Cold the rain at end of day

Chill of friends left far away.

Ferrian made his slow, careful way down the mountainside, traversing boulders and clefts, valleys and ridges. The wind beat at him, snow drifts bogged his steps, and slick ice or scree threatened to send him tumbling into bleak, lonely abysses at every turn. Having no life, sustained by magic, he did not tire or require food or water, and stopped only when it became too dark to see. At first light, he continued relentlessly onwards.

He almost made it down in one piece.

At last, he came within sight of the Valewood Forest below, but a final cliff stopped him short.

It was a difficult one, and high, but he managed to find a route down that he thought was reasonable.

It wasn’t. He found himself stuck in a dead end that was steeper than it looked. He tried to climb back up, but a rock came loose beneath his boot and sent him plummeting fifty feet to the forest floor.

Ferrian pushed himself up, slightly disoriented. Rain pattered gently on the leaf litter around him, the wind and snow left behind on the peaks. He got to his feet, only to find himself crumpling back to the ground.

And then he realised that his leg was broken.

He stared at it for a long moment, uncomprehending. It was twisted at an extremely unnatural angle.

There was no pain, but he had lost the use of the lower part of his left leg.

He pushed himself along the ground until his back came up against a tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. He had to pick up the left one and set it straight. It felt strange and wobbly in his hands, as though he was holding someone else’s limb.

He sat staring numbly into the rain, the full impact of what had happened taking a while to sink in. This injury was far worse than it would have been on a living person, as his body no longer had the ability to heal itself.

His leg was broken… and it was going to stay that way.

Horror crept up on him, slowly, like the mist stealing through the autumn trees.

The Dragon had denied him her wings, and now, as though Lady Fate herself was determined to stop him, he couldn’t walk, either.

He closed his eyes, trying to think, to calm himself. He was sitting in a remote corner of the forest. There were no houses nearby. No one was likely to come along and help him.

Opening his eyes, he brushed water off his face. He couldn’t just sit here forever. He had to do something to help himself.

He looked around. Perhaps he could make a splint of some kind? There were plenty of branches lying about…

He shuffled on his backside until he found a couple within reach, and snapped them to length. He had nothing to use for binding except his clothes, so he withdrew his Sword and carefully slashed the cloth away from his ruined leg, cutting it into black strips.

Then he regarded the leg.

It was horrible to look upon, the skin greyish and blotchy like a… well, like a corpse. Worse, the shattered end of the bone had ripped through the flesh and was poking through.

Grimacing, he took hold of the leg and re-aligned it as best he could. Then he bound the sticks either side of it, tightly.

When he was done, he used the tree to ease himself up, then slowly tested his weight on the leg.

The splint held, but he felt the bones grate against each other and then slip. Something began to tear.

Quickly, he shifted his weight back to his good leg and sighed in despair, thumping his head back against the trunk of the birch. The limb was too fragile. He wasn’t going to be able to walk long distances like this. It might fall off entirely…

I’ll never make it to Verlista, he thought hopelessly. He wasn’t even entirely sure where the town was, only that it was somewhere in southern Siriaza, in the Snowranges – the band of smaller mountains that led into the Perpetual Peaks. Those majestic mountains were so named because they went on forever – or so it was said. At least, no one had ever crossed them and returned to tell about it.

But it was a journey of several hundred miles, at least. Perhaps a thousand. Or more. He had no idea. He had to cross the entire Outlands to get there, and the border of Siriaza, which was well guarded by imperial soldiers.

But that was a problem he would worry about when he got that far. Perhaps by then the Dragon would have stopped sulking and come to her senses…

He gritted his teeth. He refused to ask her for help. He knew she would only give it if he agreed to go back to the sorcerers.

And that was something he was not prepared to do.

He would crawl all the way there if he had to.

I just need to make some crutches, he thought. Then I can manage…

He set about doing just that.

The rain poured down in a straight, glimmering curtain, hammering the dirt road into mud and tiny rivulets. The bright yellow leaves of the trees overhanging the road did little to brighten the gloom, but clung limp and dripping from their branches until finally surrendering to the onslaught.

The road was deserted save for one struggling figure, dressed in tattered grey and black, his legs bare, his pale hair plastered against his undead face, silver eyes bright with determination.

Ferrian’s makeshift crutches kept sticking in the mud, but at least it was preferable to the forest, where they snagged on every bush and bramble. The going was slow, but he had made some progress: he had made it to a road. He concentrated on just moving ahead, one step at a time.

