Ferrian's Winter: Book Two: Grath Ardan

By Megan Leigh

Having finally arrived at the Sorcerer’s Valley only to narrowly survive a mutinous attack by Lord Arzath’s minions, Ferrian finds events take a twisted, horrifying turn. Holed up in Requar’s beautiful white castle with the Winter raging out of control and no one that he can trust, Ferrian sets out on his own to find the legendary forbidden library of Grath Ardan -- said to contain every word ever written.

There he hopes to discover the truth about the Winter and a vain, fleeting hope of reversing the awful tragedy that has befallen the one man he thought could help him. But will the truth be more than he can bear?

And who will be left to fight the terrible evil unleashed hundreds of miles away on a fiery, volcano-ridden island by a crazed general, as the Aegis -- the red shield that has imprisoned ancient Dragons for a thousand years -- finally fails?

And something much worse than either Dragons or Ferrian’s Winter threatens all life on Arvanor...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Megan Leigh
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370368648

Megan Leigh

Megan Leigh is a Tasmanian expat writer and artist living in Amsterdam. She paints nature and animals and writes weird and wonderful stories of fantasy and adventure.

Book preview

Chapter One

Eyes of fire, eyes that see

Truth or nightmares yet to be.

In the middle of a distant sea, a vast red dome curved against a cloudless blue sky. Sunlight reflected off it like glass, yet ships and waves and wheeling seabirds passed through it as though it did not exist.

But the Aegis was very real.

It was exactly one thousand years old, created in an almost forgotten age by ten of the most powerful sorcerers of their time. Each of the sorcerers infused a large crystal with their chosen magic, inscribed it laboriously with spells and sunk it into the seabed, evenly spaced around the circumference of the volcanic island they called the Middle Isle. The magical energy within the hearts of the crystals had then ignited, flared and connected, forming a perfect, unbreakable barrier over the entire island.

They had done this for one purpose, and one purpose only:

To keep half a dozen Dragons imprisoned inside.

To put an end to a savage war that had lasted for centuries.

And it had worked; despite their terrible rage and bloodlust, the huge winged creatures could not escape. No matter how fiercely they threw themselves at the Aegis, it would not let them through. The sky, for them, was to be forever crimson, the air perpetually filled with cinders and dark with smoke.

Sometimes they slaughtered the Humans who came to pick and peck at the rocks – their rocks – splashed their blood out of hunger or pure vindictiveness. Whenever presented with the opportunity, the Dragons picked off those stray puny lice who hadn't already destroyed themselves with their own petty wars, but it did little to sate their ravenous desire to reclaim the world of Arvanor as their own.

But Dragons lived a very long time, and they were patient.

And they remembered.

And they saw everything.

Deep within the dusty, blasted peaks of the Isle, a distinctive bright redstone ridge cut an impressive spine against the blood-tinted sky. Over the years, many Humans had tried scaling this ridge, or attempted to stick sharp implements into it, or build watchtowers upon it. All had disappeared, mysteriously, without a trace.

A section of stone suddenly split apart with a slight shower of dirt. Previously hidden behind the pitted surface was a bright molten orange glow, like a globe of fire. A slitted pupil, the length of a man's forearm, swivelled to look at the sky.

There was nothing there, only passing cloud shadows.

Nevertheless, the eye watched them.

It watched, and waited.

* * *

Hundreds of miles to the north-east, a perfectly straight bolt lanced into the clouds, so high that no Angel or bird had ever reached its summit; at least, not by mortal means. The rising sun glittered on windows of green and gold that wound about it like a string of gemstones, and traced the mesmerising geometric pattern that spiralled upwards into breathtaking infinity.

At the tower's root, waterfalls streamed from within lush jungle shadows over a perfect, semi-circular cliff. As they fell, the glittering streams struck bells, chimes, golden waterwheels and all manner of wondrous musical instruments embedded into the cliff face. Each created a divine silver melody that rang off the rock walls to be heard over land and sea and sky alike, until finally the aqueous symphony concluded in the applause of the sea.

These cliffs were known as the Singing Cliffs, and the tower that stood conductor above them was Caer Sync, the Heavenly Spire, the Axis, and many other names in many other languages.

In the heart of the great sky spire, at the place where it began its deep plunge into the ground, in the middle of an echoing chamber, stood three massive winged statues. The right arm of each god-like figure was outstretched, fingers flat, palms upward. Balanced delicately on the tips of the statues' fingers, tiny beneath their blind, all-knowing gazes, sat a tetrahedral mirror.

The Aurellian Sync.

Ambassador Tek'Hari floated in front of the artefact, fiddling with his glasses, nervous as he always was before a Viewing. The beautiful symphony of the Singing Cliffs filtered up through the windows, muted into distant echoes by the thick stone walls. Otherwise, only the swish of his golden-brown wings and the clunking of the huge clock on the ceiling dared disturb the reverent hush.

Beneath his feet, there was no floor: the chamber fell away into immeasurable blackness save for a decorative circular metal grate about fifty feet below him. Tek shuddered as he glanced down at it.

The gate to the Dark World.

In ages past, when that gate had been opened, foul things had flooded out of it and Arvanor had nearly fallen into chaos, but the Seraphim – the three statues that loomed now around him – had driven them back. It was said that anyone who ventured deep enough could enter the realm of Death without dying, and that the evil substance known as trigon had originated from there. Many things were said about that pit…

The Angel lifted his gaze quickly from the soul-eating black depths and fluttered a little closer to one of the statues, as though seeking the giant stone guardian's protection. Normally, he did not dwell on what lay beneath the Dark Gate, but the recent images he'd seen revealed by the Aurellian had him rattled. He was glad he had managed to retain his composure during his meeting with the King of Daroria. It had not been easy, especially since the King had appeared even more ignorant and inadequate than he'd feared…

Placing his small round spectacles carefully back on his nose, he looked up at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows above the heads of the statues. Eight triangular, glassless holes ringed the chamber in carefully calculated intervals, mathematically positioned to catch the sun at different times of the day and in different seasons. It was the alignment to the south-west that he looked to now, with a mixture of trepidation and impatience.

