Ferrian's Winter

A dance of death, a silent hall

Who will be the one to fall?

Deep within the heart of a Black Pyramid, twin silver daggers scythed through the gloom.

A black-winged Angel ducked and spun out of their way.

Reeves was quick. Quicker than most opponents that Mekka had fought: as quick as the Muron-serpent. The white-winged Angel whirled at him with relentless, cold ferocity. Mekka made no attempt to block his strikes, disarm or trip him. He simply avoided them; rolling, spinning, feinting, sliding, dodging, his movements limber as a dancer's, staying just outside the reach of the flashing silver blades.

He could have fled into the Pyramid's halls, hidden himself in any number of concealed spaces; he could have ordered the Watcher to restrain Reeves or even kill him. There were many actions he could have taken to save himself.

But he did none of them. He allowed Reeves to expend his vengeance upon him, because Mekka had a point to prove.

Even if it cost him his life.

The two Angels spun through the hall, through the beams of light and shadow, twirling and leaping around each other in an elegant, deadly, choreographed dance. One wrong step, a single misjudged move, and it would all be over.

Reeves' white coat spun with his movements.

Mekka's raven wings flared, one hand brushing the floor, delicately balancing himself.

And the show went on.

Neither of them spoke now, done with taunting. There was no sound but the flutter of feathers, the rustle of clothing, the squeak of their boots as they slid across the polished floor, the swoop of the blades, the grunts and pants of exertion.

The daggers carved up the light with hypnotic flares.

Reeves pirouetted, then pushed into the air, leaping over Mekka, lashing out a leg as he did so. Mekka ducked it, twisting away from the swishing daggers.

One of the blades caught his wing, sending black feathers flying.

Several times more, the daggers came close to ending it. Slashes opened up on both arms, his left leg, and once across his back, as he was too slow coming up from a roll.

But Reeves couldn't bring him down.

The dance went on.

After awhile, something changed within Reeves. His slashes and lunges became more powerful but slower, betraying a hint of desperation.

The elegant dance turned savage.

It took all of Mekka's skill to avoid the blades. His limbs were beginning to burn with pain and fatigue. He could feel wetness on various parts of his body but had no chance to check the damage.

Reeves' arm lashed out in a brutal, sweeping strike at neck level, as though to decapitate him.

Mekka threw his head back to miss it, then spun his body around a pillar.

Reeves' reverse blow took his blade through the pillar, leaving a long gouge, but he whirled at once, stabbing around the curve of stone with the second dagger.

It went through Mekka's wing feathers again, slicing a few more off. Mekka shoved himself away, aware that he had narrowly avoided being pinned.

Finally, they both paused, breathing heavily, sweat trickling down their faces. One of Reeves' daggers was embedded in the pillar, his hand still gripping it tightly. His blond hair was damp and plastered to his face.

Their eyes met.

"I meant what I… said," Mekka gasped. "I won't… fight you…" He shook his head. "This is… pointless."

Reeves said nothing for a few moments, breathless, leaning on the pillar. Then he sneered: "Then… you will die… a COWARD!"

Ripping his dagger from the stone, he lunged, and Mekka barely managed to dodge aside. Then a flash of silver swept at his face, opening a gash along his left jaw.

Mekka staggered, blood scattering through the air.

He was done for, there was no time to recover, his reflexes were too slow. His body flinched instinctively for the killing blow…

It did not come.

Hesitantly, he looked up.

Reeves was poised with his left dagger in a half-lunge at Mekka's chest. But the silver thing gripped in his hand no longer resembled a dagger.

They both watched, dumbstruck, as the silvertine blade rapidly deformed, sagging like candle wax and dripping onto the black floor in silver globules.

Reeves lifted the second dagger, only to watch it, too melt in his hand.

Then his gauntlets began to disintegrate.

Eyes wide, dropping the remains of the daggers, Reeves staggered backwards against the pillar. Crying out in horror, he clutched at his armour as though trying to hold it in place, but it turned to liquid, streaming through his fingers and down his body, rolling off his clothing, gathering into gleaming pools at his feet.

Mekka couldn't help but let out a breathless laugh.

He had ordered the Watcher not to harm Reeves, so it was disarming him instead!

With a scream of rage, Reeves launched himself onto Mekka, bearing him to the floor.

They tumbled about in a furious struggle. A flurry of fierce blows landed; with fists, knees, elbows, whatever part of Reeves' body he could smash into Mekka. Finally, Mekka managed to lock up his opponent's arms and legs, and threw the other Angel into a roll, then broke away before Reeves could wrestle him back.

They both came unsteadily to their feet.

"Enough," Mekka panted. "This—"

Reeves lunged at him, unrelenting.

Now Mekka really had had enough.

