The fate of all, balanced on a blade
Light and dark shall be unmade.
Flint opened his eyes to the warm glow of candlelight, gloom, and silence. Instinctively, he put a hand to his head, wincing, only to find a distinct lack of a roaring hangover. In fact, he felt suspiciously well-rested and clear-headed considering he was slumped in a wooden chair at a beer-stained table in a dark tavern.
Something else had changed, too. Most of the bottles on the table were gone; or rather, they were now on the floor, in glittering pieces. A couple of nearby tables were smashed into piles of kindling. And Grim and the horrible tentacles of trigon were gone.
But Flint was not alone.
Another candle burned at the bar, gleaming on the wall of bottles behind the counter. A shockingly familiar figure sat in the pool of light there, his head resting in his hand, eyes closed.
Flint stared at him, uncomprehending, wondering with a sinking feeling if he had not actually awoken after all.
After a long moment in which nothing happened, Flint cautiously got to his feet.
His chair scraped on the floorboards.
“Greetings, Flint,” the sorcerer said without opening his eyes. “I hope you are well rested.”
Flint froze, a chill going down his spine at the voice. He was real. He was really there.
Flint’s eyes widened. “L-Lord Requar,” he stammered. “What… how did you…” He floundered, unable to think of what to say.
“How did I know you were here?” Requar finished, opening his eyes. He gave Flint a small smile. “I didn’t. I came here to be rid of that awful thing on the hill. You were an… ah… unexpected discovery.”
Flint continued to stare at him in disbelief. He rubbed at his temple, then realised that he was no longer burnt.
He looked down at his hands. The bandages were gone. “You healed me!”
“I did,” Requar replied. “You were in a sorry state.” He gave Flint a worried, yet disapproving look, as though Flint made a habit of almost getting himself killed.
“Family reunion,” Flint muttered, frowning. “Didn’t go too well.”
Requar regarded him for a moment, then took his Sword from the counter and stood up. He looked tired. His fine clothes were dirty and torn. Much of his long hair had come free from its braid and draped tangled about his shoulders.
He walked over to Flint.
“Flint,” he said seriously. “You need to leave. It is not safe here.” He looked towards the door. “I must find Ferrian.”
Flint blinked, startled. “Ferrian’s here as well?”
Requar did not reply. He headed for the door, picking his way over the broken furniture.
“Wait!” Flint grabbed his hat and Justifier from another table beside the wall, and hurried outside after the sorcerer.
Requar paused on the cobbled road at the entrance to the town, turning to face the hill. His Sword gleamed brightly in his hand, a slash of silver on a black and white background. The yellow leaves of the huge oaks around him were still.
“Wait!” Flint said again, jogging up to him. “You gonna tell me what the hell’s goin’ on?!”
Requar gestured up at the vast shadow looming over the town. “The Dragon-wraith must be slain.”
“That ain’t what I mean!” Flint shook his head. “Back at the castle, you…” He swallowed.
“You were…” His words faltered again.
Requar gave him a sympathetic look. “I understand why you left,” he said softly. “You made the right decision. Arzath was turning into a wraith; it was dangerous for you to stay.” He paused. “My brother is fine now. I found the strength to cure him.”
He hesitated, looking back at the eerie dead town, and his brow furrowed. “There is… just one thing that eludes me,” he went on. “In your letter, you mentioned that Arzath… did something to me.” He turned back to Flint. “What did you mean?”
Flint stared back at him, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the weight of everything that had happened. The letter had been meant for Ferrian; he couldn’t have imagined that Requar would ever read it. He found it surreal that the sorcerer was standing here now; alive, and self-aware, and talking to him. And Requar didn’t appear to remember what had befallen him. He had no idea of the days and weeks of misery that Flint, Arzath and Ferrian had suffered in that freezing castle.
Flint didn’t want to tell him. He wished that he could forget it himself. That Requar was ignorant was a blessing.
But the sorcerer was staring at him intently, with those blue eyes that bored right through the back of his skull. He felt exactly the same as he had the day they had first met, when Flint had lied to him about wanting to help his sister.