Above his head, the great clock ticked slowly: a reminder to all who entered the chamber of their own mortality.

A minute later, the beam appeared. The instant it hit the reflective silver face of the Aurellian, the mirror turned transparent, revealing a complex, crystalline interior which threw the light around in mysterious ways before projecting it onto the wall between two of the statues.

Tek watched the vision unfold with a hard knot in his stomach. The visions had first started appearing six months ago, but in the past few weeks had become much more detailed… and much grimmer.

The Aegis disintegrating. Fire and confusion. Dragons rampaging across land and sea, leaving terror and destruction in their wake.

To his knowledge, the Aurellian had never displayed prophetic images before. It was designed to reveal events happening in the present moment, anywhere in Arvanor but specifically the Middle Isle.

But these were clearly scenes of the future.

But perhaps, he reasoned, this was how it was supposed to work, to provide advance warning of the imminent failure of the Aegis.

It was an extremely old artefact. There was a possibility it could be malfunctioning, that these scenes would never occur.

Yet, there was no way to know for certain; there were no sorcerers left to inspect the crystals in the seabed around the island, to check if they were still functioning. Even more worryingly: there was no one left who could repair them.

The Ambassador put his face in his hands, a draught chilling the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his skin.

If the Aegis truly was failing, then there was nothing anyone on Arvanor could do to prevent the visions in the Aurellian from coming true.

Slowly, he removed his hands from his face. The final image on the wall showed the great forest of Arkana both freezing and burning, Fleetfleer in ruins…

And something else. Something cold and dark and devastating that slipped into Arkana amid the chaos. Something far more monstrous than the Dragons…

And then the vision faded.

Trembling, Tek lifted his gaze to the giant six-winged statues surrounding him, looked up into their blind, three-eyed faces. Nothing anyone could do. Except…

Bowing his head and placing his hands against his chest, he began to pray.

* * *

Grisket Trice regained consciousness slowly, his heart pounding in steady time to the pain crashing into the back of his head.

Groaning, he opened his eyes.

The first thing his blurry vision managed to focus on was a ground littered with bark: grey and soft like old skin. The second thing he noticed was the flies: little black dots buzzing everywhere in a chaotic frenzy. The third thing he experienced was the smell. It hit him with almost as much force as the blow that had knocked him out.

Retching, he lifted an arm to swat away the flies crawling over his face, and his hand brushed something wet on his cheek. Further investigation revealed that the source of the dampness was at the back of his head; naturally, where the pain was coming from. He winced at the blood on his fingers. Whoever had hit him hadn't used a blunt object, but something sharp. There was a nice gash back there.

But he was still alive, so they hadn't wanted him dead.

At least not straight away, he thought darkly.

Slowly and carefully, as his stomach was threatening to release its contents at any moment, he pushed himself up on his elbows and peered at his gloomy surroundings. He thought at first that dusk had fallen, but there were slivers of white-hot light between the gnarled ti-tree trunks.

Ti-trees.

Grisket groaned again. He was back in the clearing where he'd found a slaughtered Muron and lost Ferrian's trail. My attacker has a disturbing sense of irony, he thought, and then wondered, irrationally, if it was Nightwalker…

Half-heartedly, he reached for his knife, and was surprised to find that it was still there. Staggering to his feet, he turned on the spot, then gave a start.

A Muron was standing directly behind him, completely silent, staring down at him, its slanted eyes lantern-like in the gloom.

Despite his sudden surge of fear, Grisket cursed. "You bloody creatures don't know when to quit, do you?" Even as he spoke, two more of the black winged monsters prowled out of the trees, enclosing him in the small clearing.

The Commander of the Freeroamers sagged. There was no way he could take on three of them. If Sirannor had been with him, perhaps it would have been possible, but the Captain was not here, he was in Sunsee. All of his Freeroamers were elsewhere, Aari was ill, Ferrian was Gods-knew-where and probably dead by now, and he was alone. There was no one around to scrape him out of this one. He could see the remainder of his woefully fragile lifespan stretched out before his eyes, about to be snapped.

He stared at the Murons bitterly. After all the battles and struggles he'd been through, after he'd worked so hard for so many years to keep the Freeroamers together and scrub the Outlands clean of scum like the Bladeshifters... it was all going to end as an afternoon snack for a bunch of pitiless beasts.

Eltorian Nightwalker would be in stitches if he knew. Grisket himself snorted a laugh. Too bad you're not here, Nightwalker.

I ain't tellin' you where Cimmeran is, so don't even bother, he growled at the Murons.

The first Muron stared at him unblinkingly. We are no longer interesssted in the sservant, it said. We grow bored with the ssearch.

Oh yeah? And what's your Master gonna say about that?

We do not care. We are not hiss ssservantss. We were never hiss sservantsss. We do ass we wissh.

Grisket raised his eyebrows. You seemed pretty damned interested in Cimmeran a few days ago.

One of the other Murons said: We have ssince disscovered that Lord Arzath iss not who he claimss to be.

Despite his impending death, Grisket was curious. "Well, well, that is interesting, he said. How'd you find that out? You're a long way from your castle."

The first Muron narrowed its eyes and flexed its long claws, clearly annoyed with the questioning. Nevertheless, it explained. Muronss possess the ability to communicate with each other over vassst disstancess, it hissed. Our brethren at the casstle passsed on sssome fasscinating newsss.