He blocked Reeves' flying fists and twirled aside, lashing out with his own arm as he did so, slamming the edge of his hand into the back of the Angel Commander's neck.

Reeves went down instantly.

He lay at Mekka's feet, unmoving.

Mekka stared down at him for a moment, panting, then dropped on top of him and checked his pulse.

Reeves was alive, but this time, very much unconscious.

Sliding off him, Mekka sat on the floor. Wearily, he reached out and patted Reeves on the shoulder. He looked behind him at the giant black triangle looming at the end of the hall.

The blue outline of an eye had appeared there.

The Watcher had, indeed, been watching.

Mekka snorted. "Didn't need your help," he muttered, then added, grudgingly, a few moments later: "But thanks."

Hanging his head, he rested his arms on his knees. His cooling muscles twitched and pain washed in overlapping waves from all parts of his body. Blood and sweat leaked down his neck in a sticky stream. He touched the gash on his jaw and winced.

Need to… patch myself up, he thought, and wondered dimly if there was anything in the way of healing supplies inside the Pyramid.

The idea of allowing the Watcher to heal him disturbed him for some reason. Perhaps he would go outside and find a town instead…

A small tapping sound broke the silence. Mekka lifted his head to see the Cat wandering towards him, his reptile claws clicking on the polished floor. The Cat stopped near the puddles of silvertine – all that remained of Reeves' armour and Mekka's daggers – looking at them suspiciously. He batted at one, then shook his paw and shied away. Then he trotted over to Mekka.

Mekka stroked the little creature's silken ebony fur. "What are we going to do with him, eh, Cat?" he sighed unhappily.

He had achieved nothing, after all. The Sky Legion Commander was going to wake, eventually, and when he did, his opinion of Mekka was unlikely to have improved. Mekka had very nearly lost his own gamble, and for what? To prove that Reeves did not, in fact, possess any semblance of rationality?

The Cat just purred in response, rubbed himself against Mekka, then jumped onto Reeves and began pummelling him with his paws.

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Mekka snorted a laugh. "Good luck, little one. I think he's made of stone…"

A shiver of pain passed through Mekka. His vision swam; he felt on the verge of fainting. He gritted his teeth, fighting it. It would not do to pass out now; if Reeves were to wake before him…

The Cat rolled onto Reeves' back, playing with his white feathers.

His… white feathers…

Mekka frowned. Something wasn't right…

Grabbing Reeves' wing, he splayed it out before him.

Reeves, narcissist as he was, took great pride in his appearance, and especially his stunning, unblemished, snowy white feathers. They were an emblem of his purity, his perfection, his unadulterated blood; the envy of all Angelkind…

The tips of the longest flight pinions were now stained black.

Raven black. As black as Mekka's.

Mekka blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, thinking it must be a weird shadow, an odd trick of light, or a delusion of his own tiredness. He ran one of the feathers through his gloved fingers, disbelieving.

Black.

He leapt to his feet so quickly that he almost collapsed. The Cat sprang off Reeves and darted away into the corner of the hall.

"What… what is this?!" he gasped.

He turned to the blue eye. "What have you done to him?!"

The Watcher did not reply.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO HARM HIM!!" Mekka screamed, his voice ringing through the hall and disappearing into the unseen, unfathomable heights of the ceiling.

The blue eye stared back.

Dropping once more to his knees, Mekka shoved Reeves onto his back and checked his hands and feet. He ripped open his shirt and inspected his chest and throat.

There was no sign of any trigonic infection, or anything else out of the ordinary that Mekka could see.

But some blood matted his blond hair, where his skull had impacted the floor.

His blood…

Mekka's thoughts raced wildly. Reeves' blood had come into contact with the Pyramid...

He clutched at his throbbing head. Whispers crowded his mind…

Half a dozen Human soldiers stood on a grey, wasted plain, bearing the cobalt-blue pennants of the Sirinese Empire, fluttering in the breeze.

A young Angel woman clad in half-rags, half-riches, her rose-tinted eyes seeing everything that should not be seen, and terrified of what she saw.

She fled.

The Watcher attacked.

Black tentacles ripped from the ground and assaulted the soldiers, who flailed about, screaming in horror and confusion, trying to fight back without understanding what it was they were fighting…

The Watcher took their pain and fear and wrapped it about them like a spider with its prey. It spun them up in its dark magic and when the tentacles had pierced and strangled and all but killed them, they did not die, but instead were transformed…

They rose from the grey dust of the plain, from their blood and misery, and were new, healed, cleansed of all emotion, all Human thought, subservient now to the Watcher.

And they flew away on black wings…

Mekka came back to himself with a gasp, finding that he was curled into a ball. He pushed himself up, staring at his own horrified reflection in the floor, shaking and resisting the urge to vomit.