He could not bring himself to be so dishonest again. But he hardly knew where to begin with the truth.
Taking a deep breath, he carefully set his crossbow down on the ground. Then he took a single bolt from his quiver, and handed it to Requar.
“Your brother,” he replied quietly, “tried to bring you back.” He shook his head and lowered his face beneath his hat, unable to look at Requar. “He… couldn’t. I… did what I had to.”
Requar stared down at the bolt for a long moment, saying nothing, rolling it slowly in his fingers until the name that was etched there faced upwards.
“I was… infected?” he whispered finally.
Flint nodded, feeling wretched.
Requar continued staring at the bolt. Then he let it drop and put a hand to his head. “No,” he said in confusion. “No… this isn’t right…”
“The dagger,” Flint went on unhappily. “You –”
“No!” Requar stepped back from him, shaking his head in denial, though his face had gone deathly pale. “I… I used the Sword on myself!”
“Ferrian used the Sword,” Flint explained miserably. “At least, he tried to…”
Requar staggered away. His head began to make odd, jerky movements as though his own memories were hitting him hard in the face. He swayed, and the Sword of Healing slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the cobblestones.
He fell to his knees along with it.
Flint stepped forward in alarm. “Requar! What… what’s happening?!”
Requar’s breath came in a series of short, sharp gasps. He clutched at the ground with both hands, his eyes wide. “This… this cannot be!” he choked. “Lies! L-lies! N… no!”
All of a sudden he doubled over, grabbing his chest as though in pain. A pitiful, strangled cry left his throat.
Flint didn’t know what to do. He felt helpless and afraid.
“Get… get away from me,” Requar gasped.
Flint hesitated.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The sorcerer’s scream shocked him so that he stumbled backwards. Light flared from Requar’s eyes.
“NnnnnnaaarrgghhAAAARRGHHH!”
Magic exploded out of him, in all directions, in a blinding white cataclysm of light.
His shriek was terrible.
Ferrian lingered at the top of the hill, watching the Dragon-wraith pensively. It slumbered, but was not still; its long, spiked tail slid restlessly about the hill, its huge wings flexed, its massive, eyeless head swung to and fro, jaws gaping. Its body was part mist, part scale, part oil-black skeleton.
But some part of it was still a Dragon and it writhed, tormented by its nightmarish existence.
Ferrian was repulsed and fearful, but he pitied it as well. As terrifying as the Dragons were, they were intelligent creatures and none of them deserved a fate such as this.
No one did.
Yet still, he hesitated. The thing was enormous; his Sword, even with all its power, seemed suddenly, somehow, inadequate.
You must go forth, the White Dragon urged. You must not doubt.
Ferrian gripped his Sword hard. I must not doubt.
He had come this far. There was no sense in backing out now. And he was dead, after all; the wraith could not hurt him.
Quietly, he moved towards the giant black Dragon, his ghostly white wings carrying him just above the ash and burned timber littering the hilltop.
He made it to the wraith’s side; its awful scaly hide hung in rippling, torn sheets off its skeletal frame. Beneath it, in place of flesh and muscle, was nothing but churning, smoky mist.
Taking his Sword in both hands, he drew back to strike…
White light flared suddenly behind him, from somewhere below in the town, illuminating the scorched trees. It was accompanied by a distant, dreadful scream.
The wraith reacted at once, surging to its feet.
Ferrian fell back with a gasp.
The wraith reared up, its head swinging towards the light.
It roared.
It was the most horrifying, ear-piercing, bone-shuddering sound that Ferrian had ever experienced, like a million voices tearing their throats out in anguish. At such close quarters, his entire body trembled with the force of it, and his vision went black.
A moment later he could see again, only to find the Dragon-wraith surging into the air. With a mighty flap of its ragged wings, it soared out over the town.
Hurry! the White Dragon whispered. Without waiting for her host to regain his shattered composure, she picked him up and sped him after the wraith.
