Wings of snow and silver blade

Murder’s price must now be paid.

Swiftly but silently, Mekka got to his feet and positioned himself beside the door. After a few moments, he looked down to see the door handle turn, slowly.

He waited until the door was halfway open, then threw his shoulder into it, slamming it back onto the intruder. Without hesitation, he punched his right fist at the door.

A two-foot long silver spike shot forth, puncturing the wood. He felt it glance off something metallic.

And then, unexpectedly, someone grabbed the spike and yanked it violently forwards, smashing Mekka’s face into the door. Slightly stunned, he retracted his spike at once and threw himself away just as the door crashed inwards.

A gleaming feathered figure whirled in, lashing a spear at his head like a striking snake.

Mekka dodged and parried the rapid jabs with his spike.

A blow caught him on the side of the shoulder, throwing him awkwardly against the wall. He grunted.

He was taken off guard: his attacker was far more skilled than he had anticipated.

The spear swept at his head. Mekka ducked and struck out with his leg, trying to trip his opponent. But the Angel caught his leg with his own and twisted, throwing Mekka to the floor.

Mekka drew his legs up and rolled, coming to his feet in one motion and threw himself over the bed, rolling over Hawk’s prone form. He snatched up the chair on the other side and hurled it at a second attacker who spun through the doorway.

His opponent blocked the chair with his spear and kicked it back at Mekka.

The black-winged Angel ducked, then flattened himself against the wardrobe, avoiding the thrust of the other’s weapon. It missed his chest by an inch, sliding through his wing feathers instead, sending a couple of black feathers flying.

Who the hell are these men?? Mekka thought furiously as he fought them both, fending off spear strikes from two corners of the room. Silvertine flashed in the air over the bed, ringing off the walls.

They were no mere guards; these men were highly trained, focused and fast; as skilled as he was. They countered all of his attacks, anticipated all his moves.

They were his match.

The Angel near the door thrust again, and this time Mekka caught his spear and yanked it out of his grip. He spun it and went for a counter-attack, but the other was quick, rolling low and slashing out with his short sword.

Mekka leapt aside, rolling over the bed again and immediately engaging the Angel on the other side.

A fierce spear duel ensued.

After a minute of intense fighting and dodging, Mekka saw an opportunity, and took it. Lunging forward, slipping through the other Angel’s guard, he struck him fair in the chest.

The blow threw him back against the wall, winding him but did not pierce his impenetrable silver armour.

Mekka moved forward to subdue him, but the Angel was not as stunned as he expected. Tossing aside his weapon, he slammed his fist into Mekka’s stomach, disarmed him with a smooth movement and pinned him against the wall beside the window. One hand held his spike arm against his own black wing, the other arm pressed against his neck, and his legs were trapped neatly.

Heavy breathing filled the silence that followed. Mekka fought to draw breath through the gauntlet crushing his throat. He could see beads of sweat on his attacker’s face, beneath his silver helmet.

Golden-brown eyes bored into his own, intense and bright with victory.

A slow, metallic clapping sound rang through the room.

“Good show,” a voice said. “A fine performance! You may release him, Tander.”

The Angel restraining him did so, reluctantly, stepping back quickly and retrieving his weapon from the floor.

Mekka rubbed at his throat with his left hand, but did not retract the spike attached to his right arm. He watched the Angels guardedly, especially the white-winged newcomer.

“Who... are you?” he panted.

The white Angel smiled, placing a hand to his chest. “I,” he replied, “am Wing Commander Re’Vier. We–” he indicated the others “– are a special division of the Sky Legion.”

Mekka coughed an incredulous laugh. “The Sky Legion? You reformed the Legion just to apprehend me?”

Re’Vier looked amused. “My, my. Such an ego. Of course not. The Sky Legion was reformed two decades ago, long before your disgraceful attempts to destroy our homeland.”

Mekka blinked in disbelief. “Twenty years?” he shook his head. “Then why were you not around to protect Arkana when the Dragons attacked?”

“Simply,” the Commander replied, “because we did not know about it.”

“You didn’t know about it? Where the hell have you been living? Under a rock??”

