In mountain rock and ivory stone
The wraith awakens, not alone.
Soft raindrops on glass.
A pale stone wall came slowly into focus, surrounded by a vignette of grey haze.
The shadows of the raindrops moved across the stone like tears.
The air was cold and musty, tinged with the scent of mildew.
He could hear a soft sound, as of someone breathing, and became aware that it was himself... and then his consciousness faded away again, like the sun behind the clouds.
The wall came into being again, though now the rain was gone, and a ghostly gloom lingered on the stone.
It was a white wall, featureless and smooth.
He stared at it for a long time, and then blinked.
Gradually, his head moved, like a statue coming to life.
A set of wooden shelves stood in the corner to his left, beside the door. A few books sat upon them, as well as a neatly folded woollen blanket, and an unlit lantern. The door itself was closed.
Behind him, over his shoulder, was a cold hearth with an ornate, white stone mantlepiece.
Slowly, he turned his head the other way.
A small, round window was set into the wall beside him. Through it, he could see rugged, lichen-speckled cliffs of grey mountain rock.
Grey mountain rock. White stone.
For a long moment he stared out the window, feeling something stirring deep in his mind. Sparks of memory ignited and winked out again before he could grasp them, like embers flaring briefly.
Turning away from the window, he allowed his gaze to fall downward.
A fine, gleaming sword lay in front of him, held in a pale, long-fingered hand. His hand? The sword lay on top of a body, which was clad in black and gold.
More sparks started firing.
He blinked again, and frowned slightly. Something… something was familiar…
Then he caught sight of his reflection in the polished blade.
He watched his own sky blue eyes widen in recognition.
And then his brain came alive, memories flaring up and roaring through it in an unstoppable inferno. His sense of himself returned with a shocking jolt.
Gasping, he released his Sword and grasped his head with both hands as dizziness threatened to overwhelm him.
Gods, he thought, what's happening to me?!
He endured the bright, burning rush, and when it finally passed, he lowered his hands. Taking a deep breath, he blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what was going on.
Lifting his head, he looked around again, this time fully aware.
He appeared to be sitting in one of the spare rooms in his castle, unable to remember how he had come to be there, and there was someone lying on the bed in front of him…
He gasped again. “Arzath!”
Quickly, he looked over the prone form of his brother, trying to determine what was wrong with him, but it didn't take long to discover. He picked up the arm nearest him.
The hand was completely black and claw-like. The skin disintegrated into dark mist, even as he watched.
Requar released the hand, eyes widening again. Leaning over, he turned Arzath's head towards him.
A choked sound left his throat, and he leapt at once to his feet, knocking over the chair and almost tripping over it in his shock.
He backed away until he came up against the mantlepiece.
A black, skull-like face stared back at him from the bed. Mist poured off the body, disturbed into life by the sudden movement, thickening into oily smoke.
Requar stared in disbelief and horror.
Somehow, his brother had become infected with trigon and was now turning into a demon-wraith in front of him!
“No!” he gasped, shaking his head in shocked denial.
How did this happen?!
The wraith swirled over the bed and around the body, a shifting, formless, deadly cloud. One touch of it against his skin could rip Requar's soul out.
His heart was making a fine effort to escape, already.
Then, through a haze of terror and grief, he noticed something.
The wraith was avoiding the Sword of Healing.
The oily cloud attempted to swirl around the shining blade, but drew back as though repelled. There was a clear space of air around the Sword, a hole in the middle of the cloud.
It's not too late, Requar thought suddenly, wildly. It's not too late!
He found that he was shaking. I can NOT lose my brother to trigon as well! I WILL NOT!!
With a sudden, desperate cry, he pushed himself away from the mantle and threw himself towards the bed. Snatching up the Sword of Healing, he plunged it downwards, through Arzath's chest, summoned his magic – ALL of it – and sent it surging through the blade in an explosion of blue-white fire.
The entrance foyer of the castle sat still and quiet, lit by a serene blue and gold glow from the stained glass window. Puddles of water lay scattered here and there, like shards of mirrored glass flung into the corners.
