By tattered moon, a hunt resumed
What lives, what fears to be consumed?
“Dammit!” Flint exclaimed. “Lost her!”
Raemint drew her long silver spear, twirling it with an impressive swooshing sound. “We will proceed immediately with the plan as discussed,” she declared. “Flint, cover me in the courtyard, then position yourself at the southern front window.”
“Yessir.”
The Freeroamer Lieutenant passed by Ben on her way around the table. “You,” she told him, “will return to your own quarters and stay there. You are not to leave this building for any reason until I indicate that it is safe to do so. Is that understood?”
Ben didn’t reply. Instead he asked: “What about my sister and Araynia?”
“They are still at the infirmary, are they not?”
Ben nodded.
Raemint hesitated. “We do not have time to warn them, and it is too dangerous to do so. The infirmary is on the other side of town. As long as they do nothing to attract Carmine’s attention, they should be safe enough where they are.”
Before Ben could say anything further, the Centaur was on her way to the door.
Ben looked aside at Flint. The other man was hunched over his crossbow, deep in concentration as he watched the night, his face hidden by his large hat. Lamplight flickered off the massive, gleaming Eliminator, awesome with silvery, lethal power.
Ben took only a moment to make a decision. He headed for the door.
Outside the Freeroamer’s quarters he hesitated, but only for a moment. To his right, down the corridor, lay the room he shared with his sister. To the left were the stairs.
Damned if I’m going to hide in my room like a little kid! he thought. Drawing his beautiful silvertine dagger, he headed after Raemint.
The common room was deserted, the hearth burning low: the Centaur had not been wrong about everyone having left the tavern. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, save one beside the main door, leaving the large room crowded with shadows, thrown into dancing motion by the erratic flickering of the dying fire.
The room had an eerie, abandoned feel to it, a quiet emptiness not of people sleeping, but of people gone. The taunting shadows held a sense of something waiting to happen…
He burst through the main doors at a run, then took a moment to try and control his breathing and heartbeat. The square outside was empty and dark as well, though a few lights still burned on the surrounding streets. The moon was nothing but a faint fuzzy smear overhead.
There was no sign of Lieutenant-Commander Raemint. But Ben knew where she had gone.
Several yards to his left was a narrow alleyway beside the tavern. Finding his way by the scant light from the front windows, Ben crept around the corner and almost stumbled right into Raemint, who was in the process of attaching a tiny lantern to her belt. The Centaur spun, the tip of her spear stopping a mere inch from Ben’s chest.
Seizing the boy with one hand, she shoved him against the wall. “I told you to stay inside!” she hissed.
Ben was trying to regain a hold of his senses, gone pale with how close he’d come to being skewered. His heart crashed around crazily in his chest. “I… I didn’t,” he managed lamely.
Raemint glared at him, her face particularly intimidating in the lamplight.
“Well… I’m here now!” Ben whispered stubbornly. “I might as well help?”
Uttering a growl of exasperation, Raemint released him. “Stay behind me! Do not get in my way!”
Raemint’s long spear led the way into the dingy courtyard. The dim moonlight illuminated only vague forms beyond the orange circle of her lantern light. “We know you are here, Carmine Vandaris!” the Centaur called out. “We know what you have come for! Show yourself!”
Ben gripped his dagger tightly, sweat rolling of his wrist, turning in a slow circle as he followed Raemint.
There was no reply.
Nothing moved.
In the corner to their right, a shadowy bulk resolved itself into a cluster of old barrels and a wooden cart. Guardedly, Raemint backed towards them, then kicked out with her powerful hind hooves.
The barrels and cart splintered and flew in all directions, clattering loudly off the walls and cobbled floor. A rat scurried off into the alley.
Nothing else.
Raemint turned and began following the eastern wall, slowly, until she reached the spot where all three of them had seen the black figure crouching. Here she paused. “It is her,” she confirmed darkly, a quiver passing through her gleaming hide.
