A monster sleeps with shadowed eyes
In place of death, a life survives.
The White Dragon set Ferrian down gently, so that his feet just touched the cobblestones. The great, pale, feathery wings continued to move, blurry and dreamlike, keeping him aloft.
Ferrian looked around himself. He stood on the steeply-sloping main street of Forthwhite that ran directly up the middle of the hill, ending at a cliff with a couple of switchbacks leading to the summit. Surrounding him were white buildings, deathly quiet and still, their shadowed windows like empty eye sockets gazing at him. Beyond the boundaries of the town was nothing but blackness, the rest of the world vanished, as though Forthwhite sat in an otherworldly void.
And creeping over everything – houses, carts, fences, streets, were thick black tendrils of trigon. He could see it all in stark detail, even though there was no apparent source of light.
It was hard to believe that this was the same bustling, bright town that Grisket and Aari had brought him to, all those weeks ago.
He turned his eyes upwards, to the top of the hill, remembering the huge, rambling, whitewashed mansion that had stood there proudly under leafy oaks, the headquarters and home of the Freeroamers.
There was no Guard House any longer. Now, there was a thick, impenetrable darkness. And something moved in it.
Something enormous.
“You’re going to force me to fight that thing,” Ferrian murmured unhappily, his eyes transfixed by the sinister glimpses of writhing scales.
No, the White Dragon responded. It is your choice.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
So that you may see.
Ferrian had already seen much more than he wanted to. He felt as though he had fallen through his Sword into the worst version of reality imaginable.
“So you won’t stop me if I try to leave?
The Dragon did not answer. But Ferrian guessed it.
You won’t stop me from leaving, but you won’t help me, either.
She would take his wings away again. He would be forced to continue the hard way.
He gazed dismally into the darkness. For a moment, he considered refusing again out of sheer stubbornness.
But what would that achieve? Supposing he managed to crawl all the way across the border to Verlista: what would he do then? Spend the rest of his existence in a lonely cold cave in some mountains somewhere… doing what?
Playing with snowflakes.
He closed his eyes.
And then he realised the Dragon’s intentions. She hadn’t brought him here merely out of a sense of righteousness: she was trying to get him to face up to his fears. Trying to stop him from running away.
Something that he had vowed he would no longer do.
He had been foolish, and he felt suddenly ashamed. He had accepted the Winter as part of who he was… perhaps it was time to accept other things, as well…
He looked back up at the monster on the hill. “Do you… do you really think I can defeat it?”
You can.
Three living Dragons believed he could, and the ghost of one. Even Arzath had deemed him capable of using his Sword, had given it to him.
He reached back and slowly withdrew the long, shining weapon. Staring down at his reflection, he turned it over in his hands, looking at the black and white snakes, at the trigonic dagger embedded in the hilt, surrounded by small, glittering diamonds.
It had been Arzath’s Sword; the sorcerer had forged it out of hate and intended it for murder.
But it was Ferrian’s Sword, now. And he could use it for something better. It was his responsibility to.
If only he knew how.
“I…” he shook his head. “I… don’t know how to use my Sword…”
Yes, the Dragon assured him. You do.
Ferrian hesitated uncertainly.
You need only believe that you can.
Ferrian frowned. “As simple as that?”
As simple as that, the Dragon replied softly. And I will be with you.
He looked down at his Sword again.
I have always been with you.
He continued staring at the weapon for a long moment. Then his hand tightened on the hilt.
“Alright,” he whispered. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
She relinquished control of her wings to him. Lifting himself into the air, he flew slowly towards the top of the hill, where dwelt the shadowy black monstrosity that had claimed it for its own.
The white horse trod in a snowy landscape, the sky above her grim and bleak; ahead of her deep darkness.
Upon her back, two sorcerers: the last of their kind.
The mare tossed her head and snorted, coming to a halt.
Requar leaned forward, gently coaxing, but even his persuasive magic could not stir her. He looked ahead at the growing shadow, then glanced over his shoulder at his brother.
