Secrets buried, dark and deep
And more than just the sky will weep.
“Are you sure the entrance is here?” Hawk called up.
“Quite sure!” Mekka called back. “And keep your voice down! We are close to Fleetfleer and there may be guards down here!”
Hawk and Ferrian stood staring up at the enormous tree that lay across their path. The wall of wood, bigger than a tavern, stretched away into darkness on either side, barring their route. Green moss, like long hair, draped from its side, dusted with flecks of snow that drifted downwards from a large gap in the canopy. Mekka paced irritably back and forth along the top of it, almost invisible in the night save for the glow of his torch.
Hawk held a torch of his own, the firelight revealing a face full of uncertainty.
Ferrian looked around. Vast trees surrounded them, parading away in endless ranks into the blackness. He wondered how Mekka could find anything in this forest; all the trees looked the same to him, and the undergrowth was so thick, tangled and choked with ferns that locating anything on the ground seemed impossible.
Mekka leapt off the log a few minutes later, landing lightly beside them, but the Angel did not look happy.
“This tree has been deliberately felled,” he told them. “That end has been cut through cleanly.” He gestured into the darkness to their right. He scowled, shaking his head. “It would seem that the Angels wish to make absolutely certain there are no further intruders in the library.”
Hawk frowned. “How can you be so sure this is the right spot?”
Mekka walked over to a nearby tree and held his torch close to the trunk. He tapped a finger on a marking there, carved into the bark. “I left this many years ago, the first time that I discovered this entrance to Grath Ardan. It is difficult to locate, as you may have noticed.” He turned and stared at the fallen tree, and sighed. “Unfortunately, it is under that log.”
“Well,” Hawk replied. “No problem, right? We just use Ferrian's Sword and cut through it!”
“Yes,” Mekka agreed, though he looked anxious still. “But even with a silvertine blade, it will take some time.”
Ferrian stepped forward, raising his Sword. “Then let's get started,” he said, and swung the Sword of Frost into the wood.
Mekka was not wrong. Though the silvertine blade was supremely sharp, there was a lot of wood to get through. Ferrian did not tire, but Hawk insisted on taking turns. Ferrian allowed him to, knowing that the Freeroamer wanted to make himself useful. Mekka extinguished his torch and flew back up to the top of the log to keep watch.
They kept one torch alight, to see what they were doing and to keep away the greenweavers, which had continued stalking Ferrian the whole journey. He swallowed as he watched the darkness, hoping that the spider-plants were the only creepy things following him. Mekka had said that this was the Muron's homeland. There was no telling how many of those dreaded black creatures were still out there…
Ferrian became aware that his hand was clenching and unclenching. He felt uncomfortable and vulnerable without his Sword. He longed to take it back from Hawk.
The sound of chopping wood was unnervingly loud in the still, chilly forest.
They had carved quite a sizeable chunk out of the tree when Ferrian caught a glimpse of something shiny on the ground. Kicking away pieces of splintered wood, he crouched down and moved some crushed stone out of the way.
The edge of a piece of smooth, gleaming metal lay embedded in the ground. It was as brightly silver as his Sword, and appeared to be made of the same material; his blade would not go through it, just clanged off with a ringing sound.
He called to Hawk, who glanced into the hole and gave a whistle.
A moment later, Mekka appeared. They stood aside as the Angel entered the alcove they had hacked into the tree, and crouched by Ferrian's discovery. He touched the metal. “Yes,” he confirmed. “This is it.”
He looked up and held out a hand, and Ferrian passed him the Sword of Frost. The Angel began chopping into the tree, exposing more of the silver hatch. Ferrian and Hawk stood well back as he worked; Mekka hacked vigorously at the tree as though he had a personal grudge against it.
Hawk leaned over. “This is why,” he whispered, “I try not to stand near him when he's in a bad mood.” He nodded at Mekka.
“Last time,” Ferrian whispered back, “he punched you in the face!”
“Nah,” Hawk waved a hand dismissively. “That was his friendly mood!”
Ferrian peered into the hole. He felt a thrill of excitement that they had found Grath Ardan, that they were about to enter the fabled library at last, but he imagined that Mekka was not sharing quite the same thoughts.