Out on the cold, snow-covered plain, Arzath looked up as a brilliant bloom of white burned through the darkness.
His eyes went wide.
Abandoning his brother’s advice, and Serentyne, he broke into a run.
Flint pushed himself up from the ground. For a terrifying, seemingly endless moment, he thought he had been blinded – or was perhaps dead – as he could see nothing but white.
But then it faded, shrinking back into the gloom.
Through the coloured patches swarming across his vision, he saw Requar still crouching on the road, gripping his chest with one hand, in great distress or pain. The area around him in a wide circle was blackened and smoking.
Shaking, Flint crawled towards his Justifier… and then was flattened again by a mighty roar from overhead. Peering out from under his hat, he saw the massive Dragon-wraith circling in the dark sky above them.
Grabbing his crossbow, he wondered desperately whether he ought to shoot Requar or the wraith.
Deciding that neither option would particularly improve his likelihood of surviving, he heaved up his weapon and scrambled over to the wall of the tavern.
Something with white wings flashed overhead and attacked the wraith.
It roared again.
Flint fumbled a bolt out of his quiver and shoved it into his bow. “If I’m gonna die,” he said aloud, cranking the bolt into place, “I’m gonna die shootin’ somethin’!”
Then another figure appeared, racing out of the black wall of shadow from the west.
He was stunned, yet relieved, to see that it was Arzath.
The sorcerer ran straight at his brother, but didn’t make it before Requar exploded again.
Flint waited for the glare to subside and lowered his arm from his face. Then, against his better judgement, he set down the Justifier and ran to help Arzath to his feet.
“Don’t touch me!” Arzath raged as he regained his footing. The sorcerer was slightly singed and dazed, but unhurt. Then he noticed Flint again.
“You!” His eyes widened, and he grabbed Flint by the front of his shirt. “What did you say to him?!”
Flint didn’t have a chance to reply, as the white glow blazed from Requar’s eyes again.
They both ran for cover.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Flint exclaimed when they could see again. There were more bursts of light from the sky, and furious screaming roars from the wraith that shook Flint’s bones and made him want to flee in panic. A fierce battle was taking place.
“A Fatalis.”
“A what?”
“A Fatalis!” Arzath was staring at his hands, which were trembling. “It is… a form of suicide. He is attempting to destroy himself with his own magic! But it is not working. There is too much trigon around; it is sapping his energy…” he trailed off, putting his face in his hands.
Flint stared at him, and looked back at the forlorn figure of Requar kneeling on the road. “He’s tryin’ to kill himself? Again??”
Arzath removed his hands from his face, and they curled into fists. “You hell-damned FOOL!” he cried. “You TOLD HIM!”
Flint glared back at him defensively. “He asked!”
“He ASKED?” Arzath’s eyes burned with anger. “You had best hope Ferrian kills that wraith,” he said viciously, “or we are ALL going to DIE!”
Ferrian’s Sword flashed silver as he struck at the Dragon-wraith, but encountered only mist. His own Dragon flung him sideways, avoiding the pit-black jaws that lunged out of the darkness. Desperately he spun and slashed again, but the wraith was extremely agile, contorting away from his strikes.
It was a difficult thing to fight, as it was only half substantial. Parts of it were bone and hard black scale, parts of it were greasy mist. Now and then, lingering tendrils of ethereal matter passed straight through Ferrian. Were he alive, its touch would have carried his soul right out of him.
But the wraith couldn’t steal a life force that wasn’t there.
That didn’t stop it from trying, however.
Claws raked at him suddenly, and this time the White Dragon was too slow.
He spun backwards to find his chest opened up in a huge gash.
Dammit! he cursed inwardly, clenching his jaw in frustration. He felt no pain, but he couldn’t afford to let himself be ripped to pieces.
The Dragon-wraith dived at him again, equally furious. Ferrian braced himself, but at that moment there was another flash of brilliant white light from below that momentarily blinded him.
The White Dragon twisted him aside, and Ferrian lashed out wildly.