The grandfather clock ticked, steadily counting time away on its never-ending face.
After a while, another sound echoed off the stone walls, and down the stairways.
Footsteps.
Moving slowly, haltingly.
A figure emerged onto the mezzanine and grasped the balcony, catching his breath.
Requar was weak from exhaustion. He couldn't remember the last time he had expended so much magic in a single surge. He had completely drained himself.
But despite his fatigue, and hunger, and a devastating thirst, his nerves buzzed with an incredible euphoria.
He had done it.
He had driven the demon-wraith away.
Arzath was alive!
He descended the stairs, feeling giddy.
The demon-wraith had tried to claim him. He had felt its revolting tendrils swirl around and through his body, trying to grasp him, to pull out his soul. The room had darkened to pitch black, until there was nothing to be seen but darkness and the blazing light of his Sword. He had kept the flow of magic up, pouring all of himself into the Sword, willing it to destroy the trigon.
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The demon-wraith ripped at him, smothered him, tried to pierce him with wicked spikes of trigon… but it couldn't gain purchase. It slid off, as though his magic were a slick barrier.
And he knew then that he could defeat it.
In fury, he attacked it.
Finally, a terrible dark shriek ripped through his mind, and the trigon retreated in a rush. He did not let up, but chased it away, burnt it, swallowed it as though he were a being made of pure silvertine, pure light. He poured magic out of himself, using all of his energy, not caring if he killed himself, until his mind seared with pain and he fell unconscious.
He had not expected to wake up again, but when he did, he had wept.
Not in grief, not because he had failed… but in delirious joy, because he had succeeded.
The trigon was gone.
All of it.
Gone.
He had managed to scrape up a remaining shred of magic for a simple spell to keep Arzath asleep awhile longer. He had no idea how his brother would react when he woke up, and Requar was in no condition to fend off another attack. He needed some time to recover.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he turned and crossed the hall. Most of the furniture was gone, and dark scorch marks on the walls and floor were a reminder of Arzath's last attack.
He remembered the fight. He remembered the pain that his brother had inflicted on him, but it no longer mattered. It seemed distant now, unimportant. Those wounds, and other, deeper injuries, were healed. The pain was forgotten, the scars faded into nothing.
Despite his tiredness, he felt strange and bright and wonderful, almost as though he had been... remade.
As he crossed the floor, he smiled, feeling as though he were the most powerful man in Arvanor.
No.
A newfound fire blazed in his blue eyes.
He felt like a GOD.
Reaching the door to the dining room, he shoved his way inside.
He made his way around the long table, gripping the backs of the chairs for support, to the far end of the room. The hearth had not been used for some time: the ashes were dark and cold.
He went into the kitchen, straight to the water barrel, and scooped water into his hands, drinking with such haste that he coughed and spluttered. When he was done, he searched the pantry for something to eat.
There wasn't much to be found, other than a little rice and flour.
He sighed. No food for awhile, then…
Wandering back out into the kitchen, he rubbed his head, contemplating going back upstairs and getting some sleep himself, when he noticed the letter.
Slowly, he walked across the room, lifted the folded piece of paper from the counter, and opened it.
The letter was addressed to Ferrian.
Hey, kid,
Dunno if you're ever gonna read this, but if you do make it back here… you're too late.
Arzath is a goner. He'll be dead by the time you read this, or turned into some demon-wraith-thing, or whatever. Killed himself tryin' to bring Requar back.
Requar… I dunno. Arzath did somethin' to him, but it didn't work. He's gone, and he ain't comin' back. He's probably a wraith too, by now.
I wouldn't go in the upstairs room if I were you. Gods know what you'll find in there. You don't wanna know, trust me.
I didn't wanna know either, so I cleared out. Stuck around for as long as I could, but there was nothin' I could do. Saw things that are gonna haunt me for the rest of me days. This magic stuff… too creepy for me. Too horrible. Shouldn't have to see somethin' like that happen to a man. Don't want no more to do with it.
