Grey the morning’s ravaged cloak

The magic gone, released in smoke.

Araynia woke slowly to the touch of ash on her cheek, like soft, warm snow.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was confronted by a world she didn’t recognise.

Carefully, she pushed herself up, shivering involuntarily with pain. Looking down at herself, she saw that her hands were burned and her clothes badly singed. A long piece of charred wood lay across her legs.

But somehow, she was still alive.

The night had retreated, replaced with a grim, grey dawn. The rain had stopped, but clouds lingered overhead, mingling with a thick, yellowish haze of smoke that drifted through the forest.

If it could still be called a forest.

Pushing the burnt debris off her, Araynia climbed unsteadily to her feet. The myrtle tree that she had sheltered behind was a smouldering wreck. As indeed was a large swath of rainforest in a two hundred yard radius in every direction.

It was a wasteland of devastation. There was nothing to be heard. No life to be seen, anywhere. Nothing moved but the wafting smoke.

The ring of ancient myrtles was obliterated, nothing left of them but huge, blackened stumps. Here and there small fires still burned as red, brooding patches in broken piles of timber.

Two bodies lay in the centre of the wreckage.

They did not stir.

Off to her left, Araynia caught a glimpse of something gleaming. Limping over to it, she saw that it was the Sword of Healing, completely untouched. Reaching down, she picked it up. It was cool to the touch.

She stood staring at the bodies for a long time before gathering the courage to approach.

The first one was Carmine. She was lying on the charred ground half-curled up, with her arms protecting her head, hiding her face. Her coat and brilliant red hair were severely scorched. The evil black armour still covered her body, save where Araynia had cut it and part of her coat off, exposing her right leg.

The noblewoman reeled at the sight of the gruesome limb. The flesh was grey and decomposing, but apparently, there was still enough life left in it that the Sword hadn’t sliced it off completely.

She averted her gaze quickly, fighting back a surge of nausea, focussing on the folded arms instead.

Carmine did not move. Nevertheless, Araynia stepped around her as quietly as she could, keeping her distance and her hand tight on her Sword.

Arzath lay face down in the very centre of the clearing. Curiously, the ground beneath him was undamaged; he rested on a bed of autumn-coloured tiny myrtle leaves. There appeared to be no injuries that she could see – no burns, no wounds, no trigonic infection. But ash had settled upon his pale skin and black hair, and his eyes were open.

They were dim, their emerald depths glittering no more. Their fire and fury were gone, their power once and for all extinguished.

Araynia sank to her knees beside him, shaking her head in denial. “No,” she choked. Lifting her Sword quickly, she set it on the ground in front of him. Then she took up one of his hands, placing it over the silver blade. As she did so she was struck by how elegant it was, how beautiful: just like his brother’s.

Closing her eyes, she gripped the handle of the Sword and willed it to come to life.

Nothing happened.

Concentrating, she remembered Lord Requar’s words; that she only needed to want it to be, and so it would.

But there was no swell of light, this time, no glorious wave of sparkling, invigorating power running through her veins. The Sword remained quiet, and the growing hole inside her remained empty.

With a cry of frustration, she surged to her feet, swinging the Sword up and plunging it down into Arzath’s back. Again she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth, gripping the handle so hard that her burned hands throbbed in torturous protest.

It has to work! her mind screamed. It has to work!!

Long minutes passed, and nothing happened. She felt nothing at all but her own anguish.

With a sob of despair she opened her eyes, tears dropping from them. Through her blurry vision she saw a dark red stain spreading across Arzath’s white-and-black shirt where the Sword had struck him.

Letting go of the hilt, Araynia stumbled backwards in horror, falling to the ground. Eyes wide, she stared at the Sword of Healing, protruding from the sorcerer’s back as it had from the dusty stone of the cave entrance where he had left it for her – not a symbol of hope but of terrible, shocking failure.

He’s dead, she thought, stunned. I failed to save him…

The Sword of Healing could not have spilled Arzath’s blood if there was a trace of life left in him.

