In cell of white there lives the night
In fury, dark consumes the light.
The room was dark. Only the dimmest glow of starshine ventured reluctantly through the horizontal, barred opening that served as the only window to the outside world, and even then it was smothered by the ragged clouds moving restlessly across the night sky. The breeze had gathered itself into a strong wind as it raced across the plains, buffeting the Guard House compound with waves of dust from every direction, as though seeking a way through the strong white walls, as though searching for something…
Deep within the shadows of the cell, an even darker figure paced in agitation, from wall to wall, like a caged animal stirred by the sound of the wind and shifting shades of gloom. She was far beyond sleep: her thoughts roiled in turmoil.
Mekka had not come to see her this week.
The black-winged Angel had never failed to visit her; not once in the entire four years of her imprisonment. Once a week, every week, he had come – as regular as the sun rising and darkness falling. There was no apparent reason for his visits – he rarely spoke to her; mostly just standing there outside the bars or sitting on a stool in the corner, watching her.
She hadn’t bothered speaking to him either, instead staring back with equal intensity. It had become a kind of game: who would lose their composure first, break the unbearable silence between them in irritation, anger, boredom or fear?
Carmine’s black-gauntleted hands clenched and unclenched as she strode, her long coat sweeping the room. But now, he had broken the rules of the game.
He had caused her to crack.
She had felt the moment when she had finally snapped, when the fragile bridge between her rational, calm self and the growing monstrosity inside her had failed. Rage had flooded into her with the force of a dam breaking, sweeping away the last vestiges of the person she had been, the woman who had fought futilely against the blackness that wore her, and was consuming her.
She gave in to it. The trigon had seized her body: now it had her mind.
Completely.
Anger and despair coiled off her like dark mist, surging through her in waves of burning hot and icy cold, throwing her emotions into wild disarray.
How DARE Mekka abandon her, leave her alone in this dark, stinking hole? How dare he take away the only thing she looked forward to amongst the endless, dreary, tortured days, the hours spent suffocating inside these white walls?!
Her grey eyes burned in the darkness. Had he given up on her? Decided that she wasn’t worth the effort any longer? Without him, no one else would bother to come and see her. The Freeroamer guards had stopped bringing her trays of food a long time ago; she never touched them. She would be forgotten about, left down here to rot and die, to turn into a wraith…
Tears streamed down her face, though her jaws were clenched in fury. Whirling suddenly, she backhanded everything off the dresser beside her. Then she stormed across the room and tore all of the books out of the bookcase, ripping their pages into pieces. She threw the covers off her bed and kicked at the furniture, destroying everything she could lay her hands on. When she had thoroughly trashed her room, she screamed, her fury still not sated.
In her madness, she spun and slammed her fist into the solid stone wall.
Pain exploded through her arm.
Reeling, she clutched at her arm, momentarily breathless. But the pain only seemed to fuel her fury, not douse it.
With another scream, she smashed her hand into the wall once more.
Something cracked. More pain, ripping through her arm and body, sending a throbbing red mist over her vision. She thought her fingers might be broken, but wasn’t sure. The trigonic gauntlets were indestructible, but the bones of her hand within them were not. If there were bones there still. She no longer knew where the trigon ended and her flesh and blood began.
If there was any difference…
Sobbing with agony, she leaned on the wall, resting her temple on the cold stone, her fury momentarily subsided to a quiver in her gut. And that was when she noticed something.
A momentary glow of starlight revealed it; faint, almost indistinguishable on the pale stone.
It was a jagged line.
A slender fissure that hadn’t been there before.
Reaching out, she touched it gingerly with trembling, injured fingers, her hand like a sleek black spider on the wall.
The snapping sound had not been her bones.
It was the stone!
Pushing herself away from the wall, she stood staring at the spot for a long moment, listening to the wind moan expectantly through the watchtowers outside. The starlight disappeared again, plunging the cell into deepest darkness.
Carmine lifted her aching hand, balled it into a fist once more, and punched the wall. This time, she ignored the wave of agony, and punched it again. Something broke free and rattled onto the floor.
She punched it again.
And again.
And again.