Maybe you'll be okay, since you're already dead, but I'm not, and don't wanna find out what bein' a wraith is like.
I did what I could. Never meant Lord Requar no harm. Thanks for tryin' to save him. He was a decent fella. Shame you never got to meet him; you woulda liked him.
Good luck, kid, and sorry.
Don't go in the room.
Starshadow Flint
Requar's good spirits dwindled into sombre confusion. He took the letter out into the dining room, reading it again several times, trying to puzzle it out.
Arzath killed himself trying to bring me back? And 'did something' to me? What does that mean? What did Arzath do? And why does Flint think I'm gone and never coming back?
He looked up at the windows. Bright sunlight poured through them. He stared into the warm afternoon glow, but found no enlightenment there.
That Flint had decided not to stay was disappointing, but no great surprise. There was no reason for the man to have come with him to the castle in the first place, and sitting around watching Arzath transform into a demon-wraith was certainly enough to drive anyone away.
But where had Ferrian gone? The boy had desperately wanted his help; why would he have left without speaking to him? What on Arvanor did Flint mean by 'you're too late?'
Requar closed his eyes, trying to piece together his recollection of what had happened. His memories had a fuzzy, faded feel to them, as though everything had taken place eons ago. It was almost as though he were looking at ancient illustrations of someone else's life; they felt curiously detached.
He was sure that he had left Ferrian in Flint's care. The boy had certainly been dead; or something close enough, being kept alive by powerful Winter magic. The castle had been full of ice… but that was gone, now, so Ferrian had indeed left some time ago.
He replayed the scene after he had discovered Ferrian sitting by the fire.
His shock at discovering that Arzath had not died at the bottom of the cliff.
His brother's subsequent anger, and furious lightning attack.
Arzath had threatened him with the trigonic dagger, had pointed it in his face, while Requar confessed his guilt about killing their mother...
He struggled to remember what had happened after that.
Arzath had broken down, had dropped the dagger, had been weeping…
Requar had… used the Sword of Healing on himself, and…
Then he had awoken in the spare room, with Arzath a wraith.
Opening his eyes, he shook his head in bewilderment. How long was I unconscious?
Something important had happened during that time, but… what?
Requar sat down in the chair by the unlit hearth, but received no answers from the silent walls of his castle. All he could do was wait for his brother to wake.
Surely, Arzath would know the truth…
* * *
The canyon rang with the sound of rushing water, the cawing of crows, and the monotonous drone of thousands of flies.
“What the Gods happened here?!” Constable Dogwyn coughed, holding an arm to his face.
Constable Raemint said nothing, merely walked forward onto the bridge, her hooves clopping on the cobblestones.
Her dark eyes took in the grim scene. The pattern of destruction was unusual; a wide path had been cleared down the centre of the bridge, with bodies, broken vehicles and other debris piled up against the sides. Most had been flung over the parapets, as though someone or thing had come along and simply carved a path through the crowd.
A scent lingered in the air, too, crisp and clear underneath the overwhelming stench of decomposing corpses.
Raemint stopped and leaned on her spear. “Magic,” she murmured.
Dogwyn rode up beside her. “A sorcerer did this?” He scowled in anger. “If it was that Requar guy...”
“No. Not him. This feels like…” She closed her eyes. “Deep cold. Frozen skin. Breath snatched away into the black air… darkness, white wings, like the heart of a Winter storm...”
Dogwyn made a sound of disgust. “Dammit! That silver-eyed kid! I knew he was trouble! If you'd all just listened to me...”
His voice trailed off at the sound of a rider approaching from the far side of the Break, the clatter of hooves booming off the high mountain cliffs.
Raemint took up her spear and Dogwyn unsheathed his sword. They watched and waited warily.
A few moments later, the crows scattered as a man on a chestnut horse blazed around the corner and onto the bridge, riding hard.
The Freeroamers lowered their weapons and stared in surprise as they recognised that the figure wasn't a Watchman.