After awhile he came to a crossroad. To the west the road curved back upwards into the mountains, towards Merinriver Break. He definitely didn’t want to go that way.

Instead, he turned to his left and went south.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He wasn’t entirely sure why; south wasn’t the direction he needed to go, either. But east was the road to Meadrun, and he couldn’t face seeing the destruction he had wrought there, much less the people who had suffered from it.

He yanked one of the sticks out of another puddle. He supposed that made him a coward, but what was he supposed to do? Apologise for unintentionally wrecking their town? What good would that do? He couldn’t bring back those who had died, and he was in no condition to help them rebuild. And he looked like something out of a horror story. He didn’t think that would help matters.

Ferrian willed the snow to return. The rain was making him miserable, and bogging him down. A few minutes later, the downpour dwindled off and was replaced with quiet, fluffy snowflakes.

He felt lonely, and desperately missed Hawk’s company. And the Freeroamers. And Mekka. He was relieved that the Angel was going to be all right, but the fact that Ferrian had very nearly killed him – twice – with the Winter had formed a large part of his decision to leave. Aari’s death had shaken him badly, and it could so easily happen again, to any of his friends. The Winter was just too dangerous. He could not be around normal people.

The others would be safer without him. The sorcerers could deal with the Dragons and black soldiers; Requar could heal anything, even trigon. Everyone would be fine as long as they stayed away from Ferrian.

Snowflakes danced in front of him and settled affectionately on his clothing.

And yet, the Winter was cold company.

Ferrian kept as far to the verge as he could without becoming tangled in the undergrowth, hoping to pass unnoticed by travellers. There were not many other people using the road, but unfortunately the ones that did pass slowed upon seeing him, either to closer inspect the strange figure limping along, or perhaps to offer assistance. But on drawing near, all of them sped hastily on their way without stopping.

He supposed they thought he was sick, or carrying some disease, or perhaps even in danger of becoming a wraith. None of those was true, of course, but Ferrian didn’t care. In fact, he was glad. He had no desire to be approached by anyone.

Dusk was falling, however, when a wagon came trundling towards him from the south, its travelling lanterns swinging, their glow bright and hazy through the mist. It had almost drawn level with him when he heard someone urge the driver to pull up.

Ferrian sighed.

There was an elderly lady, bundled in layers of cloaks, riding beside the driver. She peered down at him.

Her eyesight must have been poor in the gloom, because she started tutting and saying things like: “You poor thing,” and “You’ll catch your death out here!” and “Nothing a warm fire and a good bowl of soup won’t fix…”

And then, ignoring her companion’s protestations, she climbed down and started hobbling towards him.

“I’m fine!” Ferrian insisted, but the woman kept coming.

He turned and limped away on his crutches as fast as he could.

But nothing could escape a well-meaning old lady.

“Nonsense,” she was saying, catching up to him in only a few steps. “Nonsense, dear! We’ve warm blankets and food in the wagon. Hendrik! Fetch the blankets! I’m sure we’ve some spare clothes--”

“NO!” Ferrian cried as the old woman took his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. Panicking at the thought of being bundled into a warm wagon and forced to eat food, Ferrian drew his Sword and rounded on the woman.

She let go of him in surprise and stepped back.

“I’m FINE!” he repeated, glaring at her fiercely.

But to his amazement, she seemed undeterred. She started tutting again. “Nonsense, dear,” she kept repeating, “nonsense.” She shuffled forward again. “You’ll catch your death–”

“Please leave me alone!” Ferrian near shouted. “I don’t need your help or anyone else’s! I’m not sick or cold or hungry! I’m not going to catch my death because I’m ALREADY DEAD!”

And to prove it, he turned his Sword in his hand and ran himself through with it.

That brought the woman up short.

Her hand went to her mouth, trembling. “Oh my,” she quavered. “Oh…” she sank into a pile of skirts and furs onto the snowy ground.

The wagon driver leapt down and hurried over to her, staring at Ferrian in horror.

Ferrian glared at him. He pulled his Sword back out and sheathed it, then bent awkwardly to retrieve his improvised crutch, turned his back on them, and limped away.

He didn’t look back, and was relieved when he heard the wagon rattle off to the north, at a somewhat more reckless pace than before.

Darkness and cold and the whispery sound of falling snow enclosed him once more.

He moved onwards, a ghost in the night.