No. No no no no no…

The Watcher had revealed its true intentions at last. It was not content simply to find and control Mekka. It wanted to recreate the lost Iriphim. It was attacking people and forcibly turning them into black-winged Angels.

Mekka looked at Reeves lying beside him, unconscious, with his darkly-tinged feathers.

I have to get him out of here, he thought, away from the Pyramid. Perhaps it's not too late…

Taking hold of the Angel Commander, Mekka hauled him up onto his shoulder and shoved himself to his feet, fighting pain and dizziness. "Watcher," he said with forced calmness, "open the door. Let us out."

For a long moment, the blue eye gazed back at him from the wall, massive and silent and inscrutable. Then, slowly, it faded into blackness. It was replaced by a chink of light which appeared in the centre of the void.

This time, the light did not display an image, but instead the blackness around it crumbled away until the void became a triangular opening. Natural light flooded into the hall, and blue sky could be seen beyond. A fresh breeze stirred the air.

Mekka gulped it as though he were parched.

Then he felt his body become weightless – Reeves as well – as they were both lifted gently off the floor, caught in the Watcher's powerful magic. Mekka kept a tight grip on Reeves as they were slowly drawn towards the outside world.

The Watcher set them down on a plain of golden grass that undulated like waves in the wind. Nervous about scaring anyone who might be around, Mekka instructed the Pyramid to either retreat or conceal itself. When he looked back up at the sky, there was no giant Black Pyramid to be seen. Whether it was invisible or had, indeed, taken itself elsewhere, Mekka did not know, but was relieved.

Do not attack anyone else, he begged it silently.

They were on the outskirts of a large town. Mekka didn't recognise it, but from the look of the landscape appeared to be somewhere in the Outlands – the edge of the Arlen Plains, at a guess. The large humps of hillbeasts were scattered about on the otherwise perfectly flat plain. Traffic was backed up along the main highway for miles – much as it had been at Sel Varence.

Everyone was trying to be somewhere else, but increasingly fewer places were proving to be safe.

Gods, he thought. The whole of Arvanor is falling to pieces.

And to think, only four years ago, the world's main concern was the Aegis failing and half a dozen Dragons escaping and wreaking vengeance.

The notion now seemed almost quaint.

The surviving Dragons, after an initial burst of fiery wrath, had decided that they wanted nothing to do with anyone and made themselves scarce, save for the one who had claimed Ashen Cove for itself and stubbornly refused to budge.

Far more terrible threats had appeared since then.

Four colourful windmills turned in the centre of the town, stirred to life by a stiff breeze, cheerful and energetic.

Mekka felt hollowed out, tired, and sick. He looked down at Reeves' black-tinted white feathers, watching them ruffle in the wind.

He didn't want to be within a hundred miles of the Sky Legion Commander when he woke up.

He pitied anyone who was.

Wearily, he pulled Reeves back onto his shoulder and dragged him towards the town.

Winding his way through farms, vegetable plots and cottages, avoiding the main roads, Mekka and his burden went largely unseen, except by dogs and chickens, until they reached the old town wall. Passing through a crumbling, ivy-covered archway, they came upon cobbled streets and built-up houses.

After a short time, people finally began to notice him.

If he was lucky, they merely stopped what they were doing and gaped, or even better, ran inside and slammed the door.

Then one or two of them began picking up implements.

Mekka sighed. He didn't have time for this nonsense. He didn't need another fight, let alone the whole town. He'd barely gone fifty yards up the street.

Prejudice was a grimy, unwanted cloak he'd been draped with since he was born, which was why he was loath to enter towns in broad daylight. The city of Selvar had tolerated him well enough but other towns tended to be less… open minded. Humans didn't like him any better than Angels did. His black feathers were conspicuous and scary; the fact he was covered in blood and carrying an unconscious Angel Commander even worse; he suspected the glowing blue wings attached to his head were a little too much for most people's delicate sensibilities.

A man was walking towards him holding a shovel and looking as though Mekka's mere existence was a perfectly good reason to be brandishing a garden tool like a torture device.

Shifting Reeves' weight into his arms, gritting his teeth against the pain, Mekka spread his ragged wings and leapt onto the nearest rooftop. From there he proceeded across town without being accosted, though followed by a trail of shouts from the streets below. These eventually dwindled off as his pursuers were hampered by the clogged-up thoroughfares.

Landing on the roof of an inn on the corner of the main square, Mekka propped Reeves against a chimney and rested a moment, grimacing in pain and exhaustion. The square was completely packed, with more carts and wagons trying to cram in from the east. The western road was at a standstill.