To his surprise, he was rewarded with an echoing scream, and when the light faded he saw the wraith undulating through the air in agitation, liquid trigon leaking from it.
He took a moment to glance downwards, but could see nothing; he was surrounded by darkness. The shadow emanating from the wraith was so thick that even the white buildings were little more than faint grey shapes in the void below.
But something was happening down there.
Clearly, Requar had arrived. Ferrian had no idea what the sorcerer was doing. If he was attempting to attack the wraith, it was having little effect other than to stir the creature into a ravenous frenzy and inconveniently blind Ferrian.
And that terrible scream, earlier…
He had no time to worry about it. The wraith attacked again.
Its rushing jaws snapped closed in the space he had just occupied, and Ferrian managed another blow on the side of its head before it buffeted him with its massive skull, sending him tumbling away awkwardly, luminous white wings spiralling around him, trailing rainbow streamers of light.
His Dragon righted him, turning him to face the wraith again.
Ferrian felt desperation overtaking him. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep himself together; he was locked in a desperate dance with the creature, and wasn’t getting anywhere. It would take a thousand slashes to kill it this way…
Use your magic, Ferrian, the White Dragon urged.
He gritted his teeth, knowing with dismay that she was right. He had been putting off the inevitable.
The wraith glided sinuously in the darkness, huge and vengeful, its great gaping hollow eye staring right through him, a pit to the bottom of eternity. Its razor sharp, obsidian teeth were bared, longing to tear his flesh.
Fighting back a surge of fear, he grasped his Sword in both hands.
Then he called his magic.
It did not come forth in a sudden rush, as was usual, but slowly, sluggishly, as though reluctant to respond. He concentrated harder, and gradually it flowed up inside him, through his hands and into the blade, which shivered and whined in his grasp.
There was no snow or wind to protect him; the Winter was blocked by the wall of trigon surrounding the town.
The Sword shook and began to glow.
He waited, tense, as the Dragon-wraith circled around and surged towards him, jaws wide…
The White Dragon spun him up and away at the last second. With a cry, Ferrian swung his Sword at the wraith’s neck…
Blackness.
But almost immediately, the void fragmented into a familiar mirrored room.
Even knowing what to expect, the sight was overwhelming and Ferrian briefly panicked. But he forced himself to focus, and got a hold of himself.
I can do this, he thought fiercely. He concentrated on remembering that his body still existed. His mind was here, inside the Sword, but his body was still there, outside, in the air, being held aloft by the White Dragon. She would not let him fall. She would not let him fail.
And then his mind seemed to split itself in two. He became aware of himself floating in mid-air, holding his Sword, its blade buried deep in the wraith’s neck. He could hear the shriek of power and feel the icy flow of magic through him, and see the black scales gleaming back at him. But at the same time, he was inside the Sword, detached and alone, with a thousand different versions of the world surrounding him.
A thousand realities, all the same, and yet different…
And suddenly, he understood what he was supposed to do.
He looked at the possibilities, feeling strangely calm, and chose the one he wanted. Then he threw himself into it.
His body moved, in the blink of an eye, from one position to another. And his Sword sliced the air in between, leaving a hole that could not be seen.
The part of the Dragon-wraith within that rent simply vanished.
Ferrian flitted from one reality to another. And another. And another. Every time he did so, small pieces of the wraith disappeared.
It screamed and writhed, but it could not catch him. Ferrian appeared first on one side of it, then on another, faster and faster, criss-crossing the wraith, shredding the space it occupied as he did so, until it became caught in a net of non-existence.
Parts of the wraith became disconnected from the rest of it, and dissolved into liquid trigon.
It shrieked and howled and squirmed in anger and despair.
Finally, there was little left of it save scraps of its body connected by nebulous streamers of swirling mist, and its head. Ferrian brought his Sword down on one side of its neck, then appeared on the other side and did the same.
The space in between simply ceased to exist.
The great skull melted, along with the rest of it, and rained down onto the white buildings below.