Overcome with grief, she knelt in the ash, sobbing.

Your life is more important than my brother’s, Requar had told her in his soft, broken voice, knowing what was to come.

Is it? she wondered. Why?

A few yards away to her left, something moved.

As Araynia turned to look, her horror deepened to new, unfathomable levels. Carmine’s trigon-clad arm moved, coming away from her face, clutching at the scorched dirt.

She wasn’t dead!

Forcing herself to her feet in a new rush of fear, Araynia retrieved her Sword from Arzath’s body. The end of the blade came away coated in blood.

Slowly, very slowly, Carmine pushed herself up. Her pale face was mostly undamaged; only the ends of her hair were singed.

There was no anger there, however, nor malevolence. She sat in the ash, looking blankly around; at Araynia, at Arzath, at the ruined forest, as though not understanding.

“Where am I?” she whispered. Looking down at her leg, her brow furrowed. She seemed lost, confused. Putting her arms around herself like a frightened child, she began to rock back and forth. “Where am I? What… what has happened to me? Where… where are you, father? Where are you, Hawk? Where… Mekka… Why? Why did you leave me? Why did everyone… leave me…?” Her voice dissolved into despairing sobs.

Araynia stared at her, tears filling her own eyes. Oh, Gods. Carmine was still Human! She still remembered her life! The shock of the explosion or perhaps the Sword of Healing seemed to have loosened the trigon’s hold over her.

For the moment, she was no longer a wraith.

It was too horrible. I have to put an end to her, Araynia thought wretchedly. But she was rooted to the spot. She couldn’t bring herself to walk over there and stab a crying woman in the back. She wasn’t even sure what the Sword of Healing would do to her: would it kill her or save her? Could Araynia even make it work?

Perhaps it’s a trick, she tried to convince herself. A sly bluff to get Araynia to lower her guard…

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

Araynia decided to try something that she had only ever experienced by accident before:

She attempted to see Carmine’s aura.

It took long minutes of concentration, listening to the woman’s heartbroken moans, but eventually she brought it into focus.

The aura was a dreadful thing, formed of all the dark and lurid colours of anguish and torment imaginable. It was an hypnotic mass of sickness that stretched and swirled around Carmine in a mass of tentacle-like strands, like a hideous creature, strangling her, piercing her, ripping her soul apart.

Araynia’s stomach turned. It was like watching someone being tortured.

With a horrified sob of her own, Araynia turned and ran into the ravaged forest, not looking back.

* * *

The road was deserted. It curved, puddle-strewn, through high, craggy ridges to the east; to the west, it sloped gradually downwards into open farmland. Bordering the road on one side in an unbroken line of old lofty oaks and birches was the Valewood Forest, its green march stopped only by the wall of cliffs at the far end of the Barlakks, where they transitioned into the Red Mountains – the home of the Grik clans.

The sound of birdsong after the rain was rudely interrupted by a distressing metallic squeaking noise. A blackbird looked up from its foraging, then flapped away in a rush of annoyed chirping as something ungainly emerged from the forest.

It was a wheelchair. An extremely bent and battered wheelchair, with a heavily robed and limp occupant that rocked and jounced with every movement.

“Finally…” Everine sighed. Moving to the nearest tree on the verge of the road, she plonked herself down against it, not caring that the grass was soaking wet.

Ben sat down moodily beside the wheelchair. They were all wet. Everything was wet. The sky had remained a stubborn pale, cold grey for two days, refusing to dry anything out. Fetching a biscuit from his food sack, he nibbled on it dispiritedly. Though he was relieved that they had finally reached the road, he took no joy from the fact.

His mind still lingered in the forest. Somewhere back there, his friend was trying to fight a demon-wraith and save a sorcerer.

And there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it.

Taking out his silvertine dagger, he stared at it, turning it around in his hands, looking forlornly at the masterful craftsmanship. He could have helped her…

He found himself wondering, not for the first time, if he really had made the right decision. If that Legionnaire back at the inn had made the right decision.