For the first time in a long time, a small spark of hope flared inside the dark cavern of the Freeroamer's soul. He grinned. It didn't have anything to do with the Winter, by any chance?

One of the Murons kicked at his leg, with such force that Grisket's kneecap cracked and his leg buckled, sending him crashing to the ground. He let out a cry of agony.

Your chattering attemptss to prolong your own pitiful exisstance are amussing, Human, he heard one of them say through his pain. But we would prefer to lissten to you sscream.

And with that, the Muron in front of him stabbed its talons through his foot and raised its arm so that Grisket was hanging upside down by his broken leg. He tried not to scream again, but the pain was excruciating and he could not help himself. But he did not intend to go down without a fight. He kicked out viciously with his good leg at the Muron's head, chest and arm in a futile attempt to make it let go. The Muron did not even blink at the blows. It continued to hold him aloft, like an angler watching a crippled fish squirm in its grasp.

Grisket could feel blood running down his leg beneath the cloth of his trousers. Worse than that, blood was rushing to his brain, making his vision swim. One of the Murons was saying something to the others in its own snarling language. In his imagination, Grisket translated it as something along the lines of: "Who wants the first bite?"

He wondered what had taken them so long. He supposed they had already eaten and were just playing with him, like cats.

Gritting his teeth hard, he blinked the sweat out of his eyes and took a firm grip on his knife, determined to stick it deep into the first Muron eye that came within arm's reach…

Then the Muron holding him screeched. He thought at first it was some sort of bloodlust cry, but craning to look up he saw the creature scrabbling at a twelve-inch feathered black yew shaft protruding from its eye.

The Muron ripped its claws out of Grisket's foot, dropping him to the ground and yanked the arrow out of its head, along with a stream of black blood. Furious, it whirled, teeth bared and wings flared in aggression, searching for the attacker.

Dazed, panting and shaking with pain, Grisket looked for the attacker as well. He was reminded at once of his previous battle with Murons, which had taken an eerily similar course, and exhilaration coursed through his veins. Perhaps Sirannor had come back, after all! But his old friend was not known for using black arrows…

The injured Muron was agitated. It barked something at its companions and then stalked off into the trees to find and tear apart whoever it was that had dared shoot it in the eye. One of the other Murons crept away as well, scanning the thick undergrowth that circled the grove. The remaining Muron half-crouched beside the Freeroamer, watchful.

Then another arrow whirred out of the trees from a completely different direction, glancing off one of the Muron's wing spikes. With a snarl, the creature sprang upwards into the canopy.

There was a brief, frenzied thrashing in which leaves and bark rained down, followed a moment later by the Muron, which almost landed on top of Grisket. The Freeroamer was stunned to see blood pouring out of a neat perfect hole in the top of its head. It convulsed, gurgling horribly, blood leaking everywhere, and slowly died.

There was more rustling and snarling from the trees around him, but still Grisket could see no one. It was as though the Murons were being attacked by a ghost.

An unbelievably daring ghost with an impossibly keen weapon.

One of the other Murons crept back into the clearing: slowly, purposefully.

Hunting.

When it caught sight of its dead companion, it stopped. It turned to Grisket, black jaws gaping menacingly.

The Freeroamer raised his pitifully inadequate knife for the last time. He took a deep breath, glared back defiantly at the face of death and braced himself.

It lunged at him.

It almost had him when another, smaller black shape dropped out of the treetops, landing on the Muron's back. There was click, a swish and something long, silver and lethal protruded through the back of the creature's throat between its gaping jaws, the blood-smeared tip of the spike halting inches from Grisket's astonished face. An instant later, it retracted with another strange click.

But no sooner had that Muron fallen than the last one burst out of the trees behind the newcomer. Swift and graceful as a pirouetting eagle, the darkly-clad attacker spun, dodging the swiping claws and thrust his silver spike through the Muron's chest, piercing scales, flesh, bone and muscle alike. The Muron continued to thrash wildly, screaming and stumbling until it grew too weak and collapsed in a bleeding heap.

In the silence that followed, the Commander of the Freeroamers stared at the collection of corpses around him.

Hells bells! he gasped finally.

Mekk'Ayan extracted a handkerchief from the pocket of his green jacket and wiped the blood off the two-foot long spike in his gloved hand. "I think I shall call this... hmm...'Muron Dancer'." Twitching his hand, the spike shot up his sleeve into its hidden casing with a metallic shing. A bow was slung over one shoulder and a quiver of black-feathered arrows at his belt.

Grisket laughed in part relief, part amazement. Black-feathered arrows, he panted, shaking his head. I... should've guessed sooner! And where... the hell'd you get that mean piece of silver?

Silvertine, actually, the black-winged Angel replied. Hardest known metal. Indestructible. No wonder those old sorcerers used it for their Swords.

He shrugged nonchalantly and knelt by the Commander's side. Just something I picked up in Selvar. If I have to kill, I'd prefer to do it in style.

Grisket accepted the water canteen that Mekka offered him and went to shake the Angel's hand, then thought better of it and patted him heartily on the shoulder instead. I haven't seen you in years, lad! What are you doing in these parts? And I owe you my thanks and much more besides!

Think nothing of it, Mekka replied, casting a concerned eye over Grisket's injuries and producing bandages, a herbal potion and other items from a travelling satchel. But I fear that I bear dire news. By the way, he added, handing over a mud-caked shiny object, I believe this belongs to you.

Grisket turned it over in his hand. It was his Commander's badge. He had forgotten he'd left it by the side of the highway; incredibly, the Angel must have seen it glinting from the air. And this, as well. Mekka passed him a rather dusty and crumpled-looking feathered hat.

Staring down at the broken feather, Grisket's face fell. Noticing his expression, Mekka's handsome, serious face turned even grimmer. It appears I'm not the only one with a dark tale to relate, he said.

