Ferrian's Winter

The light subdued and left behind

A giant crossbow yet to find.

The morning sun glowed upon the red stone of the Eastern Gate. Onyx carvings of Angels and flowers, gilded with gold, decorated the barbican, and blue flags fluttered atop the black-tiled towers. The gate on this side of the city, standing on the Sirinese border, was far more elaborate and majestic than the Western Gate on the Darorian side, reflecting the two cultures' different attitudes to architecture.

Snow slid off the tower roofs in chunks, breaking on the ground below with soft thuds. More snow was piled up against the walls and carpeted the plateau, but was rapidly melting beneath the hot sun; the cobblestones of The Line were already exposed, scattered with bright puddles reflecting the stones and spires of Bridgetown.

A hundred yards out from the gates, General Pine sat atop his white charger, Lieutenant Driffin at his right-hand side. Twenty mounted soldiers stood in formation around him. Behind the General's company, the Imperial Army encampment stretched out across the plateau in neat rows, bustling with anxious activity as his troops assessed the damage to their tents and supplies caused by the night's storm.

Something immensely dramatic had happened in the early hours of that morning: a sudden, fierce, freezing tempest had torn across the city and the plains immediately surrounding it, waking everyone in the camp to confusion and near-panic. Then, near dawn, the storm had abated just as abruptly.

Pine had received reports that something huge and white had been seen flying over the city. Some believed it to be a Dragon.

The Winter Sorcerer was here, Pine thought, astounded. He was here even before Driffin sent out the summons. Was he chasing the wraith? Why hadn't Rose sensed his presence?

The terrifying display of his power and the fact that he was seemingly allied with a Dragon meant that the sorcerer was far more formidable than Pine had expected.

But where was he now? And what, exactly, had happened last night in Bridgetown?

The coming of the dawn had banished the Winter, but also the wraithlight and its influence.

Pine, however, did know what had become of the wraith.

He knew, because at this very moment, he was staring right at it.

Or rather, he was gazing upon a man in unusually beautiful silvertine armour, standing just inside the city gates. The man was a lone, gleaming figure, still as a statue, staring out through the portcullis at the Imperial encampment.

Pine stared back. There appeared to be no particular magical aura about him, but he was clearly no ordinary soldier, either. Even at this distance, in the shadow of the gatehouse, the armour was like nothing he had ever seen.

"Rose," he murmured. "Is that the wraith?"

Rose Rex crouched on the half-frozen ground to his left. Her blind pink eyes regarded the distant figure behind the gates, seeing things that no one else could see. "Yes," she whispered. "But no."

Breaking his eyes away from the silver man, the General looked down at her.

Rose did not look at him, but tilted her head, her brow creased, seemingly perplexed. Her long, tangled brown hair tossed about her face in the breeze, pulled free from the pale pink scarf meant to hold it back; large golden earrings glittered and spun between the curled strands, catching the morning light. "He is… Human," she went on. "Only… half-wraith…"

Pine frowned. Rose's words were difficult to decipher at the best of times. He took a breath to ask for an explanation, then thought better of it, shaking his head instead. "Is he dangerous, Rose?" he asked. "Is he a threat to us?"

The Angel woman was quiet for a very long time. So long that Pine grew impatient.

"Well, a threat to us or not," Pine declared finally, "he is standing in the way of the Empire." He turned to Driffin. "I want the gates opened."

His Lieutenant looked back at him with his perpetually-startled, worried expression, but did not argue. He turned and gave the order to one of the other men, who lifted a spear with a blue flag attached to the end of it.

Over on the parapet of the barbican, another blue flag rose in acknowledgement.

A short time later, the metallic clank of gears turning could be heard as the gate mechanism was engaged. The inner portcullis slowly rose.

The silver-clad man did not move.

There was a pause, then the outer portcullis lifted.

Pine was aware that all of his men had gone tense, a subtle shifting of their postures, their hands on their weapons. On the General's orders, they had all removed their silvertine armour – himself included; he wore his long, multi-hued blue coat with a fur-lined cloak over the top of it against the Winter's bite. But they had kept their silvertine weapons, having nothing to replace them with at such short notice, and reluctant to go unarmed against an uncertain enemy.

"At ease," he told them, without taking his eyes off the silver-armoured man.

The outer portcullis rose fully, clanking to a stop, and silence fell, the echo of the gears fading away.

The gates were open.

No one moved.

Then the silver man walked forward.

He came unhurriedly, steadily, though oddly without purpose, his eyes fixed straight ahead, unblinking, unfocused, like a man sleepwalking.

No one approached him; no one attempted either to stop him or throw themselves at his feet in adulation.

General Pine watched him come. Then he dismounted his horse.

He gestured to his guards to hold their position, nodded at Driffin in reassurance, gave a final glance over his shoulder at Rose, then strode out alone to meet the wraith.

The silver man stopped walking as Pine approached.

The General halted a few feet from him. The two men stood in the middle of the frost-melted road. The silvertine armour sparkled, dazzling, in the sunshine. The helmet was fashioned in the shape of feathered wings that enclosed his pale face.

Angel-made, the General noted.

The wraith's brown eyes stared through him, unseeing.

"Who are you?" Pine demanded. "What is your name?"

Something in the eyes changed – they seemed to focus, then unfocus, then focus again. His brow creased faintly, as though thinking were difficult. His mouth opened, and his words seemed to come with great effort. "S… Sergeant… M… Major… D-D-Devan… dar… Haaawwwk…" he stammered. Then, to Pine's surprise, the man sank to his knees on the cobblestones, putting a closed fist to his breastplate. "S-S-Sooorrryyy…. G… Gen… eral… D… Drei… kan. Late…. f-for… d-d-duuuty…"

Pine raised an eyebrow. "You're one of Dreikan's men?"