The last time he tried to enter this place, Ferrian thought, he was beaten up and lost his eye.
If the guards caught him here again…
Mekka finished exposing the hatch and they helped him clear away the debris. The Angel knelt before the silver square of metal and began fiddling with what looked like a complicated circular design raised in the metal, but was in fact an intricate locking mechanism. Ferrian crouched beside him and Hawk retrieved the torch, bringing it close so that Mekka could see.
They watched in fascination as Mekka produced some lockpicks, did something swift and clever with them, and had the hatch unlocked in moments. With a firm push, the door swung silently downwards, revealing a deep, square hole filled with inky darkness.
“It is a considerable drop,” Mekka explained. “About twenty feet.” He looked at them. “I can lift both of you down, one at a time.”
Hawk nodded. “Take Ferrian first.”
Mekka nodded in return. Without further ado, he stood, grabbed Ferrian around the waist, and dropped down the hole.
When Mekka had confirmed they were both safely at the bottom, Hawk shouted a warning, then tossed down the torch, and afterwards, the Sword of Frost, listening to both clatter with an echoing din at the bottom of the hole. Then he stood back, to allow Mekka some room…
A noise behind him caused him to spin, drawing his sword…
… only to find himself holding half a sword, the other piece clattering onto the ground a few feet away.
Three white winged, golden-armoured Angel guards stood in front of him. Two held torches and long, slender spears with bladed tips. The third pointed a beautiful sword at him. All of their weapons were made from – of course – silvertine.
They looked exceedingly pleased with themselves.
Hawk sighed in resignation.
Then a gauntleted fist rushed at his face.
“No!”
Mekka slammed into the underside of the hatch just as it was pulled closed from outside, clicking back into place as the locks re-engaged. He slammed his spike into it, but it only screeched and sent up a shower of sparks. He hit the closed door angrily with his fist, then dropped back to the floor.
“Damn it!” he yelled, his voice echoing down the corridor.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Ferrian stared up dismally at the now pitch-black shaft, the door at its top firmly closed. He sighed and picked up his Sword. “We're trapped, aren't we.”
Mekka stopped pacing and slumped against the wall, letting out a sigh of his own. “Yes,” he muttered bitterly.
Ferrian looked into the shadows crowding the corridor ahead of them. “There must be another way out,” he said determinedly. “The main entrance–”
“Will be locked and guarded as well,” Mekka replied. He shook his head. “Grath Ardan is vast.” He paused for a moment. “It is possible… that there are other shafts like this one. I have not explored all of the corridors, only the main chambers, where the books are located.”
The Angel pushed himself suddenly off the wall, snatched up the torch and started walking. “Let's go.”
Ferrian took one last look at the hole, then followed. “Hawk,” he said worriedly. “What will they do to him?”
“Lock him up,” Mekka replied without turning around. “Interrogate him. Then throw him out of Arkana.”
He hesitated, then added: “I hope.”
“You hope?”
Mekka shook his head. “They will not kill him,” he went on quietly. “Angels abhor murder.”
Ferrian frowned. “You said your mother tried to throw you into the Pit?”
“I'm different,” Mekka replied darkly. “If they believe something is truly evil, they will not hesitate to get rid of it.”
Ferrian increased his pace until he was walking beside the Angel. “Mekka,” he said. “You're not evil.”
Mekka said nothing, just continued striding down the corridor, staring fixedly ahead.
Ferrian ran forward and pointed his Sword at Mekka, forcing the Angel to come to a surprised halt.
“You're not evil!” he repeated fiercely. “The colour of your wings does not make you any different to anyone else!”
Mekka stared at him for a long moment. Then his dark eye glimmered a little and he blinked and looked away, swallowing. “Aari said the same thing,” he said softly.
Ferrian continued to glare at him. “Then you'd better start believing it!”
Mekka looked up again slowly, and regarded Ferrian. “And what do you believe about yourself?” he challenged.
Ferrian hesitated, taken aback by the question that was thrown back into his face.