Grisket carefully folded the orange-white feather – the one that poor Aari had given him not so long ago – and stashed it in his pocket. No, he sighed. No, you're not.

Chapter Two

Cold the light that round him sweeps

Colder still the one who sleeps.

It was peaceful, in the light. Neither warm nor cool, simply bright.

Ferrian was lost, but he didn't care. He did not want to be found. The light was his saviour, his protector. It filled him with pure, coruscating emptiness. He knew that beyond the fringes of the wonderful glow were things that circled like predators, seeking to grip him with freezing grey hands.

Darkness. Coldness. Despair.

But if he stayed still, he would be safe from their gelid grasp. If he refused to listen, he could not hear their wailing voices. Nothing could harm him while he was here, in the light. His memories, his cares, his dead and useless body: he had abandoned them all for this blinding infinity.

But he was not alone. The lilting lullaby trickled all around him, now so familiar that he could hum along to the words. He sat cross-legged in the very heart of the white void, staring up like a little child in wide-eyed fascination at the scintillating diamond on its pedestal. Twice before now, he had touched it, and both times it had broken and caused him terrible pain. He was wiser, now. He must not give in to curiosity, or he would suffer for it.

So he simply watched, and listened, and hummed, and was at peace.

Keep our Mother safe and cold, he murmured.

I am your mother, a glimmering voice sang in reply.

Ferrian nodded in acceptance. Yes, she was his mother. The Dragon was his mother. The Dragon protected him. The Dragon was the one who had brought the light to embrace him. The Dragon would not let him die. The Dragon loved him.

He would never question her word.

After while, she spoke again, and this time, her voice was different, more urgent:

Someone approaches.

For the first time in an uncountable measure of existence, Ferrian removed his gaze from the crystal. He was confused by the Dragon's words. Who could be approaching? Nobody knew he was here. Nobody could reach him. This place belonged to him. Him and the Dragon.

But there was somebody there.

Climbing to his feet, Ferrian stood dappled by the rainbows flickering out from the crystal and watched the figure approach. It was etched black against the glare, features impossible to distinguish, walking steadily towards him.

Ferrian felt strangely unsettled at the sight of it. The back of his head prickled, as though his memories were scratching at him, trying to return.

The figure came closer and then stopped, arms folded, staring at him.

Ferrian squinted uncomprehendingly through the glare. Who are you?

The silhouette did not reply. Instead, it lifted its head to address the white light streaming around them. Return his memories. Now!

A jab of vexation pierced Ferrian's peaceful cocoon. Who was this intruder, and what right did he have– suddenly the soft chanting song warbled into a babble of voices, and the white light changed into a chaotic kaleidoscope of colours and images. Beside him, the diamond flickered crazily.

The question is… not why I am interested in you, but indeed, why the Commander of the Freeroamers is interested in you…

I'm sorry, boy; it's not your fault…

I think I'm dead…

YOU'RE A CHARLATAN!

Are you all right? You look kind of... pale…

Try harder! The magic is there, inside you! Let it out! Stop holding back!

Eventually, the sickening, spinning sensation slowed and the images and voices coalesced, contracted into the form of the man standing before him, so that Ferrian now saw him with perfect clarity and recognition.

Arzath! he gasped.

The sorcerer spread his arms in a mock greeting. Oh, you remember me at last! I'm touched.

Looking around at the ghostly, fading remnants of Ferrian's memories, he added: Nice show. You're even more pathetic than I could possibly have imagined…

What are you doing here? Ferrian interrupted, annoyed. How did you get into my mind?

The white light had turned into glowing snowflakes, drifting silently all around them.

Arzath laughed. I'm a sorcerer, you fool. Human minds present no barrier to someone of my considerable talents. Admittedly, yours was a little more difficult to penetrate with your Dragon watchdog standing in the way…

She's protecting me, Ferrian said, feeling defensive, for some reason.

Arzath snorted. Protecting you? Is that what you call it? How sweet.

Ferrian ignored him. I thought you'd lost your magic?

To his surprise, Arzath did not retort with an arrogant comment. Instead, he turned away, staring down at his gloved hands, which he clenched into fists. I… got it back, he replied finally.

You don't sound very pleased, Ferrian said. I thought that's what you wanted?

Arzath spun back, a familiar look of contempt returning to his face. Shut up! I was forced to waste an obscene amount of energy attempting to get inside your wretched head, and I'm hardly convinced it was worth the effort…

Why did you bother then? Ferrian shot back. He didn't appreciate being belittled inside his own mind. He was already embarrassed that Arzath had witnessed all of his deepest memories, his darkest thoughts, his private moments. It felt worse than standing naked in front of him. Why do you care what I do to myself?

Oh, make no mistake, Arzath sneered. I couldn't care less what you do to yourself. He inclined his head. Look at you. You're pitiful. You cannot find a way to deal with your fears and uncertainties, so you choose instead to forget they exist. You lock yourself away in this cosy little void, while the Winter continues to rage unchecked around you. What are you afraid of? The truth?

Ferrian stared at him. His words were like ice shards cutting into his skin, but they were all true. The… the Winter… he stammered.

The Winter is hardly the worst of it! Arzath strode over to Ferrian and seized him by the collar. Do you have any idea what you have done?!

His expression was terrifying, but Ferrian wrenched himself out of his grasp. Maybe if you'd helped me find a cure for the Winter instead of being so obsessed with killing your brother, we'd all be in a happier place right now!

Arzath's eyes narrowed. I did help you, or have you conveniently forgotten that, as well? I taught you a concentration spell. I gave you my Sword. You were the one who was stupid enough to drop it in the river.