The Guard House hunkered quietly beneath the gusting night wind. Whirlwinds of dust danced gleefully across the training ground; horses in their stable stirred uneasily, ears pricked; guards clad in black and blue remained alert on the watchtowers, patrolling the walls with small crossbows. The main gates, made of thick, hardened oak reinforced with iron, were firmly closed and locked with heavy bolts, torches either side flickering wildly.
Gone was the rickety, ancient mansion that had once served as the headquarters of the Outland law enforcement group known as the Freeroamers. It had burnt to the ground, along with most of the hilltop, four years ago when first a Dragon, then something far worse than a Dragon had laid claim to the town, and briefly made Forthwhite its despicable lair.
The summit of the hill had been cleared of the ruins and all vegetation, and a proper, fortified structure built in its place. The main house had been reconstructed similarly to the old mansion, with wide verandahs and a belltower, and the prison cells in the cellar; though it was far more sturdy, and joined by a large barracks wing to the east and stables to the west. The whole complex was surrounded by a twenty foot high white stone wall topped with iron spikes, with a watchtower at each corner. Two huge harpoon guns sat on the walls in the event of an attack by Dragons, though they had never been used.
The huge winged creatures had all but vanished after escaping their thousand-year imprisonment on the Middle Isle. One had resettled in Ashen Cove, causing a great deal of chaos and trading difficulties with Sel Varence, but the others had not been seen since.
The Freeroamers’ old adversaries the Bladeshifters had also not made a reappearance, seemingly disbanded after their leader was slain.
All in all, a strange sort of peace had settled over the Outlands; but it was an uneasy peace, shadowed with dread.
Terrible things stalked the land on the other side of the Barlakk Mountains, wraiths that no ordinary weapons could strike down, creatures that could snatch a person’s soul away with a mere touch.
But the Freeroamers were prepared for those, too: the bolts set in each of the guards’ weapons gleamed with unusual brightness in the dark.
Silvertine. The Angelic substance had cost the Freeroamers dearly to acquire, but it had been necessary: the safety of their town and the nature of the prisoner they held depended on it.
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The alarm bell, when it finally rang, was seized by the wind and the sound scattered in all directions, so that it was not immediately heard by all in the compound. The first couple of tolls went unheard, until a guard on the walls paused and looked up.
Seeing the great bell swinging in its tower, hearing its ominous boom roll over her, she leaped down the stairs and raced across the courtyard. She was met by a second guard, and after a hasty exchange of words, the first watchwoman sprinted for the main house.
Behind her, the warning was taken up by her fellow Freeroamers.
Commander Cairan woke instinctively before the sound of the alarm bell or the urgent knocking on his chamber door reached him. In the space of a double heartbeat he was on his feet, snatching up a huge longbow and quiver from beside his mattress. His partner Raemint rose almost in the same instant, throwing on a sleeveless shirt in the dark and grabbing her spear, right on his heels as he burst out into the shadowed corridor.
The young guardswoman was breathless. “The prisoner,” she gasped.
Cairan needed no further information. They only had one prisoner. Without a word, he galloped down the hallway, Raemint close behind him, their hooves clattering loudly on the dusty wooden floorboards. Charging around a corner and through the entrance lobby and main doors, they leapt the stairs down to the courtyard in a single bound, coming to a halt in the middle of the yard in a cloud of dust.
Freeroamers ran about every which way, torches and lanterns blazing in every corner, shadows and shouts scattered frantically around the yard, the bell still tolling above the wind.
A Constable ran over to the two Centaurs. “Carmine has escaped, Sir!”
“How?” Cairan demanded.
“Right through the wall of her cell, Sir!”
Cairan stared at him in disbelief. “The wall? It is three feet of solid stone!”
The Constable shook his head. “Not any more, Sir!”
Cairan cursed in his native tongue.
An older Freeroamer Sergeant rushed up to them. “We’ve found two dead, Sir,” he reported grimly.
“Who?”
“Kitt the gaoler, and old Granchy by the gatehouse.”
“Open the gates!” Cairan ordered. He shook his head, the long braids of his hair tussled by the wind. “She will not be here still. If she wished us dead, she could have slain us all as we slept. She has gone over the wall!”