“This is as far as Serentyne will take us,” he said.
They dismounted.
“Ferrian is here,” Arzath observed.
“So it seems,” Requar replied, stroking Serentyne’s nose. He noticed that Arzath was staring at him, and shook his head.
Admittedly, he was surprised. He had not anticipated that the boy’s destination was the same as theirs, that he would choose to come here of his own accord. Did he intend to slay a Dragon-wraith by himself?
Such a thing was admirable, but terrifying.
Staring at his hand on Serentyne’s nose, he took a deep breath, regretting what he had to say next. “Arzath.” He hesitated. “This is… as far as you go, as well.”
His brother turned to him, taken aback. “What?”
“It is too dangerous,” he went on. “You have no means of defending yourself. Magic will not protect you from… this.”
Arzath went pale. “I…” he stammered. “You… you cannot go on alone!”
Requar looked him in the eye. “I will not be alone.”
Arzath shook his head, his eyes flaring with familiar anger.
“You will stay here,” Requar told him calmly, handing over the horse’s reins. “With Serentyne.”
Arzath’s fist tightened around the reins. Then he tossed them aside and paced away into the snow.
Requar moved over to him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Arzath,” he said softly. “I will return.”
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His brother stared straight ahead, not looking at him, his jaw and fists clenched. His green eyes glimmered.
Requar lowered his head, sighing quietly.
“You will succeed,” Arzath said finally, though his voice was unsteady. “You have the power to achieve anything.” He swallowed. “You have always been stronger than I. S-stronger than you r-realise…”
They were both silent for awhile, staring at the drifting snow.
“The war between us,” Arzath said unhappily. “I regret it.”
Requar looked at him. “I know.” He lifted a hand again and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Take care.”
He started to turn away, but Arzath’s hand on his arm stopped him. They stared at each other for a moment, then to Requar’s astonishment, Arzath pulled him into an embrace.
His eyes blurred a little as he hugged his brother back. At last, he stepped away, then turned and walked onwards alone, Sword of Healing at his back, across the snow-covered plain towards the waiting darkness.
The town rose up before him, white and empty and dead.
No breath of wind stirred the yellow leaves of the great oak trees clustered about the base of the hill. Nothing stirred. There was no sign of Ferrian.
There was no snow here, either; the Winter was kept at bay by the vast amount of trigon.
It was cold, however; a sickly, slimy kind of chill that crawled across his skin. Dread formed into a hard ball in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. He was familiar with the physical effects induced by the presence of trigon.
Requar invoked a Mind Sweep, mostly out of habit. He didn’t suppose there was anything still living in this town; it would be a miracle if there was, but–
His breath caught in his throat.
There, on his left was a golden, swirling aura. It was tainted with dark stains of sadness and grief and pain… but it was Human, and unmistakably alive.
It was inside a large tavern at the entrance to the town, on the ground floor.
Restoring his normal vision, Requar glanced up at the hill uncertainly.
The Dragon-wraith shifted languorously in its bed of shadow, but didn’t appear to be aware of him yet.
He hesitated. Someone, against all common sense, was still alive in this deathly place. Judging by their aura, they seemed to be injured and unconscious. He could not leave them there.
After all, the wraith wasn’t going anywhere…
He headed off the road towards the tavern, his blue cloak swishing in the unnatural hush.
It was called the Hungry Deer, and there were no lights on inside. Requar eased the door open to pitch blackness.
He listened.
Silence.
Quietly, he stepped inside.
Holding out a hand, he summoned a ball of light. It flared blue-white over his palm, then abruptly went out.
Cursing, he tried again.
This time, he managed to send it most of the way across the room before it fizzled out.
He sighed in dismay. The trigon was interfering with his magic.
But the brief wash of light had revealed the approximate location of several tables. He edged carefully over to one of them and felt for a candle. After several failed attempts, it finally ignited with a snap of his fingers into a real flame.
Taking it up, he looked around the room.