How could he expect Mekka to believe in himself, he realised, if he wasn't willing to do the same?
He swallowed, lowering his Sword.
Mekka walked forward and placed his gloved hand on Ferrian's shoulder. “You are stronger than you think you are, Ferrian,” he said. “You are dead, and yet you refuse to die. You need not let the Winter consume you.”
Ferrian stared back at him, and said nothing.
“We came here for answers,” Mekka went on, giving him a smile. “Let us go and find them.”
He started walking again. “And when we find a way out of here,” he sighed, “I suppose I shall have to go and rescue Hawk.”
Ferrian turned and walked with him, and smiled as well, resting his Sword on his shoulder. “Do you think he will appreciate that?” he asked.
Mekka smirked. “Not in the slightest.”
* * *
The war camp was in chaos.
Military personnel and civilians alike ran everywhere. Tents lay burning and smouldering with Dragon fire while rogue, black-armoured soldiers wandered through the rain as though possessed, slaughtering anyone within reach. Charred corpses and body parts were strewn across the rocks, blood mingling with reddish-brown mud.
Most survivors fled toward the docks, either throwing themselves into the sea or attempting to catch hold of hastily departing ships. Out on the churning ocean, several war brigs were aflame, lighting up the dark sea and clouds, while flashes of lightning seared the sky.
On the Isle, the volcano closest to the camp spewed molten fire high into the air, rivers of lava streaming down its sides. From the clouds roiling over the mountains, the huge, dark shadow of a Dragon emerged. Those still left in the camp ran for their lives as the creature descended.
The Dragon swept down towards the camp, coming fast.
A few people slipped and fell in the mud in their haste to get away, and could only scream and cower in terror as the Dragon smashed into a collection of tents, its enormous, fearsome head with its burning, vengeful eyes bearing down on them...
… only to come to a stop mere feet away.
One or two people lifted their heads tentatively from the mud, to see the entire upper half of the Dragon's mighty jaw slide sideways, releasing a hot, red, steaming gush with it.
And incredibly, a figure stood up, from within the Dragon's mouth, covered in blood.
A figure clad in black armour, clutching a dark sword, with red hair streaming about her shoulders.
She stepped over the teeth of the Dragon, jumping to the ground.
The survivors scraped together what little remained of their wits, and fled.
Carmine wiped blood and water from her eyes and stood breathing deeply the hot, drenched, stinking, wonderful air. She lifted her face to the clouds, letting the rain wash away the blood and gore, revelling in the simple pleasure of water trickling over her skin.
Only two words filled her mind, like a blaze of glory:
I'm alive!
Then the sounds of the Isle intruded on the moment, thunder rumbled through the sky, and she remembered.
Father!
Turning, she ran through the camp.
No one dared approach Carmine as she ran. A squad of five ordinary soldiers, clad in red armour, skidded to a halt at the sight of her, then simply dropped their swords and fled.
She found the stables a few minutes later.
All of the horses were gone; a couple of the animals lay dead on the ground, gutted from sword wounds.
She looked around desperately.
One horse was left. A young man dressed in miners' garb had just mounted it.
Carmine raced over and pointed her black sword at him, and the man leapt off the horse and sprinted away from her.
Mounting the horse, Carmine galloped out of the main encampment and into the hills.
The black dragon-wing blade sliced through the air, severing raindrops in its wake.
Sirannor ducked, spinning and bringing his own blade up. The clash of the parry rang through the pass.
The two veteran soldiers fought hard, their swords flashing like black lightning, rain pounding over them. General Dreikan, despite his armour, was swift on his feet, the moltmetal plate so light that it barely hampered his movements. Sirannor wore no protection at all, just his long coat, and was acutely aware of the consequences if just one scratch nicked his skin. It required all of his concentration to dance and spin away from that cursed black sword as, time and again, it passed within a hairsbreadth of him.
Rarely, in his long career as a soldier, had Sirannor fought against men who were his equal.
Dreikan was one.
It only remained to be seen who would make the first mistake.