Ferrian glared back at him resentfully. You were never interested in helping me. You just wanted to save your own backside. At least Requar pretended to care…

A strange look came over Arzath's face at the mention of his brother's name. Something flickered deep in his eyes, like a ghost, and he turned quickly away. I can't imagine why, he muttered, and strode towards the crystal.

Sensing his intention, Ferrian lunged towards him. No! he cried, but Arzath dodged smoothly aside, catching the boy's arm.

Enough of this nonsense. I want answers.

And he slammed Ferrian's hand down on the faceted surface of the diamond.

It exploded.

The real world slammed into Ferrian with shocking impact, as though a great fist had knocked him backwards onto a hard pavement. Pain shattered through his head, awakening him with a jerk and a cry. He lay for a minute gasping with his eyes shut tight until the pain subsided into a dull thumping.

Then he opened his eyes again, slowly.

Gone was the brilliant glow of magic, replaced with equally familiar, but far less comforting grey light. Gradually, his vision cleared to reveal a circular diamond-paned, snow-covered window. The Winter howled and thrashed against it, like a hungry wolf trying to get inside.

Ferrian shuddered, blinked and peered around.

The room he was lying in was a small, sparsely furnished bedroom, with white stone walls that did nothing to brighten the gloom; instead, shadows leached like ghostly ink across their pale surfaces. There was a biting draught, so cold he might as well have been outside, and he noticed with dismay that the hearth was not even set. Indeed, it looked as though the ornate, pristine fireplace had never seen a lick of flame, ever. Only a single candle flickered on the bare mantle, reflected in a frost-dusted mirror.

Staring at the mirror, Ferrian saw a shadowy movement reflected in it. Turning his head, he saw Arzath rise from a chair beside his bed. Without a word or a glance at Ferrian, he swept to the door and went out.

Hey… Ferrian struggled to push himself up. Hey! Arzath! But his words fell unheeded upon the sorcerer's trailing cloak.

Ferrian scowled at the open door. Thanks, he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. Don't bother telling me what's going on. I'm sure I'll figure it out myself. He noticed that a smear of charcoal came off on his fingers, and stared down at it in puzzlement.

Whoa, you're awake!

Ferrian looked up, startled, to see a man he did not recognise standing in the doorway.

The stranger came inside, picked up a damp cloth from a water-basin beside the bed, and handed it to Ferrian. Might wanna scrub them creepy-lookin' markin's off yer face, he advised. Arzath's bin scrawlin' spells all over you, tryin' to wake you up. He shook his head. Didn't think you was ever gonna snap out of it. We was about to give up.

Ferrian stared at him warily. Uh, do I know you? he asked, racking his brains in case he'd met the man somewhere before, and simply forgotten.

The man offered a stout, callused hand and a smile. Starshadow Flint.

Ferrian hesitated, taking in his black, metal-studded outfit, which did look disturbingly familiar.

Noticing his suspicion, Flint sighed wearily. Geez, I need to get meself some new gear, he grumbled. "Look, long story short; I used to do Nightwalker's dirty work, till he screwed me over. Now I'm finished with the Bladeshifters."

Ferrian thought he looked only slightly trustworthier than Arzath, but until he found out more about the man decided he had no choice but to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had no one else to trust at the moment.

So, reluctantly, he took Flint's hand and smiled back. How did you get in here, anyway? he asked, wiping the itchy charcoal runes off his face. I thought no one could pass through the shield… or… did Arzath let you in the secret way? He felt a quirk of danger in his stomach again. If the man was an acquaintance of Arzath's, Ferrian definitely couldn't trust him…

Flint hesitated. I uh… he said slowly, I came in with… he made a vague gesture with his hand, unwilling to finish the sentence.

Arzath? Ferrian guessed, his suspicions rising again. I knew it…

But the ex-Bladeshifter shook his head, a deeply troubled look crossing his face beneath his floppy wide-brimmed hat. Requar.

Ferrian's head jerked up in astonishment. Lord Requar? he gasped. "He… he's here?"

Whoa, kid, steady there! Flint said, catching him. Ferrian had flung off the covers and leapt out of bed so fast that he'd tripped, fallen into a side table and knocked the water basin onto the floor with a clatter.

Attempting to right himself on the table, Ferrian cursed. He had forgotten that his body was not alive, and no longer behaved normally. His legs, through lack of circulation, had become dead weights.

Can you stand? Flint asked.

Ferrian could – just. He looked up at the other man excitedly, a torrent of questions flooding from his lips. Where is he? When did he arrive? How long have I been asleep? Why didn't he come in here to wake me up? He couldn't possibly be more obnoxious than… his voice trailed off.

Flint's look was grim. Ferrian searched his face for a clue to his uncertainty, but his initial exhilaration was sinking rapidly into a depressing empty hole. Something happened while I was unconscious, didn't it?

Flint nodded.

Ferrian swallowed. If his heart had been working, it would have been pounding at his ribs in growing panic. Something bad.

Flint nodded again, then turned away and went to the wardrobe, taking out Ferrian's clothes and placing them on the bed. Ferrian's hands gripped the table behind him. The Winter wailed mournfully and the candle flame shivered in the silence.

How bad?

Flint didn't answer him. You'd better get dressed, kid.

Ferrian made no move to do so. He couldn't move. He felt as though he had turned to pure ice. He's dead, isn't he? he whispered.

The other man's failure to reply was all the confirmation Ferrian needed. He sank to the floor.

Flint walked over to the stricken boy and knelt in front of him. He put a hand on his shoulder. The thing is, kid, he said slowly, we… we don't know.