It was their own Commander Trice.
“Commander!” Dogwyn said as Grisket reined to a halt in front of them.
“Constables,” Grisket greeted. “What the hell's going on?” he said, looking around. “There's bodies all the way from here to the Coastlands!”
Raemint and Dogwyn looked at each other.
“Sir,” Raemint began uncertainly.
“It was that damned Winter kid!” Dogwyn interjected.
Grisket turned to Raemint in astonishment. “Rae?”
The Centaur sighed. “I am afraid so, Commander.”
Grisket shook his head, looking weary and haggard. “Dammit!”
“Sir?” Dogwyn said in confusion. “What's happening?”
“Damned if I know!” Grisket exclaimed. “Too much!” He shook his head again. “The Aegis is down. There are Dragons flyin' free, and the whole of Sunsee is on fire. I barely escaped with my life.”
The Freeroamers stared at him in shock.
“Sir!” Dogwyn gasped. “Dragons?!”
“I'm heading back to Forthwhite,” the Commander continued. “We can't fight Dragons. Sirannor's the only man who ever brought one down, and he took three months to kill the blasted thing! The best we can do is warn the townsfolk and prepare to evacuate them.”
“Evacuate t-to where?” Dogwyn stammered, looking afraid. “It's all open country out there!”
Grisket scowled. “Anywhere the Dragons aren't!”
He turned back to the Centaur. “Raemint?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“You're able to sense Ferrian's magic?”
She nodded.
“Can you track him?”
“I can.”
“Do it. Find him. But do not approach the boy if he is hostile. Keep your distance, and keep an eye on him. If he's in trouble, help him if you're able to, but don't endanger yourself recklessly.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“And if you come across Hawk, send him back to the Guard House.”
Dogwyn gave him a questioning look. “Hawk?”
“New recruit,” the Commander replied. “Friend of Sirannor's. He insisted on helping us.” He hesitated. “I made him a Sergeant.”
He paused for a much longer moment, looking away at the waterfall at the end of the valley, and told them: “Aari's dead.”
Raemint's breath caught in her throat.
Dogwyn went pale, and swallowed. “Crap,” he whispered.
A painful silence fell, before Raemint asked quietly: “And Captain Sirannor?”
Grisket shook his head hopelessly. “Abducted by General Dreikan, likely taken to the Middle Isle. His daughter has gone after him.” He waved bitterly at his injured knee. “Couldn't go with her. Damned Murons attacked me in the forest and broke my leg. It's all I can do to walk straight.”
Dogwyn muttered curses under his breath. “The world is going to Hell.”
Grisket looked at him. “That it is, lad,” he agreed sombrely. “But we're not quite there yet.” He nodded at Raemint. “Go with Rae. And both of you,” he regarded the two Freeroamer Constables, “watch your backs, and keep yourselves safe.”
They nodded.
“There is something else you should know, Commander,” Raemint told him. “We have apprehended the leader of the Bladeshifters.”
Grisket's eyebrows raised. “Eltorian? Good Gods! How did you manage that?”
“Well, we kind of didn't,” Dogwyn said, rubbing the back of his neck. “A… er… sorcerer turned up and dumped him on our doorstep.”
“A sorcerer?”
“Called himself Lord Requar. And he was travelling with a Bladeshifter, of all people. Some guy with a massive crossbow. Ever heard of them?”
Grisket frowned, rubbing his beard. “No. Where did they go?”
“They were supposed to have come this way,” Raemint answered, frowning in worry. “They were heading to Sunsee, to find Ferrian.”
“I never saw them,” Grisket replied, equally troubled.
“Well,” Dogwyn said, “the Bladeshifters are very likely going to attempt to break Nightwalker out of the Guard House. Cairan's got it covered, but… you ought to know what you're coming home to, Commander.”
Grisket nodded soberly. Then he reached out and clasped each of their hands in turn, gave them a final nod of farewell, took the reins and galloped east, towards the Arlen Plains.
They watched him go in silence, as the crows feasted by the side of the road.