour fit better now than it had when he had stolen it off the Angel guard; he guessed he had lost weight since then. The Winter had made fresh food hard to come by, he thought ruefully. He would be glad to eat something other than that peculiarly awful Angel fare…

Removing his one remaining gauntlet, the events of the previous evening suddenly came back to him in a rush. Scrambling to his feet, he looked around the cave.

It was mostly empty, apart from Grisket Trice cooking breakfast by the fire and the two sorcerers oblivious in their corner of the shelter.

There was no sign of anyone else.

“Outside,” Grisket said without looking at him, nodding at the cave entrance as though reading his thoughts.

“Is he alright?” Hawk asked anxiously as he made his way to the fire.

“See for yourself,” Grisket replied, but he smiled as he scraped the eggs from the pan onto a tin plate and handed it to him. “But eat your breakfast first.”

Hawk took the plate, glancing at the bright opening of the shelter, but worry for his empty stomach took over. He sat down, wolfing the food.

He was most of the way through his meal before realising what else was bothering him.

The sun was shining outside.

He paused with the last portion of egg on his fork, and lowered it, frowning at the entrance. The ice had melted into damp patches inside the cave and a few lumps of snow still lingered in the shadow of the overhang outside. But the trees and grass beyond the road were bright, and the sky was a vivid, unblemished blue.

The Winter was gone.

Grisket shook his head, watching Hawk’s expression change, and sighed. “You might as well know it,” he muttered. “Ferrian’s gone.”

Hawk lowered his plate abruptly. “What?”

“Disappeared some time before dawn,” Grisket went on. “No one saw him leave, though Cairan was on watch at the time. He and Rae have gone looking.”

“What?” Hawk repeated, even more alarmed. “On their own? Without adequate weapons?!”

Grisket shook his head again, grimly. “They insisted. Couldn’t stop ‘em. Cairan feels responsible.”

Hawk set aside the remains of his breakfast and got to his feet, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Why would Ferrian just take off like that?”

Grisket sighed again. “He thinks he’s a hazard, Hawk. He hasn’t yet managed to gain control over his Winter, or his emotions for that matter.”

“Doesn’t he realise that we’re all just trying to help him?!”

The Commander looked at him steadily. “He knows it. That’s what troubles him. And truth be told,” he shook his head unhappily, “there’s not a lot we can do for him. He’s dead, and he doesn’t

trust those two worth a damn,” he nodded over his shoulder at the back of the cave.

Hawk felt helpless and dismayed. They had all come so far, and struggled so hard, for Ferrian’s sake. That the kid had abandoned them was a kick in the guts, for sure. But the Commander was right; they had not been able to protect him from a strange death and none of them, save the sorcerers, knew a thing about magic.

And, Hawk had to admit, he probably would have done the same thing in Ferrian’s place. It couldn’t be easy to be around people you cared about if you were a walking destructive force…

Closing his eyes, Hawk took a deep breath. But he had carried out his mission. He had found Ferrian and escorted him safely back to the Freeroamers. His duty in that regard was technically over. And as much as he wanted to join the Centaurs and search for the kid, he had someone else to worry about, now.

Someone in much greater danger. Someone that he couldn’t bear to lose.

“Commander,” he said. “I request your leave.”

Grisket looked up at him.

Hawk turned back to him. “It’s those black soldiers,” he said. “They’re from the Darorian Army. And that monster you saw in Forthwhite...” he swallowed. “I… think I know what created it. Dreikan was developing special harpoons made of the black metal. He must have launched an attack on the Dragons with them.”

Hawk shook his head dismally. “The General was ignorant. We all were. We’ve known for years that something was weird about that stuff, but no one knew that it was trigon. No one’d even heard of trigon. We all just called it moltmetal…”

He took another breath. “Carmine knows nothing about it, and Captain Sirannor doesn’t know exactly what it’s capable of, either…”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Hawk,” Grisket said calmly. “You have my permission.” He shook his head. “Hell,” he added, “you hardly need to ask for it.”

Hawk was relieved.

“Go and find them,” he told his Sergeant. “And be safe.”

Hawk nodded. Then he walked outside, suddenly longing for the touch of warm sun on his skin. The chill of the cave had gone right through him.

I should never have brought Carmine into this, he thought, distressed. He’d only asked her to assist the Commander because there had been no one else around at the time and he knew she was capable of looking after herself. But if anything happened to her…

“Ardance is saddled and ready to go,” a soft voice said from behind him.

Hawk turned.

Two dark shapes loitered just to the right of the overhang, where the sun had not yet reached. One of them was four-footed, nibbling at the still-frosty grass but eyeing him watchfully. The other leaned against the rock wall with his arms folded, wings curving graceful and pitch black against the stone.

Hawk just stared at Mekka, unable to comprehend how the Angel could be standing there, nonchalantly as though nothing at all had happened, when mere hours earlier he’d been little more than a tragic, huddled ball of frozen flesh and feathers.

The cheek of him! Hawk thought, fuming. How dare he keep on dying… but not quite!

Hawk stormed over towards him. “You!” he demanded, pointing a finger at Mekka. “You’ve got some nerve!”

Mekka stared back at him – with both eyes, darkly amused in his handsome face.

Hawk tried to think of something else to say, but words – and his anger – failed him. Instead, he grabbed the Angel and hugged him.

When he pulled away, Mekka looked uncomfortable. He rubbed his neck. “Hawk…” he said, and his shoulders slumped a little. “I am… sorry.”

Hawk put a hand on his shoulder. “Just glad you’re alright, Mekka. We were afraid you’d… you know… gone to the Tower...”

Mekka closed his eyes. “I… considered it,” he admitted.