"You don't know? How could you not know?" Ferrian wanted to cry, but he had no tears. He wanted to flee back into his mind, escape the horror of what was happening around him. He wanted to be alone, in blissful oblivion. Yet, Arzath's words still cut at him: Look at you. You're pitiful. You cannot find a way to deal with your fears and uncertainties, so you choose instead to forget they exist…

A cold, burning fury began to leach through the frozen floorboards, through his bare knees, through his pallid skin, up into his still heart. Arzath finally got what he wanted, he thought. He killed Requar. The man only came back here because of me, and he walked straight into his brother's trap. And I was too afraid to warn him. I was afraid, and I fled and let it happen…

Death. Death and darkness and suffering. Everywhere I go, those are the footprints I leave behind.

He got up suddenly, forcing his legs to move. He snatched up his clothes and began to dress. I want to see him, he said. He didn't, really: he couldn't think of anything worse than seeing Requar lying dead… or whatever terrible fate had claimed him. But he refused to run away again.

He was determined not to prove Arzath right.

Flint simply nodded, saying nothing. Once Ferrian had finished pulling on his boots, the ex-Bladeshifter led the way out into the hall.

As they passed down the long passage, Ferrian was momentarily distracted by the ice. It gleamed everywhere, covering the walls and floor in thick layers, hanging like stalactites from the vaulted ceiling. Clumps of crystal rose about him in odd, sculpture-like formations. Ferrian stood and stared at it all blankly until Flint urged him to keep moving.

They climbed a flight of stairs that passed several landings. Through one of the windows, Ferrian caught sight of Arzath's burnt-out castle on the other side of the valley.

It was black and silent and covered in snow.

Ferrian hoped the Griks had all perished, and the Murons along with them.

At the top of the stairs was square space like a small hall or foyer with a large round window set in the southern wall. The same sun-like crest that was displayed on the floor of the entrance hall below them was inlaid in contrasting marble here, as well. Flint walked over it and stood by a pair of double doors opposite the stairs.

He hesitated, looking at Ferrian. You… sure you wanna see this?

Yes, Ferrian replied. No, he thought. I want Lord Requar to be well. I want him to greet me with a cheerful handshake and tell me that he has a cure for my Winter, that he can restore my body to how it used to be, that he can help Aari and Cimmeran and get my friends back. I want him to tell me everything will be fine…

Then the door was opening in front of him, and Flint stood aside to let him enter first.

Ferrian's wishes melted away like snowflakes. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Polished stone gave way to soft carpet. The chamber was spacious and tasteful, though his semi-deteriorated vision would not let him see the colours, only a spectrum of grey, which deepened the gloominess. A thick blanket of heat fell over him, and he saw that there was a fire in this hearth; a large, roaring brightness to his left. It made him feel oddly queasy and shivery.

Arzath stood at the window on the far side of the room. He did not turn around as Ferrian entered or acknowledge his presence in any way. He might have been a black indecorous statue in the corner.

Ferrian let his glare settle on the sorcerer's back for a moment, then looked away in disgust and turned his attention instead to the bed.

He didn't know how he managed to make himself move forward, but he did.

A long, lean figure lay there, so pale as to be almost invisible on the sheets. Ferrian had never before laid eyes on Lord Requar, and was still no wiser to his identity, for his entire face was swathed in bandages. Only a slit for (optimistically, perhaps) breathing was left over his mouth. Most of his torso was wrapped up as well, leaving his naked arms lying at his sides on top of the blankets. His hands were long and elegant and aristocratic, like Arzath's. Strands of white hair slipped free from beneath the bandages around his head.

Ferrian stared down at the stain of blood in the middle of his chest, and at his upper arms and neck where his veins stood out starkly black against his skin.

The noxious trigon infection was seeping inexorably through him.

Ferrian felt pins and needles all over, as though he could feel the trigon running through his own body. The urge to be sick was overwhelmed by the horror that anyone could inflict such a terrible blight on another Human being.

His hands curled into balls. You did this, didn't you?

He didn't bother to glance up at Arzath, and the sorcerer didn't bother to reply.

YOU DID THIS TO HIM, DIDN'T YOU?!

You presume that I struck him with the trigonic dagger, Arzath answered finally, still staring out of the snow-speckled window with his hood pulled over his head. Understandable, perhaps. But you are wrong. He paused. Requar took the dagger from me and plunged it into his own heart.

Ferrian was so furious he was shaking. "Oh, sure. He stabbed himself! Why the hell would he do that? Do you honestly expect me to believe you?"

I know it's hard to believe, kid, Flint had come to stand by the foot of the bed. But he's tellin' the truth.

Ferrian whirled on him. And why should I believe you, either? I don't even know you!

Over by the window, Arzath removed one of his black gloves and turned, lifting his hand so that Ferrian could see it clearly. Because, he replied, his voice bitter and ironic, I tried to save him.

His hand was covered in dark splotches, like savage bruises.

Ferrian fell silent, shocked. He sank down on the bed, staring at Requar. I never even got a chance to meet him personally, he thought. He had answers for me: he said so himself. Now, I'll never know what they were…

There must be… there must be something we can do, he said desperately. We can't just let him die!

Arzath came forward. "Did you not listen to anything I told you? he snapped. Requar spent his entire life searching for a cure to trigon! He was obsessed with it! He knew everything there was to know about it, and all to no avail!"

But Ferrian was shaking his head, denying what Arzath was saying. He could not accept there was no hope. Not yet. If we can just wake him up, he continued. You could enter his mind and force him to come out, like you did with me…

Arzath glared at him. What the hell do you think I've been doing these last few days, while you've been blissfully snoozing? I've been conducting Mind Sweeps! And guess what I found!

Ferrian didn't need to guess. He already knew the answer.

Nothing! Arzath cried. "Emptiness! Not a spark of thought or shred of memory anywhere inside that ruined head! The trigon has destroyed his mind, consumed his life force, his magic, his essence, everything! His heart still beats, only to pump trigon through his veins! He is gone!"