He grabbed the Sergeant as the man turned away. “Assemble the crossbow team,” he added. “You know what to do. You have trained for this. And fetch–” he paused. “Never mind.”
“… the bloody hell is goin’ on?! Wakin’ everyone up in the middle o’ the night!”
A stocky figure, clearly in a grumpy mood, approached from across the courtyard, attempting to hold a large floppy hat on his head. He stopped as he caught sight of Cairan’s dark expression, bare, muscular, black-skinned chest and the great longbow gripped in his hand.
The blood seemed to drain out of the man’s face. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered.
Cairan placed a hand on Flint’s shoulder. “I hoped it would not come to this,” he sighed unhappily.
Flint did not reply, just stood watching as the gates opened. Cairan turned to Raemint and exchanged a brief nod. Taking a torch from the Constable, she gripped her spear firmly and charged out into the night, quickly disappearing into the clouds of dust.
Six Freeroamers, cloaked, hooded and armed with small crossbows followed on foot at a more wary pace, their weapons raised, until they too were obscured in the darkness.
Wordlessly, Starshadow Flint unhitched his own weapon from his back, hefting it around in a great, gleaming sweep in front of him.
It was a crossbow, but unlike any other. It was massive: more like a small ballista.
And it was made completely of silvertine, shining in the starlight like a glorious siege weapon of the Gods.
With a sigh of regret, Flint pulled his hat firmly down on his head, took up the Eliminator, and started after the others.
The coins clinked as they were stacked into neat little piles; triangular jade javens, silver trevens, and round golden grubles. They glittered in the candlelight.
Valeran, the innkeeper of the Hungry Deer Inn, pursed his lips as he finished counting them. It was a pity there were no royals, but there was certainly enough money here to start up a new business somewhere else.
Anywhere but Forthwhite.
He found himself wishing ruefully that he had moved to settle in Skywater, along with his old friend, the former Commander of the Freeroamers, Grisket Trice, and his ex-competitor Middry. He supposed it would be difficult to compete with the Grik brewery, but perhaps he could try his hand at a different profession. Fishing, maybe. Anything, frankly.
With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak loudly in protest under his considerable weight. Outside the kitchen windows, the wind howled eerily, like a lost animal, and trees thrashed blossom-heavy branches against the diamond-shaped panes, plastering petals to the glass. Inside the inn, however, was emptiness, stillness and silence.
And him.
Nothing moved save a few flickering lanterns in the common room and kitchen. They were all gone. His customers, friends, workers, and guests. And thankfully, that abomination they’d been hiding upstairs.
But it was too late. Forthwhite was abandoned, the community broken, trust in the Freeroamers shattered. They were keeping something up at the Guard House, too, most likely another monster. Valeran had no idea why. Look at what it had cost them! The whole town had left!
He scowled down at the money on the table. Everine had paid him well to keep his mouth shut, and he had, dutifully. But enough was enough. There was no point staying in this godsforsaken town any longer.
He rubbed at this tired eyes, glancing blearily at the piece of paper sitting on the table beside the empty money pouch. Everine, her brother, the Angel, and that horrific freak they were protecting had all up and left without warning. Valeran had returned from visiting his elderly mother in a hamlet to the south, to find his inn completely deserted, the doors unlocked even! And one of the upstairs rooms slashed to pieces, as though a fight had taken place in there! Everine had been vague about their reasons for leaving, saying only that they had gone to seek the help of Ferrian in the Sorcerer’s Valley to the north.
Good, Valeran thought bitterly, grabbing a bunch of coins and stuffing them back in the sack. Let that blasted silver-eyed boy be burdened with wraiths and horrors and whatnot!
He was still chagrined that Grisket had lied to him all those years ago; assuring him the kid was not a sorcerer when in fact, he was; or at least, he certainly was now. There were rumours that the Winter kid was rebuilding the School of Magical Studies in the mountains. Valeran found the idea preposterous. He despised magic: it had been outlawed for good reason! He would gladly move somewhere as far away as possible – even wet, swampy Enopina a thousand miles across the ocean – if sorcerers started wandering the land again…
A couple of coins escaped his grasp, bouncing onto the floor with a clatter. Muttering irritably, the portly innkeeper pushed himself away from the kitchen table and got down on his knees, reaching under the table to fetch the runaway money.