Ben could feel it, too, now: a strange patch of colder air. But it was not pleasant, it felt slimy against his skin, and there was a slightly foul smell, like stepping into a fetid pond. An involuntary knot formed in his gut, as though he had swallowed a chunk of ice.
He stepped back, wiping his hands on his tunic.
Raemint was following the wall again, then she turned at the far corner and crossed in front of the woodpile and the toolshed. She stopped by the shed, regarding it. To Ben it looked closed and untouched. Then she moved into the middle of the courtyard. Taking a ring of keys from her belt, she tossed them to Ben.
“Open the shed.”
“Wha--” Ben started to complain.
“You wished to help.” Raemint’s look was almost darker than the night around her.
Ben shut his mouth, swallowing. He stared dismally at the toolshed. As much as he wanted to protect Hawk, he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less, at this moment, in the dark, with Carmine lurking around, than open that creepy shed.
I asked for this, he thought unhappily.
Suddenly feeling foolish, and very afraid, Ben walked towards the shed.
She can’t be hiding in there, he tried to reassure himself. He could see that it was still secure, the padlock intact. There was no obvious damage to the shed, other than years-old rot. Carmine had broken through solid stone walls; a rickety wooden pile like this would not still be standing if she wanted in.
Ben hesitated uncertainly. Why hadn’t she broken it down already? Hawk was inside. She had been mere yards from him…
He looked over his shoulder. Raemint was turning a slow circle in the middle of the yard, her spear whooshing as she twirled it, searching the darkness. Somewhere above them, Flint’s Eliminator was trained silently on this spot.
If Carmine was trying to trap them, it wasn’t going to work. The Freeroamers knew what they were doing.
R-right?
“Ben!” Raemint urged.
Wiping his face on his sleeve, Ben sheathed his dagger so that he could set the key in the lock. It clicked open.
Drawing his dagger again, he took hold of the edge of the wooden door. Pulling at it, he stepped back a few paces, letting the door swing open.
It squeaked, long and loud, on its rusty hinges.
The interior of the shed was nearly pitch black, save for an oblong of wan moonlight that fell inside the open door.
Ben let his breath out in a rush. Hawk was still there. He could see the wheelchair, the dirty robes, the glint of silvertine armour.
Silvertine. He wondered if the armour had dissuaded Carmine from taking him, and felt suddenly reassured that that must be the case.
“Bring him out,” Raemint ordered.
Putting his dagger away again, Ben took hold of the arms of the chair and pulled it out of the shed. He glanced at Hawk’s face as he did so, then looked quickly away again. It was him.
“Come,” Raemint said, gesturing with her spear. “Walk ahead. Carmine is not here.”
Doing as he was told, Ben grabbed the handles of the chair and, with some difficulty, began pushing it: one of the wheels kept seizing up.
They proceeded out of the courtyard.
Still, there was no sign of Carmine.
“Do you think she’s given up?” Ben commented hopefully. “Or come to her senses? Maybe she’s afraid of us…”
“No,” Raemint answered simply. “Place him here.”
They were out in the middle of the main square now. Ben manoeuvred the wheelchair into the position Raemint wanted. Then the Centaur took Ben’s place behind the chair, setting her spear down with the butt against the cobblestones.
Stolen story; please report.
“Now go,” she told him firmly. “Return to the tavern with Flint. I will handle things from here.”
Ben knew that it was the most sensible suggestion, but still he lingered, frowning. “But… it doesn’t make sense. Why hasn’t she attacked us yet? She was so desperate to get to Hawk. She came all the way from Forthwhite for him!”
Raemint sighed though her nose. For a long moment she said nothing, then her voice came quietly: “When Flint and I found your friend Araynia on the road,” she said, “we saw evidence of a battle. A vast plume of smoke rising in the north, over the forest, as of a great fire.” She paused, staring out into the night. “You say that she went after Lord Arzath with the Sword of Healing, to assist him to fight Carmine, to prevent him being killed.” She closed her eyes. “I felt it. The battle. The magic. Even at that distance. And I recognised it; such a terrible power I have felt only once before, in a place I cannot tread, a patch of ground in Forthwhite.”