Ferrian was stunned, both by Arzath's words and his reaction to them. Here was a man who had hated his brother so badly he had wanted to murder him with his own hands, and now he appeared grief-stricken at his death. Meeting his brother again appeared to have changed something inside him, something deep and fundamental.

Perhaps he had finally woken up to himself.

Perhaps too late.

Arzath turned away, presumably to conceal the fact that he was dangerously close to tears.

Then why are we keepin' him alive? Flint stated bluntly. Why not stop his heart, here an' now, stop this trigon from spreadin' further before he turns into one o' them wraith things?

Perhaps you should ask the boy that question, Arzath said with undisguised vehemence. Striding over to the fireplace, he snatched a long, gleaming sword from the mantle and tossed it contemptuously onto the bed, as though its touch was anathema.

For a heart-jerking moment, Ferrian thought that Arzath had retrieved the Sword of Frost. This blade looked almost identical; the same dimensions, the same beautiful design, the same black and white snakes winding up from the hilt. The only difference was in the hilt, with embedded gemstones in place of the dagger-shaped recess.

Both Flint and Arzath were staring at him as though waiting for elucidation.

But the only thing the boy could give them was a look of confusion. I've never seen this before, he replied.

Oh, I believe you have! Arzath snapped.

You don't remember? Flint said.

Remember what? Ferrian said exasperatedly. I don't know what you want from me! The last thing I remember is sitting in front of the hearth in the dining hall, staring into the flames. Then I must have fallen asleep, because I had another dream about the crystal. Then Arzath showed up and woke me and you brought me here! That's all I know!

Arzath made a sound of disgust and paced away irritably while Flint briefly explained everything that had taken place since he and Requar had arrived at the castle three nights previously.

The White Dragon, Ferrian said after a brooding silence. She must have taken control of my body…

Dragon? Flint looked half-alarmed, half-puzzled.

But Arzath knew exactly what he was talking about. She took control of you because you were too weak to do it yourself!

Ferrian leapt off the bed, his anger returning in a surging, freezing wave. Deep within him he felt his magic stir, felt the white light threaten to explode out of him again. Behind Arzath, the big circular window rattled ominously and the fire shrank and danced wildly. Flint took an apprehensive step backwards as the carpet beneath Ferrian's feet turned white with frost.

Ferrian didn't care. He was tired of Arzath's taunts and jibes. He was upset about Requar's death and confused and depressed about everything in general. The Winter and the Dragon could do what they wanted. He wasn't even sure if they were the same thing or separate entities inside him, but it didn't matter. He was fed up trying to control them or suppress them. If the Dragon chose to command him for whatever reason, then so be it. If she wanted to smash this room to pieces, he would gladly allow her to.

Stop it, Ferrian burst out. "Just… shut up. Stop calling me weak! You're not the one who has to live with a terrible cur–" He caught his breath, but it was too late. The horrific mistake had been uttered.

A deathly silence fell across the room, filled only with the sound of the storm outside. Nobody moved.

Then Arzath flung up his arm.

Before Ferrian could blink, he was slammed into the wall behind him with such force that lights erupted before his eyes. Across the room, Arzath's outstretched arm trembled as he held the boy pinned to the wall. His high cheekbones shimmered with sweat in the firelight, and his face was twisted with both anger and agony. If using my magic didn't… cause me such… great pain, he gasped, I would burn you… to ashes!

Releasing Ferrian, he swept to the door past a startled Flint, who leapt hastily aside to let him pass, and slammed it behind him.

In the painfully awkward silence left behind, Flint muttered: Kid, that was…

Stupid, Ferrian finished. He was sitting on the floor where he had fallen, with his arms folded on top of his knees and his head lowered on them. "Really, really damned stupid. You don't need to say it."

Tactfully, the ex-Bladeshifter changed the subject. So, er, if I've got this right… some sort of Dragon took over your body?

Ferrian nodded, and repeated the conversation he'd had with Arzath several nights before, describing how the sorcerer had discovered a cursed crystal along with a Dragon corpse in the mountains above Verlista. The Dragon must have hidden a piece of her soul in the diamond, Ferrian surmised. When Arzath broke it, both the Winter and the Dragon's spirit lodged in me.

Flint frowned in thought. And somehow this Dragon used Requar's Sword?

Ferrian nodded again. I suppose she thought she could save him.

How's that work, then? I thought no one could use them Swords except their rightful owners.

Ferrian shrugged. I don't know. Maybe Dragon magic is capable of anything. He gestured ironically to his own cadaverous physique. Look what it did to me.

Flint stared gloomily at the bandaged, diseased and mindless body lying on the bed, the remains of a once talented, impossibly handsome and uniquely good-hearted sorcerer. "Didn't do him much good, did it, he sighed. Didn't heal none of his wounds, let alone that bloody trigon."

They fell into despairing silence. Out in the snow-swept valley, the wind wailed a requiem.

Chapter Three

Raven wings, shattered feathers

Friendship broken now forever.

The sunset was a beautiful one. All traces of the storm front that had swept the Coastlands the previous week had long since disappeared over the western horizon, leaving a hot, bright sun that sank over the white roofs of the city and dipped into the sea. Directly before the golden orb, like an ember birthed from its brilliance, a smaller patch of brightness floated on the molten waves.

A column of smoke, entwined with the fragrance of eucalyptus leaves, carried the remains of Sergeant Aari'Zan of the Freeroamers skywards for the last time. Seagulls wheeled high above, flashes of white dancing amid the emerging stars. A single large, snowy crane circled with them; flown overland, perhaps, from Barquilla, riding the back of the storm on some unknown migration.

Some, amongst those gazing from below, wondered. Some thought the very tips of the great bird's white wings glimmered like fire, but it was too far away and too lost in the glare to tell.