“On top of one, actually,” the Angel Commander replied, still smiling. “At the ruins of Sundown Keep, in the Snowranges. But,” he waved a hand, “that is of no consequence. We were hired by Governor Mon Merrill to track you down and bring you to justice.”

Mekka stared at him. “You’re exiles?”

“By choice,” Re’Vier replied. “We have a purpose, a specific one, which required distancing ourselves from Angel society for awhile. Our goals do not revolve solely around you. But the Governor could not find anyone else suited to the task.”

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I didn’t even know the Legion still existed, Mekka thought, stunned.

“Well!” the Commander declared brightly, clapping his gauntleted hands together. “Shall we continue this wonderful dance all afternoon, or would you like to come peacefully?”

Mekka looked at them, feeling his heart drop into his stomach. They had him nicely cornered. There was no escape out the window: it was too small. There were three of them between him and the door, and they weren’t easy to fight. Even if he did manage to get past them, what would it achieve? There were likely more of them downstairs, and they would simply hold Everine or Ben or Valeran or Hawk or indeed, the entire town hostage until he returned. They had come so far to find him, and they would not give up. He would never be rid of them, unless he killed them all, one by one.

And that was too high a price to pay for his freedom.

He closed his eyes. He had never been free.

And he had known that this day was coming, had known it from the moment Ferrian had blasted the cold truth into him with his Winter: he had committed those murders and he had done so deliberately, out of anger and hate. For a while he had struggled even to blame the trigon, though he knew now that it had warped his mind to insanity, that it had destroyed his ability to reason.

He didn’t know if the Arkanians would accept that excuse. They believed that he was evil, simply because of his black wings, and he didn’t think there was an Angel alive that could be convinced otherwise.

His fate was sealed. There were no longer any choices left.

But he feared for Hawk and Carmine. He could not leave them behind. Someone had to take care of them. Someone had to watch them, to be there when…

“Shall we stand around here all day pondering escape methods,” the Commander said, “or shall I make it a little easier for you?”

His short sword hissed out of its sheath.

Mekka opened his eyes and tensed into a half-crouch, readying for another attack, but instead the white-winged Angel circled the bed on the opposite side of him and swept his sword in an arc at Hawk’s neck.

“NO!” Mekka screamed.

The sword halted a couple of inches from the comatose Freeroamer’s black-veined throat.

Re’Vier regarded Mekka, his sea-green eyes curious. “Interesting,” he murmured.

Mekka pointed his spike at the Angel from across the bed. “If you touch him, I will gut you!” he threatened. Anger and terror burned through him in equal measure. He clenched his fists, struggling to keep from trembling.

Re’Vier looked back at him coolly. “Of course you will,” he said. “I would expect nothing less. You are a murderer. You have no honour, nor reverence for life. You have committed the most heinous crimes in Angelican law, crimes so unimaginable there is no precedent for them.”

The Angel looked down at the bed, tilting his head to one side. “And you are keeping a corpse here for some reason,” he went on. “How vile. Do you desire a pet demon-wraith of your own?”

Mekka gritted his teeth. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand!” What do THEY know of reverence for life??

A tense moment of silence fell as they stared at each other. Finally, the Commander moved his sword away. “You truly hold out some hope for his survival,” he said contemplatively. “How pitiful and naïve.” He sheathed his sword. “You will come with us. Now.”

Mekka wanted to resist. He wanted to punch this man in the face. He wanted to punch all of them in their faces until they left him alone.

He felt his thoughts sliding into familiar, disturbing territory and pushed them fearfully away. The last time he had felt like this…

He looked down at his hands to see that they were, indeed, shaking.

He swallowed.

There are no longer any choices left…

Shoulders slumping in defeat, he sighed. “I submit,” he whispered. “Please...” he gestured at the bed. “Do not hurt Hawk or my friends. They have done nothing wrong.”

The Commander gave a signal to the two other soldiers and they rounded the bed. They forced Mekka to his knees and forward onto the bed as they stripped off his jacket and detached the spike mechanism. They searched him thoroughly for other weapons and lockpicking instruments, discarding everything they discovered. His arms were pulled behind his back and Mekka felt the cool click of silvertine shackles around his wrists. Grabbing his hair, they bound his mouth and eyes with strips of white cloth.