Ben stepped closer, staring at her. The blood drained from his face as realisation dawned. “A Fatalis,” he whispered.
Raemint nodded. “I believe Lord Arzath to be dead. The injuries your friend sustained are consistent with such a spell. But she survived. I know not how. And so too has Carmine.” She shook her head. “Carmine could not have stolen the soul of the sorcerer, or she would not have crept into this town like a wary mouse, but raged through it like a storm in the night, and we would not be standing here now.”
She fell silent for a moment. “She is weakened: perhaps injured. She bides her time, she knows that silvertine is dangerous to her. She cannot take Hawk, or us, in her present state. She must regain her power, first.”
“R-regain her power?” Ben stammered. “Do you mean… that she’s out there in the town right now, feeding on people?” He looked around at the darkened buildings with renewed horror. “And we’re just… standing here?!”
Raemint sighed again, her eyes glimmering slightly. “I wish it were not so,” she whispered. “But we cannot find Carmine. She must find us.” Her hand tightened on her spear, her face hardening. “We will be ready when she does.”
Ben backed away, numbly. He didn’t know what to say. The Centaur and the slumped form in the wheelchair, in their pool of lantern light, didn’t seem real any longer. The darkness around him seemed like a solid wall closing him in.
He wanted to flee, to run to the infirmary and warn Everine. But he had no idea where Carmine might be: she could be watching him at this very moment. He was afraid she might follow him. He was afraid she might already have gotten to Flint.
Feeling wretched and useless, not knowing what else to do, he shrunk down beneath the statue of Ferrian. The hard stone of the plinth at his back was small comfort.
He wished, with all his heart, that his sorcerer friend was here now.
But Ferrian and his Dragon were far away, and there would be no help coming this night.
The evening rolled on, the hours slipping silently away, leaving midnight far behind. A slight breeze picked up, stretching the clouds overhead into a dirty veil, brightening the square. Dim and sickly moonlight burnished the statue of Ferrian and highlighted the dusty cobbles. The windows of The White Horse tavern and surrounding buildings were all dark.
Ben waited for the screams, for the alarm to be sounded, but they did not come. His body ached from the tension of expecting wraiths to leap out at him at any moment.
But they did not.
The township of Meadrun was quiet as the grave.
Gradually, Ben’s fear wore itself out, fading into drowsiness, and then finally into sleep.
Raemint remained standing steadfastly by the wheelchair, periodically relighting her lantern whenever it burned low.
The night had begun to retreat into the grey twilight before dawn when their enemy at last made her appearance.
Ben awoke with a start, roused by some hidden survival instinct. His guts felt cold and faintly nauseous, his skin coated with some invisible slippery layer of grime, like that he had felt in the courtyard.
Moving very carefully, he shifted his position so that he could see past Raemint.
Carmine was there.
She walked unhurriedly towards them from the east, silhouetted against the brightening sky and a thin mist that rose off the deserted street behind her. There was no doubt that it was Carmine, though she was almost unrecognisable. What was left of her long coat hung about her in scorched tatters; her striking red hair was burned raggedly short above her shoulders. Almost all of her body, save for the deathly pallor of her face, was cast in glistening black metal. The lower part of her right leg was also exposed, atrociously rotten, making Ben’s stomach lurch, but even as he watched, trigon melted downwards to cover it, enclosing the ruined flesh away until her leg was once again wholly and horribly armoured.
She stopped about ten paces from the wheelchair.
“You have something that belongs to me,” she said. Her voice was soft and surprisingly Human, at odds with her deathly visage.
Raemint levelled her spear, her stance firm. “Come and get him.”
For the space of a heartbeat, nothing happened. Carmine merely smiled.
And then everything went black.