There appeared to be a couple of shadowy figures slumped over in the far corner, beside the bar.
Cautiously, he made his way towards them.
He came to a stop by the table, realising with a sinking heart that he recognised them.
The big man on his right was the Bladeshifter he had met in Meadrun many weeks ago – his wild, bushy hair and thick red beard were unmistakable. Requar had healed him once, having been forced to defend himself and two hunters against the brute’s unnecessary attack.
He was beyond even Requar’s help now, however. A huge tendril of trigon had plunged into his back, shattering a nearby window in the process. More trigon sprawled from his hands across the table, like foul vines.
He had been dead for awhile, his life force gone. There was nothing left to resurrect.
The other man…
Requar sighed, shaking his head in dismay. “Flint,” he whispered.
Setting the candle on the table amidst the bottles, he turned towards the stricken ex-Bladeshifter and crouched down beside him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “What misfortune has brought you here, old friend?” he murmured sadly.
Carefully, he pulled Flint up until he rested against the back of the chair. He did not wake. By the heavy smell of alcohol and evidence scattered around the table, he had seemingly drunk himself into oblivion.
Considering the company he shared, Requar could hardly blame him.
He examined Flint by the light of the candle. There were serious burn wounds to his face, and much of the rest of him judging by the bandages around his hands and other parts of his body, beneath his clothing. Someone had done a fairly good job of looking after him, but he was not in good shape.
He was, however, free of trigon, which was frankly remarkable.
Standing, Requar drew his Sword.
There was a clink of glass behind him.
Requar went still. Very slowly, he looked over his shoulder.
The large man was sitting up from the table. His hands made a sticky sound as he removed one from the tabletop, the other from around his beer glass. Beneath the mass of tangled black hair, he had no face, not even a skull, just a writhing patch of dark greyish mist attempting to form itself into some parody of Human features.
Requar’s stomach gave a lurch. He stepped back, raising his Sword.
And then the candle, inexplicably, went out.
Blackness reigned, and silence.
The smell of candle smoke drifted past his nostrils, cutting through the stench of death.
He found that he was holding his breath. He was alone in the dark with a demon-wraith.
And his magic was unreliable.
He moved away from the table, away from Flint. Keeping his Sword up with his right hand, he shook his left, trying in vain to produce some light.
A sudden icy tickling sensation flooded over him. He threw himself to one side out of pure instinct.
There came an enormous crash where he had just been standing.
A brief white glow flared in his fingers. It lasted only a second, but showed him the demon-wraith extricating a giant battle-axe from the splintered remains of a table. The wraith turned to him and leered.
Then his light went out.
Abandoning attempts at a light, Requar threw his magic hastily into a shield, instead.
The freezing sensation came again. Requar swung his Sword blindly, but missed.
The battle-axe smashed into him from an unexpected angle, sending blue sparks exploding into the darkness.
He stumbled into Flint’s table. Bottles and glass rained down on him, smashing as he fell to the floor. He picked himself up at once and ran, but collided with another table, catching himself from falling on a chair. He spun away just as that table shattered into pieces as well.
He found himself up against a wall, breathing hard, his heart racing. He only needed to make contact with the wraith with his Sword in order to destroy it, but it didn’t seem intent on letting him get close enough.
Unfortunately, the wraith could snatch away his life with just a touch, as well.
And it was draining his magic with alarming effectiveness.
Frustrated, he edged away, keeping his Sword up, pointing into the darkness. He allowed his shield to drop and tried a night-vision spell instead, which used less energy.
But the spell required the presence of some small amount of light to work. And there was none. Even the eerie non-light from outside failed to filter through the windows. The wraith had the tavern wrapped up in shadow like a prison.
The blackness was oppressive, stale and cold and full of a dread that threatened to overwhelm him. The wraith was soundless, apart from its attacks, and could see in the dark. In contrast, his own breathing seemed far too loud, his boots scuffed on the floorboards and he kept bumping into the furniture.