“But you’re okay now?”

Mekka opened his eyes, looked at Hawk seriously, and nodded.

Hawk smiled. “How’s your eye? You’ve lost that cool rogue look you had going on.”

Mekka lifted a hand self-consciously to his face. “It… takes a little getting used to,” he replied. He glanced over at the cave entrance. “That Sword is… remarkable.”

Hawk looked in that direction as well. He was fairly sure that Lord Requar was not going to wake for a long while, and he didn’t have time to wait around to be healed. He would just have to deal with his own problem later.

Thankfully, Commander Trice appeared from the shelter at that moment, relieving him of the awkward silence. “You off now?”

Hawk nodded, taking the armour and silvertine sword that Grisket handed to him.

“Carmine,” he explained to Mekka as he re-donned his breastplate and belted his sword back on. “She’s gone to the Isle in search of Sirannor.”

Mekka nodded; apparently, Grisket had already told him.

Hawk didn’t need to ask Mekka what he was planning to do next, then.

The Angel turned to Commander Trice. “Commander,” he said. “Please give my sincerest thanks to Lord Requar. I regret that I cannot thank him in person.” He hesitated. “If there is anything he requires of me…”

Grisket waved a hand. “You owe him your life,” he finished. “And much more besides. Don’t we all.” He smiled. “I will, son.” Then he embraced Mekka as well, and Hawk after. “You two,” he growled as Hawk mounted Ardance, “are not to get yourselves killed. That’s an order.”

“Not planning on it, Commander,” Hawk replied. “And this winged freak here has got about a hundred lives, although I think he’s used ninety-nine of them already.”

Raising a hand in farewell, Hawk set off down the road.

Mekka lingered for a moment. “We will find them, Commander,” he assured Grisket. Then he lifted off from the shade of the overhang and soared into the blue sky, racing ahead of Hawk.

* * *

Under leaden clouds, a lone form drifted. Great, pale wings spread from it, ethereal as mist on the breeze, the feathery tips leaving faintly coloured trails behind it, like the memory of rainbows.

The high, sharp peaks of the Barlakk Mountains passed below: grey stone poking like ancient teeth out of the deep snow.

Be free, Ferrian… The Dragon’s words lingered in his mind, whispering like the icy wind that breathed no life into his pale face or words within ears that were not supposed to hear.

Ferrian was alone, again. Flying high above the world, far from anyone.

Far from his friends and companions, from the sorcerers, from… Requar…

He supposed that Arzath would accuse him of running away again, but Ferrian no longer cared. He wasn’t running from anything, he was going towards something.

He was going where he ought to have gone in the beginning.

When he had sat in the Guard House at Forthwhite on that warm, lazy, anxious day while the Freeroamers debated his fate, he had thought Constable Dogwyn obstinate and rude, determined to see Ferrian as nothing more than a troublesome thing to be carted off as far from civilisation as possible, never to be heard from again.

Now he finally realised the devastating truth: Dogwyn was right.

He was the only one of the Freeroamers with any sense, to have anticipated the terrible things that were to come because of the Winter… and all of the others had ignored him.

Dogwyn had died a horrifying, grisly death because of this.

The Perpetual Peaks.

Verlista.

A forgotten cave in the mountains, with a pile of dusty bones inside.

He was taking the White Dragon back where she belonged.

She wasn’t happy about it.

A high, mournful keening sound accompanied his flight. It was a little like the awful sound his Sword made when he flooded it with magic, but sadder and sweeter.

After awhile, it began to get on his nerves.

“Dragon,” he sighed finally in exasperation. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice echoed in his head as though his skull was an empty cavern: You must go back.

Ferrian scowled. “No.”

The keening sound began again.

Ferrian gritted his teeth.

“We’re not going back!” he told her determinedly. “I don’t want to put my friends in danger any longer! I’m tired of almost killing them!”

The mournful moaning continued.

Ferrian did his best to ignore her. It didn’t matter what the Dragon wanted: she couldn’t control him. It was his body, dead though it was, and she was an intruder, and he would go wherever he damned well pleased!

At the very least, he wanted somewhere to safely practise using the Winter without anyone getting in the way. Surely, she couldn’t be opposed to that?

You must go back…

“I told you–”

His wings disappeared.

One moment, he was soaring effortlessly through the frigid air, the next… he was plummeting like a stone!

The rocky crags below rushed up to meet him.

His moment of terror was brief.

The wings reappeared at the last moment, catching him up in a swoop that sent him straight into a snowdrift.

Ferrian pushed himself up angrily, snow tumbling off him as he stumbled upright. “What the hell did you do that for?!” he shouted into the wind.

There was no response. He stood on a high outcrop, with nothing around him but rock and ice and cloud.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the wings had vanished again. He had forgotten that they belonged to the Dragon – she had given him the power of flight.

And she could take it away just as easily.

“Dragon!”

Silence, save for the rush of wind that buffeted him.

Ferrian’s fists clenched. So now she refused to lend him her wings?

“FINE!” he yelled, furious. He didn’t need to fly, anyway. He could still walk. She couldn’t stop him!

He stomped through the snow to the edge of the cliff, and looked down. Snowflakes swirled down into a bleak, grey void.

He hesitated, then scowled again. No! he thought. I don’t need the Dragon’s help! I’ll find my way off this mountain and make it to Verlista if it takes me a hundred years! I have all the time in the world!

Turning away from the precipice, he started off in another direction, only to encounter a similar scenario.

Looking around, he saw that the outcrop was at the end of a long ridge, disappearing into the haze. If he followed it, he could possibly find a way down.

Alone in the mountains, a silver-black ghost in the snow, Ferrian set out.