Flint cursed as the scene before him changed dramatically. For a panicked second he thought he’d gone blind, until with some confusion he realised he could still see the room around him, grey with the encroaching dawn.
Taking a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, Flint stared out of the window in awe and fear. Everything outside the tavern had disappeared into a pitch black void.
No, not quite pitch black… Flint leaned forward. From down in the square came an oddly-pitched clashing sound, accompanied by a burst of white light and flurry of dazzling, strange sparks that Flint couldn’t quite look at, spiralling away in kaleidoscopic colours.
Raemint’s spear had connected with whatever foul weapon Carmine was wielding.
Hands shaking, Flint fumbled together another cigarette and lit it. Just moments ago, he’d been ready to take the shot as planned, his finger pressed against the trigger, when Carmine had made her move – a fraction of a second before him.
Gods, the woman was fast!
Fast… and smart.
Now he sat, sweating and indecisive, as the battle below continued.
You can do this, Flint!
He had made too many mistakes in the past, stupid mistakes that should, by all rights, have led to his death. It was only by some god’s twisted mercy – or joke – that he was still alive at all and sitting here now, entrusted with putting an end to an insanely powerful escaped demon-wraith.
Starshadow Flint didn’t make mistakes.
Not any longer.
Bending over his crossbow again, cigarette in his mouth streaming smoke into the quiet, empty room, Flint focussed.
The darkness fell upon Ben so suddenly that for a few shocking, disorienting moments, he thought he’d been knocked unconscious.
But no; he could feel his heart hammering crazily in his chest, and hear his own rapid breathing, and there was no pain, as of a blow.
Just an increasing twist of nausea in his stomach…
And then the fighting started.
Raemint’s spear burst to life like a glowing brand – white hot and streaming ethereal mist as it whirled around her. There was a resounding crash as it clashed, hard and violently, with something unseen, creating a burst of light and shower of weird rainbow-like sparks that spiralled away in odd directions. The Centaur was illuminated in dramatic silhouette; beyond her, light slithered off something in the darkness, sleek and quick and oily.
Then the black returned, save for the spinning of Raemint’s otherworldly weapon, tracing silvery patterns around her like a shield.
Ben noticed something else then, too: another patch of glowing mist close to where the Freeroamer Lieutenant was standing. It took him a moment to realise that it was Hawk: the silvertine breastplate that the perishing man wore was reacting to the presence of trigon.
Ben looked down at his own dagger – he had almost forgotten he was still holding it – and saw that it, too was shining pure white, the metal shimmering gloriously like a sunlit sea.
Staring at the dagger, Ben felt a warm sort of peace wash over him, a relaxing of his tense muscles. His terror eased into a milder, more manageable fear.
They were still alive yet.
His thoughts cleared, his heartbeat slowed; his own survival seemed less important now than how to help Raemint, how to get at Carmine even though he couldn’t see her. He didn’t know how the Centaur was able to fight almost blind, but now she caught another attack on her spear, flooding the square again with a flash of brilliant light.
Awesome as it was, Ben supposed she was surviving on some primal instinct, but it surely couldn’t last long. Carmine had all the advantage.
Only one nick from a trigonic weapon and Raemint would share Hawk’s fate.
Gripping his dagger, crouched with the reassuring stone of the statue’s plinth at his back, Ben searched the blackness for some sign of that serpent-like glimmer, or hint of red…
The wraith was on him almost before he knew it was there. Turning his head, Ben was confronted by a face: a grey face made of roiling smoke. A dead thing, no longer Human, features shifting and melting into each other, hideous black voids for eyes and mouth and nose and ripped flesh.
Letting out an involuntary scream, Ben tried to pull back, but was encumbered by the statue and fell awkwardly to the ground, dropping his dagger. His stomach heaved, spilling its contents onto the ground.
The wraith wasn’t Carmine: there came another series of brutal clashes off to his right. Raemint screamed in fury as she fought. The brightness caused the dead thing to shrink away momentarily, but when darkness returned, there were more of them, and then more, at least a dozen wretched, smoky, deathly ghosts appearing out of the blackness around him.