That one moment had changed everything.

You will need this… when the darkness comes…

Ben had assumed that the Angel had been referring to the wraith-plague, but now he finally understood the grim truth of the words.

This dagger was meant for Hawk. The Angel had spared Hawk’s life on the condition that Ben have the courage to do what he had chosen not to, if the trigon-riddled man truly could not be saved.

Like it or not, Hawk was Ben’s responsibility, now.

It took them two more days to reach Meadrun. They arrived well after sundown, the sky a mottled, unpretty swathe of clouds and stars, like a moth-eaten evening gown. The town itself was aglow with lights, bright and welcoming.

Well… welcoming for Ben and his sister, maybe.

Definitely not for Hawk.

Ben had been contemplating what to do about this for most of the time they’d been travelling. They had already garnered a few suspicious stares from other travellers on the road, who’d gone on their way giving the three of them funny looks over their shoulders. Ben and Everine had resorted to hiding in the forest at anyone’s approach.

Taking Hawk into the middle of the town was out of the question. On the way to Ferrian’s castle a few weeks ago, they had skirted this town entirely, choosing to camp in the wilderness instead, despite the blood moles. But now they were both miserable and beyond exhausted, and Everine would murder Ben if the next thing she collapsed onto wasn’t a comfortable bed.

They spotted a cowshed on the edge of a field. Ben broke in through a side door, but the cows made such a ruckus as they entered that they were forced to hastily abandon that plan. The animals could sense the presence of trigon, and it terrified them.

They were left with no other choice but to hide Hawk in the forest.

This wasn’t easy in the dark, and they dared not create a light for fear of attracting attention. So by fitful starlight and groping alone, they searched for the thickest clump of bushes and close-growing trees they could find, and shoved the entire wheelchair and Hawk into it.

He would be safe there from wild animals, which were unlikely go near him, but they just had to hope that no early-morning hunters stumbled across him.

It was the best they could do.

Not feeling confident about this solution, but too tired to do any more, the two of them plodded into the town.

Meadrun had been completely rebuilt after Ferrian’s Winter had unintentionally destroyed it four years ago. Indeed, it was bigger and thriving better than ever: it had grown to the size of a small city. Walls were under construction around the perimeter, although there were no gates installed as yet. The town had seen a huge influx of immigrants from the other side of the Barlakks. The Outlanders had initially been reluctant to accept them; many of the Coastlanders were wealthy folk who had lost everything, forced to flee their properties as the wraith menace claimed almost every major town and city save Sel Varence, which was now overflowing with people. But hostility and prejudice between the two regions had eased – everyone now more or less united in their common need to survive, to band together against the blackness that claimed all lives, rich and poor alike.

Apparently, the royal family were now governing from the island continent of Enopina to the north – although ‘hiding’ was perhaps a more accurate description. There had been no concerted effort to organise an army to fight back the wraiths; the whole of Daroria had been left in disarray, with people largely fending for themselves.

Neither Siriaza nor the Centaur nation of Remast had gotten involved, preferring to watch their own borders and stay well clear of Daroria’s problems.

Arkana on the other hand… well, Arkana’s Governor saw the wraith attacks as a business opportunity: one that was making her extremely rich.

Frustratingly, most people were ignorant about the nature of silvertine. If every person in the country had been given a silvertine weapon and armour, and a dedicated extermination force arranged, the demon-wraiths could have been stopped. But everyone believed that magic was needed. It was a misconception that spread faster than the plague itself. Castle Whiteshadow had been inundated with gifts; word of Ferrian’s heroic vanquishing of the Dragon-wraith at Forthwhite had overtaken his more tragic exploits, and there was now a general expectation that the young sorcerer was going to step up and single-handedly save the entire country from disaster.

Only a few years ago, Ferrian had lived in fear of a lynch mob around every corner – now they loved him.