Across the square to Mekka's right was a sombre, grey-stoned building that looked like a Guard House. A number of Freeroamers were standing about outside it, watching the crowd. More Freeroamers stood at the edges of the throng, all armed but looking nervous and out of their depth. There were too few of them to quell a riot, if one broke out.

One of the Freeroamers standing outside the Guard House was a black Centaur woman. Her arms were folded and there was a shining silvertine spear slung to her back. Her tail swished in irritation.

Lieutenant-Commander Raemint, Mekka thought, flooded with relief. At least someone in this godsforsaken town wasn't going to attack him on sight…

With a grunt of effort, he gathered Reeves back into his arms.

Raemint stood with Sergeant Wolfrun, regarding the crowd.

"Damn hope Cairan sends some reinforcements," Wolf muttered.

Raemint frowned, feeling troubled. "I am sorry that I cannot stay and help you, Wolf," she said softly. "But I must ensure that the Sword of Healing is returned to its wielder. I made a promise."

She shook her head. "I should have brought the team that was sent to find me in Meadrun; instead, I sent them back to Forthwhite. It was my intention to travel swiftly; I did not think they would be needed. If I had known…" She sighed. "But Cairan will likely come himself, if that thought will put you at ease."

Wolfrun smiled. "Commander Cairan's worth a score of extra men," he replied, nodding, but his grey eyes betrayed his anxiety.

Yes, she thought, sharing his smile. He is.

"Wolf," she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I have faith that you will keep things under control until he arrives. When I discover what is happening at Bridgetown, I will let you know immediately. And if there is anything I can do that will help improve the situation here, I shall not hesitate."

Wolfrun nodded again, looking grateful.

Raemint gazed out again at the sunlit crowd, a mass of confused, frightened and irritable people and animals. She could smell their fear and unrest. Some form of order needed to be established, and soon.

"If General Pine is stationed at Bridgetown," she mused, "then the arrival of the Imperial Army is imminent."

Wolfrun crossed his arms, scowling. "And the disbanding of the Freeroamers."

Raemint nodded sadly. That was likely. The Freeroamers were criminals; their organisation only existed because of Queen Minoa's redemption policy. Even the old King had been against it, but his daughter had been stubborn. She had been a thoughtful and kind-hearted Princess, with good intentions, but had proved unsuited to rule. Raemint was disappointed in her cowardice and lack of leadership when it had mattered. She had not stayed strong in the face of danger; she had panicked and fled and ultimately abandoned the throne.

And yet, Raemint understood. She and her partner Cairan had chosen to flee rather than defend their village from a tribal feud, and had been exiled because of it. Such shame could never be redeemed in the eyes of other Centaurs, but the Freeroamers had given them that chance, and a new family, a new tribe worth fighting for.

For that, she was forever grateful.

"One way or another," she said quietly, "order will be regained. Even if our own fate is—"

Something black plummeted from the sky, landing in a stumbling, crashing heap between themselves and the crowd.

As one, every Freeroamer drew their weapon. Raemint's spear flashed from her back in a swooping arc.

Two Angels lay sprawled before them on the ground – one wearing a long white coat, with alabaster feathers oddly tinted black, the other a dark, ragged, quivering, half-mangled mess. The black-winged Angel was adorned with a peculiar headdress seemingly made of blue light.

Raemint stared in a shock of recognition. "Mekk'Ayan?!"

Signalling to the other Freeroamers to stand down, she galloped the few yards between herself and the Angel.

"Oh, Lady Fate have mercy on you, Mekka! We did not know what had become of you!" She reached down a hand and gripped his arm, helping him to his feet.

Mekka shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again, in a lolling motion. "Hard… to explain…"

Raemint looked down at the white-winged Angel, quizzically. "Commander Re'Vier?"

"Un… fortunately," Mekka panted. "Hope you've… got a good cell. When he… wakes up, he's… going to be mad… as hell." He shook his head again. "Or… forgotten… who he is. Not sure… which is worse…"

He was rambling, his words slurred. He was leaking blood from several deep gashes across various parts of his body. Raemint sheathed her spear and held him with both hands to keep him upright.

"Fetch a healer!" she commanded. "Quickly!"

Three Freeroamers ran off into the streets.

"And you fought him?" Raemint asked Mekka in concern.

The Angel laughed breathlessly. "He… f-fought me! Ahhh… that was… m-my fault… my mistake. He… won… he… would have… killed me… in a fair fight!" He laughed again, deliriously.

"You need to rest. Wolfrun, take Commander Reeves inside."

"Aye, Sir."

As Freeroamers hastened to carry out orders, a single figure remained standing alone in the middle of the courtyard. Red hair blew about her face, and grey eyes glimmered with astonished tears.

"Mekka?"

The black-winged Angel lifted his head groggily to look at her. "Car…" he whispered, then sagged into Raemint's arms, passing out.