And that was when he saw the legs.
They were clad in black armour of a sort he had never seen before; sleek and evil-looking. The orange-trimmed hem of a long coat brushed the ankles.
Valeran froze. For a couple of seconds, he seriously considered staying where he was, holding his breath, hoping that the intruder hadn’t seen him. But a moment later, he realised how unlikely that was, and how vulnerable he was if they decided to attack him.
Perhaps they will just take the money and go? he thought desperately, breaking out into a sweat.
Very slowly, heart pounding, he crept out from under the table and rose to his feet.
Standing before him, at the end of the table was a woman. Red hair, bright as blood, fell about her shoulders, framing a pale face that would have been beautiful save for the deathly pallor and steel grey eyes pinning him in place. She was clad in armour so black it stood out from everything else in the room, drawing his eyes to it. Light reflected off it here and there in odd ways that were inconsistent with the candle’s warm, dancing flame. Over the armour, she wore a long beige and orange army coat that was slightly too big for her.
But most horrifying of all was the place where the armour met her neck; the black metal did not stop there but travelled seamlessly up her throat, tapering into dark veins that climbed the sides of her face.
Valeran could do nothing but stare. He did not dare to move, to breathe, or even blink.
“Where are they?” she asked quietly. Her voice sounded relatively normal, at odds with her frightening visage.
Valeran couldn’t make his own vocal chords work.
“Mekka,” she demanded, eyes hardening. “Hawk. Where. Are. They?”
Valeran’s gaze flickered involuntarily to the letter on the table. The woman noticed. She reached down and picked it up.
She stood for a long moment, reading it.
With her attention away from him, Valeran took the opportunity to back away, slowly, carefully.
The woman – or whatever she was – continued staring at the letter.
He made it to the open doorway to the common room, not taking his eyes off her. She seemed to have lost interest in him. He rounded the corner, setting his back against the wall, chest heaving as he struggled to keep his breathing under control. Sweat trickled down his face and neck. He was still clutching the coins he’d picked up from the floor: he stuffed them as quietly as possible into his pockets.
Desperately, he looked around the common room. There was no way out from here apart from the main entrance, opposite him. Several tables and a multitude of chairs and benches stood between him and the door.
He weighed his chances of making it there. He was not exactly fast on his feet. But the obstacles might slow her down, as well…
He paused for a moment, listening. There was no sound from within the kitchen behind him.
No sound at all.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Feeling panic building, he pushed himself off the wall and ran madly for the door, knocking chairs aside in his haste. Reaching it, he threw himself on the handle.
It was locked.
He swore. He had forgotten that he always locked the inn at night.
He spun to look behind him, and his eyes widened in terror.
The kitchen was black. Completely black, as though the whole room beyond the doorway had been swallowed up in a void.
Turning back to the door, he rummaged in his pockets frantically, searching for the keyring. He threw out the coins, a handkerchief, a match tin…
He risked a glance over his shoulder. The blackness was spreading into the common room, now, creeping along the walls, engulfing the bar, like a vast flood of ink. The lanterns went out, one by one.
Trembling violently, he wrenched the keys out of his pocket and fumbled with them, trying to find the correct one.
I’m going to die! he thought.
He slammed the key into the lock and turned it, then yanked at the door…
… just as a strong gust of wind caught it, flinging it inwards with great force, causing Valeran to stumble backwards…
A hand on his back caught him.
A hand on his back!
Darkness overtook him, mingling with the inrushing night. He tried to fling himself away from the hand, but found he couldn’t move.
Suddenly, he was paralysed, icy coldness washing through him, seizing his limbs, his lungs, his heart. He tried to scream, but had no voice.
And then came the pain, an awful wrenching agony that felt as though every part of him was being torn out at once. Briefly, he felt dislocated, loose, as though his mind floated free of his body… and then…
Then the night flowed freely through the Hungry Deer Inn, the common room deserted, front door banging mournfully on its hinges.