Ben shook his head as he walked through the main street of the town, with its newly-constructed houses and shops. He had heard all this from conversations at the Hungry Deer, and from Ferrian himself. Indeed, the tavern they were now approaching – a huge, overly grandiose building dominating one side of the central square – was proudly named the White Horse, with a hanging sign depicting a cloaked rider on a galloping white steed, surrounded by snowflakes.

Though the tragedy that had befallen their town had happened only four years ago, they already regarded it almost as an honour, practically a tourist attraction…

Ben stopped suddenly as something outside the tavern other than the questionable signage caught his eye. Light blazed from the windows, along with raucous noise – the inn was packed – but in the cool shadows just to one side of the door stood a tall dark figure.

Her glossy hide gleamed warmly in the glow, her hair pulled back into a ponytail of blonde braids, a striking contrast to her night-black skin. In her right hand she held a glorious, long silvertine spear, and a bright round badge was affixed to her cobalt left sleeve…

Ben gasped. “Lieutenant-Commander Raemint!” he cried aloud, breaking into a run.

Noticing someone racing towards her, the Centaur grabbed her spear defensively, but lifted it in surprise as she recognised who it was. “Young Ben!” she said in astonishment. “Alon and well met! I am very glad to see that you and your sister are safe!”

“Define ‘safe’,” Everine muttered cynically as she joined them.

Ben launched into an explanation of everything that had happened to them since the Sky Legion had arrived at their tavern to arrest Mekka. In his haste to tell the story, he stumbled over his words and skipped details – Everine had to interject several times for clarification. The Centaur listened attentively, and when Ben finally finished, she was quiet for a moment, frowning.

“And Ferrian is in Arkana, you say?”

Ben nodded. “He’ll have rescued Mekka for sure!” he said optimistically. “He’ll be back any day now!” His earlier glum mood had vanished, replaced with excitement and burning hope. He felt much better about their chances of survival now with that shining spear and an unkillable Centaur at their side.

Raemint looked at them both seriously. “I pray for us all that that is so.” She gestured at the inn. “Flint and I were on our way to inform Ferrian of Carmine’s escape.” She shook her head. “She broke out of her cell in the middle of the night, catching us all unaware. We found the tavern deserted, and feared the worst for you and Hawk and Mekk’Ayan.” She closed her eyes. “On behalf of the Freeroamers, I apologise for our neglect. Carmine was our prisoner and it was our duty to ensure she cause no harm. We have failed in this task; she has left a trail of cold bodies for us to follow.”

When she opened her eyes again, they glimmered with sadness. She put a hand to her chest, bowing her head. “I am deeply sorry about the death of your friend. Flint and I will conduct a search for the noblewoman and Lord Arzath first thing tomorrow morning.”

Ben nodded gratefully. Everine just stared at the ground, then turned and headed for the door. Raemint put a gentle hand on Ben’s shoulder as he began to follow. “Please, would you send Flint out here? I must speak with him.”

Ben nodded again, and disappeared inside the inn after his sister.

A few minutes later, the door cracked open and the boy stuck his head out. “Erm… there’s a bit of a problem…”

Raemint looked at him.

“Flint is… well…” Ben scratched his head. “Kind of on the floor. Under a table.” He paused. “Covered in beer.”

Raemint cursed in her native language, slamming the butt of her spear on the ground. “I told him that he must not participate in drinking games!” She huffed furiously. “He is foolish!”

Ben shrugged apologetically. “Well, at least no one stole his crossbow…” he hesitated. “Yet.”

The Centaur’s glare was fierce. “They are welcome to try!” She looked off into the darkness, fuming for a moment. “Very well. I will talk to him in the morning. With more than words.” Her hoof pawed at the ground. “I am going to patrol the town. Good rest to you.” With that, she trotted away, her black tail flicking in agitation.

Ben slipped back through the door, closing it carefully. He had never seen cool-mannered Raemint angry before. She was a bit scary.

He didn’t envy Flint’s beer-drenched stupidity at all.