A small crowd had gathered on the sea wall. Behind them, the city of Sunsee went about its evening business as usual. Few of its citizens had any interest in watching another sad funeral. Soldiers died all the time: the waves of the Cerulean Sea were littered with their ashes. Everyone knew someone who had been killed on the Middle Isle, taken by starving Dragons, forced to die for a decadent King. Only a few were aware that the body that lay consumed on the pyre was that of an Angel, though it might have made interesting gossip if it had been made public. But by now, rumours had spread wings of their own. Some of the fishermen – and in particular, their wives and daughters – were curious at the striking image of a stranger that stood knee-deep in the breakers out on the bay.

One dark eye gazed at the burning pyre, the other was hidden behind a black patch. A loose white shirt rippled in the sea breeze. Glossy black wings arced over his back like twin eclipses against the setting sun.

Mekk'Ayan had arrived in Sunsee with Commander Trice two days previously. From the moment he had learned of Aari's death, the black-winged Angel had – with the Freeroamers' permission – taken over organisation of the funeral. He alone knew the correct ceremonial procedures, the prayers and traditional rites to be performed for one of his kinsmen. He had taken care of everything with efficiency, discreetness and grace. Only now, as was obvious to everyone who watched, had he at last allowed himself freedom to grieve.

Hawk stood a little out from the sea wall and its collection of quietly whispering observers. He felt cold inside, despite the warm sand blowing around his feet and the last kiss of the sun blazing off his polished blood-red breastplate. He was dressed in full ceremonial attire, which included long crimson and gold robes over armour that was much more ornate than he normally wore in battle, and a rather pompous plumed helmet that he hated. Sirannor had assured him that such formalities were unnecessary and that, indeed, Hawk was under no obligation to attend the funeral if he had military or other duties to attend to. The young soldier had reminded the veteran that he was on leave and that he wanted to pay his respects, in any case.

And deep inside him, though he wouldn't admit it to Sirannor, he still felt an unshakeable regret that his distraction in the infirmary had been the catalyst for Aari's death.

He turned his eyes sadly to where two battle-worn figures stood side by side on the beach, halfway between the sea wall and where Mekka stood alone, reciting prayers in the foam. Captain Sirannor was as tall, straight-backed and implacable as ever. For the first time that Hawk could remember, he was not wearing his favourite long dusty coat, but a brand new black and blue Freeroamer uniform, tailored in very short time by the local seamstresses. He presented a proud and peaceful image.

It would have been prouder, were it not for the shackles clamped about his wrists.

Hawk sighed. The Watch had been waiting for them when he, Sirannor, Cimmeran and Ardance had emerged from the Old Quarter. Half a dozen of them in their shiny armour and blue cloaks, loitering around like stupid sheep unwilling to enter the slaughterhouse. There was undisguised relief and surprise on their faces when the exhausted fugitives marched out of the haunted ruins straight into their midst.

Hawk would have laughed, if he hadn't been ready to collapse and fall into a coma on the pavement. Sirannor had had an explanation prepared, but before he could open his mouth Cimmeran stepped forward and confessed, took responsibility for everything.

The Watch had taken the servant into custody and Sirannor as well: the latter under the pretence of accessory to murder. They hadn't a shred of evidence against the Captain – indeed, Hawk was a credible witness to testify against it – but facts didn't matter to them. They despised the Freeroamers and would have made up any ridiculous excuse to arrest him. After many hours of intense and unnecessary questioning, they had decided instead on a charge of trespassing in a forbidden zone.

But it was still enough to have Sirannor thrown back into the Royal Dungeons.

They had questioned Hawk as well, though mostly as a formality. He was with the Darorian Army, and no one wanted to get on the wrong side of General Dreikan. So they had cleared him of any wrongdoing and set him free.

Hawk was furious. It wasn't justice. The Watch didn't know the meaning of the word. They locked up whomever they damn well didn't like, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

At least, Hawk thought, they allowed him to attend Aari's funeral. Probably their way of pretending to show compassion.

Not so Cimmeran, however, who was locked up at this moment in a very dark cell.

Hawk gave the Watch officers on the wall a black look and trudged through the sand to stand next to the Captain. He did not speak. There was nothing left to say. Instead he simply watched the fire flickering on the water and the sun bleed into a golden line along the edge of the world. Out in the gently receding tide, Mekka suddenly sank to his knees, putting his face in his hands.

Tossing aside his petty quibbles with the Angel, Hawk started forward, but Sirannor held him back.

Leave him be, the Captain said. For now.

Hawk stared at Mekka. The Angel he knew was always so cool and composed, so in control of himself. To witness such unrestrained emotion from him was unsettling: the young Freeroamer Angel's death had affected him more deeply than Hawk had imagined. They knew each other well, then? he said. He and Aari?

Sirannor nodded. They were childhood friends. I believe it was Mekka who inspired Aari to leave Arkana.

That guy is full of mysteries, Hawk said. He's never spoken about Aari, never mentioned him once. At least, not to me. He might've told Car. He shook his head. Then again, Mekka doesn't talk much at the best of times.

They weren't on speaking terms. It was Commander Trice who had spoken. Both Hawk and Sirannor turned to look at him. It was the first coherent thing he had said since Sirannor had broken the news.

For the past two days, Grisket had rooted himself in one of the taverns, refusing to eat, speak, sleep, or do anything except attempt to drown his sadness. Since Sirannor and Cimmeran were locked away in the Watch House and Mekka was busy making funerary arrangements, it had been up to Hawk to keep an eye on the Freeroamer Commander.

He had not responded well to companionship and even worse to sympathy. Eventually, he had become so violent that Hawk was forced to remove him from the establishment at swordpoint, at the angry request of the tavernkeeper. A fight in the