Then they pulled him to his feet and led him from the room.

Legionnaire Tan’Daran started towards the door, but Commander Re’Vier placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. The other soldier and the prisoner went on ahead.

Re’Vier nodded at the bed when they were gone. “Dispose of that… thing,” he ordered quietly.

Tander blinked. “Commander?”

Noticing his hesitation, Reeves’ eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer. “It is not a living man, Legionnaire,” he insisted. “It is dead. There will be no place for such abominations in New Arvanor.”

Tander swallowed. “Sir,” he affirmed.

The Commander nodded, then swept from the room.

Tander hesitated for a moment more, then switched his spear to his left hand, drew his sword – the sound a soft hiss in the silence – and walked back over beside the bed.

He stood for a moment, staring down at the body. It did appear to be a corpse. Its brown eyes were open and lifeless. Tander bent a little closer, studying them, searching for a spark of… anything…

He searched for a long moment.

There was nothing.

Dismayed, he pulled back, and looked at the gleaming sword in his hand.

The black-winged Angel – Mekk’Ayan – had seemed so distressed when Reeves had threatened to put an end to this thing. Why? Why was he keeping a trigon-riddled cadaver hidden away up here? Did he know something the rest of them didn’t? Did he really believe… could there indeed be a cure for trigonis?

Tander shook the thoughts away. No. The black Angel was insane. He was delusional. Demon-wraiths could only be destroyed, not saved.

He set the sword at the corpse’s throat. The head needed to be removed. It was the only way of ensuring it died properly…

But another thought made him pause.

Commander Re’Vier had ordered him to carry out this task, when he could easily have done it himself.

Tander frowned.

A soft scuffing sound made him look up.

A boy stood in the doorway, looking in. A Human: a young teenager. He wore a red scarf around his head.

He stared at Tander, looking solemn – but not afraid.

The Legionnaire looked back down at the body. Oddly, it was clad in a golden breastplate of Angel design, like those worn by Arkanian guards.

Silvertine. An opposing force to trigon. Were they trying to slow the onslaught of the disease?

They hoped that they could save this man…

Slowly, Tander withdrew his blade. If this was still a life, he could not take it, no matter what Reeves commanded. It was against Angel law and honour. To be ridden with guilt was to forfeit one’s place in Excelsior…

Turning away from the bed, he walked quietly back to the door.

The boy leaned against the wall to one side, in the hallway, arms folded across his chest, head bowed unhappily.

Tander hesitated, then sheathed his sword and drew a slender knife from his belt. Flipping it, he offered it to the boy. “You will need this,” he said, “when the darkness comes.”

The boy looked at the knife in surprise, but took it. Tander met his eyes. Then the Angel turned and headed for the stairs.

Everine could do nothing but watch desolately as Mekka was escorted from the inn. They had all known that such a day would come, eventually, though they never spoke of it.

They knew of Mekka’s tragic crimes; he had hidden nothing from them. He had told them himself that he would face retribution one day.

Everine blinked back tears. Why did it have to be today? she thought. Why, on such a bright and sunny morning…

She wiped her face on a cleaning cloth and ventured around the counter, thinking them all gone, but one of the soldiers lagged behind. He came down the stairs slowly. His wings were pale brown, fading to white at the tips. He looked up at her as he passed, and there was an uncertain expression on his face, but he said nothing, merely left after the others.

Everine hurried to the stairs to see Ben descending. She was relieved that he was all right.

“Hawk’s okay,” he said, seeing her anxious expression. “They left him alone. And that Angel gave me this!” he held out a beautiful silver knife.

Everine took a deep breath and let it out again. Then she hitched up her blue skirt and ran up the stairs, her boots clomping loudly on the wood.

Reaching Hawk’s room, she hastened inside. “Fetch the wheelchair and pack your things,” she told her brother, who had come after her.

“What are you doing?” Ben asked as she threw the covers off the comatose man.

Everine flung open the wardrobe and gathered up some clothes. “We’re going after Mekka!”