Demon-wraiths.
Carmine’s victims!
Something about the sight of them caused Ben’s stomach to contort violently, as though something were trying to get out of it. Fighting intense nausea, he grabbed for his dagger where it lay radiating light and mist on the cobblestones.
Another cry from Raemint, another explosion of flashes and colourful whirling sparks. Something was wrong with Ben’s vision: sometimes he could see the Centaur and sometimes he could only see parts of her.
When the blackness returned again, Ben lunged upwards with a yell of his own, his silvertine dagger slashing though twisted limbs reaching out for him, scattering them into nothingness.
First one wraith shrieked, then another as his blade cut into them. The sound was like nothing Ben had ever heard: a screech of agony that wavered into a such a high pitch that it hurt his teeth. Dizziness tried to claim him, his consciousness began to close in. Ben closed his eyes and trusted fully to his dagger, sweeping it around him in great arcs, and the shrieking continued… he was sure some of it was his own…
He opened his eyes again just in time to see something streak from the sky towards them like a miniature comet. There was an eruption of light far bigger and brighter than anything from Raemint’s spear, light that filled the entire square from end to end, blasting every shadow away in an instant. His vision, his entire being now filled with a white void every bit as impenetrable as the black, Ben cowered against the statue, unable to see even the dagger in his hand. There came a woman’s frightening scream, full of rage and anguish – he couldn’t tell whose it was – and then, gradually, the light began to fade.
When Ben could finally see again, he looked up, blinking, to a dawn town, the newly-risen sun having just crested the rooftops, spilling golden light across the square. Raemint stood a few yards away, breathing heavily, black hide slick with sweat, leaning on her spear, which had returned to its normal, metallic silver hue.
There was no Carmine, or any other wraiths, to be seen.
Something else had changed, as well…
Ben’s legs felt weak and shaky, but he forced himself up from the statue and stumbled across the square to stand beside Raemint, staring down in disbelief.
Hawk’s wheelchair had been overturned, sprawling its occupant onto his back on the stones. A long silver shaft protruded from his chest, embedded in his ornate breastplate.
As Ben and Raemint watched, the shaft slowly became shorter, as though it were melting into him.
Ben fell to his knees. “F-Flint,” he stammered.
“It was… part of the plan,” Raemint panted. “If we could not… take Carmine… we would take… her prize.”
Ben just stared at Hawk in mute despair.
Across from them, the door of the tavern opened and Flint emerged, sweeping around him with his loaded Eliminator, sunlight reflecting flashes of light off it as he did so.
When he reached them, Ben asked, hopelessly: “Is he… still alive?”
Setting his crossbow on the ground, Flint knelt beside Hawk. A long, anxious moment passed before he said, finally: “Yeah. At least, I think so.” He shook his head, frowning. “Hard to tell.”
They all stared down at the prone body of the former Freeroamer in morbid fascination. Flint’s bolt had vanished without a trace, but the armour protecting Hawk’s torso had grown. It now extended to cover his neck, his arms and hands – everywhere that had previously been blackened and diseased. But rather than a smooth, flawless finish like Carmine’s armour, this one was intricately patterned, mimicking the design and golden tint of the original breastplate as though moulded by an incredible unseen craftsman. The sides of Hawk’s face were enclosed in something resembling Angel wings.
“An angel-wraith,” Ben whispered, wide-eyed. He looked up at Raemint. “What does this…” his question trailed off, unfinished. Getting to his feet, he stared past the Centaur, past the gleaming statue of Ferrian, to something on the other side of town.
“Smoke!” he gasped.
Not demon-wraiths, this time, but real smoke, rising in a steady, dark, ominous stain into the morning sky, somewhere near the western gate.
“The infirmary!”
Without another word or thought, Ben sprinted in that direction.
He’d only gone a few feet before Raemint overtook him, thundering ahead, hooves flying, shadow leading the way.