* * *

A cold wind blew off the shrouded peaks, edged with ice. The moon, half full, struggled to escape the heavy cloud bank, yet to the west, a million of its shattered cousins lay scattered across a clear, dark sky.

Below them, not far distant, a gathering of warm orange lights lay spread at the edge of plains and mountains like a giant’s campfire. A dark line ran through the middle of them, where Winter’s cold had left its mark.

Requar watched them from his seat on the grassy rocks. He and Arzath had made camp in the hills above Tulstan, far enough from the town and the road that they would not be bothered by late-night travellers. Arzath had laid protective spells anyway, as usual.

The Freeroamers had gone their own way, on separate missions, leaving the brothers to travel on alone, with Serentyne.

Requar knew where he was going and yet, looking at the town below, he felt lost.

He had always liked the look of distant homes in the night, little sanctuaries of warmth and light in a sea of darkness. The promise of a roaring hearth and hot tea, friendly conversation and books read quietly in comfortable chairs. A home to go back to at the end of a weary day, a door closed against the cold, a soft bed to sink into and dream away the night.

All of those things were lost to him, now.

Requar missed his sunlit study, the books and cabinets lining the walls, the deep blue carpet, the ticking of the clock in the silence. The little birds peering in at him from the balcony railing.

All gone.

His castle lay in ruins, now, demolished by the Dragon, and Arzath’s keep was burnt out. Neither of them had homes to return to any longer, or any place to go where they would be welcomed. Not even so much as a change of clothes. They slept by the side of the road and travelled by day towards an uncertain destiny.

With only each other for company.

It could have been one more…

But that was wishful thinking. He had never expected a meeting with Ferrian to go well, let alone that the boy would want to spend time with him. He hadn’t expected, however, to wake and find out that Ferrian had run off again.

Obviously, Ferrian didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

Requar pulled his cloak around him, the wind tossing his white hair about in long, ghostly streamers. He didn’t feel disappointed.

He felt shattered.

It was as though a piece of his heart had been ripped out and thrown away.

“Brooding will achieve nothing,” Arzath said tersely from behind him.

Requar stared at the lights of the town for a moment longer, then slowly rose and made his way back to the campfire. “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed softly, sitting down, grateful for the warmth. He felt cold all the way through.

Arzath regarded him from the other side of the fire, where he slouched on the ground, the gold on his clothing gleaming brilliantly, filthy and slightly ragged as it was. “You had better not be having doubts,” he warned, tossing a piece of heather into the fire, “or we may as well forget the whole idea. Your Sword will not be effective otherwise.”

“I realise that,” Requar replied quietly, staring at the Sword of Healing lying at his side, sapphires glittering in the light of the fire.

He fell silent, but Arzath continued to stare at him. Finally, his brother sighed in frustration, pushing himself into a sitting position. “That damned boy!” he fumed. “We could have used his help!”

Requar said nothing.

Arzath glared up at the dark mountains, into the wind. “This weather could belong to Ferrian,” he posited. “It is possible that we may have caught up to him by coincidence. If he is on foot…”

“Leave him be.”

Arzath looked at him.

Requar held his gaze. “Ferrian has decided to go his own way. There is nothing to be gained by chasing after him. He will return to us when he is ready.”

Arzath scowled, but did not contradict him.

They were silent for a long time, the fire dwindling between them, the shadows growing deep. Finally, Arzath shifted position, turning to face his brother.

“Requar.”

Requar looked up.

Arzath glanced away for a moment. “I would like to…” he hesitated, as though unsure how to express what he wanted to say. “I would like to help you rebuild your castle.”

Requar stared at him in surprise.

Arzath took a breath. “I wish to… rebuild the School.”

Requar blinked.

“Not as it was,” Arzath added quickly, frowning. “Obviously. But… as it… ought to be.” He gestured at Requar’s Sword. “Magic is capable of achieving great things,” he said. “Of changing the world in ways that neither of us can anticipate. Its secrets and possibilities should not die with us, nor be hidden away in Grath Ardan.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. “I do not wish to see everything that we have struggled for disappear to time.” Opening his eyes, he glared into the fire. “Or be treated with contempt wherever we go, as though sorcery were shameful rather than a mark of respect!”

Requar understood. “And you hope,” he guessed, “that Ferrian will be the first student to create a new legacy.”

Arzath looked up at him and nodded warily, as though afraid that Requar would be furious at the proposition.

He wasn’t. Instead, he smiled. “When he is ready,” he repeated, and nodded. “He will return.”