Dreikan pressed hard on the offensive, knowing that his impenetrable armour gave him a significant advantage. Sirannor repelled his blows, spinning aside from another heavy slash that caught the sleeve of his coat. He didn't have time to check if it had grazed his skin. He didn't expect to survive long enough to get off this damned island in any case; he was not fated for a slow death.
He fought because blood pounded through his veins, and his mind was locked into battle. It did not matter who won; this fight was all that was left for him.
Inky mist poured off both of their blades as they fought, leaving streamers in the air. The touch of it was cold and clammy, and reminded Sirannor dimly of the demon-wraiths that haunted that lonely pass in the Barlakk Mountains. But that was of no consequence, either. He did not know what this strange black metal was, and he didn't care if it ripped out his soul, as long as it put an end to General Dreikan along with him.
His opponent pressed again with another flurry of sweeping blows, forcing Sirannor to defend.
Furiously he dodged and parried the blows, watching for an opening, but the attack was too tightly controlled.
He managed to break away, and they circled each other, breathing heavily. Sirannor could feel himself tiring, his muscles burning, and he sensed that Dreikan was, as well. The tension in the air was unbearable.
The rain stopped, replaced with a hot, sulphurous breeze.
Behind them, the lava flow rolled steadily onwards, consuming the bodies of the dead soldiers in the gully.
Dreikan had noticed the lava as well, and he was certain that the General would try to take advantage of it.
He also knew that Dreikan was thinking the same about him.
One way or another, Sirannor thought grimly, this battle is approaching its conclusion…
They knew each other too well, however.
Dreikan tried to manoeuvre him so that his back was turned to the lava flow. Sirannor refused to let him… and then, at the right moment, deliberately allowed himself to be caught between the lava and his opponent.
Dreikan rushed at him, clearly aiming for a blow that would knock Sirannor backwards, but Sirannor had anticipated this, and rolled out of the way.
The General was no fool, however, and had expected Sirannor to react this way. He spun mid-rush, sweeping his Dragon-blade sword to the side and downwards…
He missed his enemy by inches…
… but he stumbled.
It was just a slight wobble off balance, but Sirannor did not hesitate. He was on his feet, throwing himself toward Dreikan before the man could recover, spinning out of the way of the dragon-blade, swinging his own black sword at the back of Dreikan's exposed neck…
But Dreikan recovered slightly faster than he had expected, spinning with him, so that Sirannor's sword sliced through empty air...
And the Dragon-blade plunged into his back and out through his chest.
The world stopped.
Sirannor's own sword dropped from his hand, clattering onto the rocks. He could still feel the heat of the advancing lava, but strangely, there was no pain, just a paralysing coldness spreading from his chest into his limbs, his head…
He was barely aware of Dreikan withdrawing the sword from his body, allowing him to crumple to the ground.
The first mistake, he thought as shadow slowly claimed his vision, the only mistake… is… mine…
Carmine thundered up the slope from the seaward side, riding recklessly on the loose scree, but somehow, her horse kept its feet.
Cresting a final rise, into the valley where the Dragon had taken her, she saw General Dreikan turning away from a body lying on the ground, a vicious black blade held in his hand.
Carmine felt the world spin around her, and her heart plummet out of her chest. She reined her horse to a halt in shock.
No, she thought in horror. No, no, no, no…!
Letting out a scream, she leapt off her mount and sprinted towards the General, sword in hand.
She didn't know what she was doing. She could fight, but certainly didn't have the experience to take on the General. But she didn't care. All rational thoughts had fled from her head.
She felt tears leak across her cheeks as she ran.
Reaching Dreikan, she lifted her own black sword in both hands and swung it at him with everything she had, screaming as she did so…
Dreikan merely swatted her aside, as though she were nothing more than an insect.
Carmine lay on the rocks, struggling to breathe through her horror and grief as General Dreikan's orange cloak swished past her. He didn't even bother to glance back.
Sobbing, she scrambled to her feet, abandoning her sword, and ran to Sirannor.
He was covered in blood. She took his head in her hands, but he was gone, his eyes lifeless chips of mountain rock.
“No...” Tears poured down her face. “No! Father! I came back for you!”
She clutched him, burying her face in his hair. “I came back here for you!”
She wept.