He was stumbling around like a helpless, ungainly fool.
But he could feel the wraith coming…
This time he ducked, hearing the axe swish over his head. He swept out with his Sword, but again, either misjudged or the wraith was abominably fast. He rolled to one side immediately and was almost strangled when the axe slammed his cloak into the floor, pinning it.
Desperately, Requar slashed out behind him and was rewarded by the sound and feel of his Sword shearing through the axe haft. He turned the swing downwards, slicing through his cloak, and freed himself.
He rolled to his feet and spun to face the direction he thought the wraith was.
Something yanked on his Sword, almost pulling him off his feet again. He stumbled, but managed to retain his grip. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to wrench his weapon back, but whatever it was had a firm hold on it.
Now he could see something, however. A thin, silvery mist floated in front of him, ghostly in the darkness.
Requar’s eyes narrowed. He tightened both hands on the hilt. If the wraith has taken hold of my Sword, he thought with a flash of triumph, it has made a fatal mistake.
He summoned his magic and poured it with a fierce rush into the Sword.
Blue light flared down the blade, illuminating his surroundings, revealing the demon-wraith right in front of him. Its left arm was extended, its fingers turned into long, shiny black tendrils of trigon that reached forth and coiled about the blade of his Sword. Silver mist poured off the blade in long, bright streamers where the trigon touched.
The wraith refused to let go, however. Its awful, substanceless face transformed into a furious, soundless scream.
And then, with a mighty heave, it tore the Sword of Healing right out of Requar’s grasp.
He staggered in shock as the Sword flew across the room, its magic fading, hit the opposite wall and clattered uselessly to the floor.
Blackness descended once more.
Requar backed away quickly, finding himself suddenly, horribly, without a weapon. Holding out an arm, he tried to summon his Sword back.
Nothing happened.
Feeling an oncoming rush of cold again, he darted to his left and came up against another wall. He followed it along, sweating, searching the darkness for the wraith, though he could see nothing.
Setting his back to the wall, he held out his arm again, once more attempting to call back his Sword.
He heard it scrape against the floor, but it did not leap into his grasp.
The wraith grabbed his arm.
He fought a spike of panic. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm, ignoring the tentacle slithering around his arm, concentrating on nothing but his Sword. He gathered magic inside him, as much as he could manage, a hot, tight fire.
The tentacle constricted around his arm so that it began to go numb. It crept towards his shoulder...
And then he went deeper, far deeper, calling on something he hadn’t dared to use for a long time.
Anger.
Not just anger, but a cold, dark fury drawn up from the lowest realms of his soul, where he had banished it. The edge of sanity rage, a flicker of that alternative self that had destroyed the SOMS…
“I came here to destroy a Dragon-wraith,” he whispered viciously to the darkness, “to banish trigon from this town, and YOU WILL NOT STOP ME!”
White light burst from his eyes.
The wraith loomed before him, leaking mist into the blackness, its face gaping into a hole of wordless laughter. It lunged for him at the same moment the Sword sprang from the floor…
The wraith’s outstretched fingers dissolved a breath from Requar’s face and the rest of it exploded with blue-white light as the Sword of Healing smashed through its body, flying into the sorcerer’s waiting grasp.
Liquid trigon splattered everywhere.
Requar slumped back against the wall, gulping a breath as though having been submerged. Transferring his Sword to his left hand, he checked his right arm anxiously, but to his relief, the trigon had not pierced him.
The droplets that had landed on his clothing, hair and exposed skin fell away, rolling towards the inky puddle on the floor.
He stepped away from it, moving unsteadily over to the bar at the back of the room, where he sank onto a stool.
The deep shadow that had filled the room lifted; he could now make out the dim grey outlines of furniture and walls and windows. He tested his magic by snapping his fingers. It came freely, his fingers lit by a welcoming white glow.
He took another deep breath of relief and wiped his sleeve across his brow. He waited a few minutes for the trembling to stop.
Then, wearily, he slid off the stool and went to help Flint.