The man nodded, slowly, uncertainly.

Pine lifted a gloved hand and rubbed his chin. "Where did you acquire this silvertine armour?"

The soldier did not respond. He did not appear to have understood the question.

Pine tried again. "Where were you stationed, Sergeant Hawk?"

"The… the… M-M-Middle… Isle… S… Sir…"

The Middle Isle. Pine stared dismally at the soldier, his gut twisting in pity. But Dreikan had outfitted all of his troops with trigonic armour. How had this one come to be clad in silvertine?

He closed his eyes momentarily, frustrated. None of this made sense.

Opening his eyes, he lowered himself to one knee before the tortured Sergeant. "I am not General Dreikan, Hawk" he said softly. "I am General Corvus Pine, of the Sirinese Imperial Majestic Army. And you are not upon the Middle Isle. You are at Bridgetown, on the border."

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Hawk stared into his eyes, uncomprehending.

"Do you know why you have come here?" Pine whispered. "Do you understand what you have done?"

Hawk did not answer.

Gods, Pine thought. What has happened to this man?

It was then that the General noticed the silvertine armour was not perfect. There was a flaw in the middle of the finely-decorated breastplate: a dent. Something had impacted the metal there, buckling it but not penetrating through.

What on Arvanor was powerful enough to do that? Had the Winter Sorcerer attacked this man with a trigonic weapon?

And yet… for all his stupendous magic, he had not managed to kill the wraith. But what had become of the sorcerer?

General Pine's breath left him, a puff of white in the still-chilly air. He rose to his feet. Then he turned and walked back to his nervously-waiting men.

Driffin came forward to meet him.

"Harmless, as far as I can tell," Pine told him. "I felt no dangerous compulsions towards him. The man is barely self-aware. Something attacked him; perhaps it knocked him partially back to his senses." Pine shook his head, glancing back at the silver-clad soldier. "He thinks he is still part of the Darorian Army."

Driffin winced. "Damn."

Pine nodded. "Have him locked securely in one of the watchtowers: preferably a room without windows. I would like to question him further. And drag Lord Malvern out of his hole; I need to discuss the situation with him."

"Yes, Sir."

The General pondered for a moment. "I also want you to arrange a team to track down that Winter Sorcerer. I know he was here; this storm was nothing natural."

Driffin grunted. "If that was him, he moves damned fast."

Pine shook his head. "I suspect he was already here, or very close by when we arrived. Dragon notwithstanding."

Driffin raised an eyebrow. "You think he was huntin' the wraith?"

Pine nodded. "Yes, I do." He stared at the silver soldier, who had not moved from his kneeling position on the road, head bowed, like a sad, glorious statue. "There are far too many questions here, Lieutenant," he muttered. "They infest this city like a plague. I want answers."

Driffin nodded in agreement. "Aye, Sir."

The General turned and walked back to his horse. He was about to mount when he caught sight of Rose, still hunched on the ground, hugging herself. Her pink eyes stared at nothing, as deceptively blank as those of the soldier-wraith.

Perhaps Rose could reveal more about Sergeant-Major Hawk's identity, Pine mused. But that would require the Angel to make physical contact with him, which was extremely risky if the man's wraithlike abilities resurfaced. Especially since Rose was needed for—

Pine caught himself with a start.

Damn!

He turned abruptly to Driffin. "Lieutenant. Has there been any word from Wing Commander Re'Vier?"

"Reeves?" Driffin hauled himself onto his horse. "Nope. Nothin' since that letter from Governor Merrill."

Cursing under his breath, the General mounted his own charger. The Sky Legion Commander was supposed to meet him in Bridgetown. The only reason that Pine had brought Rose Rex along on this campaign was at Reeves' urgent request. Apparently, he needed her assistance for something important to do with his own mysterious quest.

Damn that man. Pine's eyes narrowed. Was the timing mere coincidence, or did Commander Reeves have some part to play in this mess? Was it possible that this was some form of outrageous ambush, designed to impede the progress of the Imperial Army?

No, Pine thought, discarding the idea. He didn't like or trust Reeves, and he harboured a strong, silent suspicion that the Angel was involved in some insidious plot to betray the Empire. He had once attempted to voice his concern, as delicately as possible, to the Emperors, but they had laughed and brushed his worries aside, while at the same time refusing to tell Pine exactly what was going on. Governor Merrill was the only other person Pine knew of who shared his doubts about the Sky Legion Commander's intentions, but he could hardly risk a serious conversation with her without being accused of treason.

Pine sighed. He was loyal to the Twin Emperors; their judgement was not to be questioned, children though they may be. There was little he could do but have complete faith in their rule.

In any case, he had his own missions to attend to – a demon-wraith plague to be rid of and a new country to bring under Imperial governance.

Pine shook his head tiredly. Surely the catastrophe here was beyond Reeves' subtle scheming, but nevertheless, the white-winged Angel Commander remained a nagging thorn pricking ever more deeply into his side.

He gazed up at the snow melting off Bridgetown's lofty towers. "Just… find them all, Driffin," he muttered. "Everyone involved in this disaster. And send them all to me."

* * *

Sergeant Flint forced the thief through the snow at swordpoint. He had brought a piece of rope along with him for just such an occasion.

Gastan's hands were tied tightly behind his back. Flint gripped the end of the rope, which was wound around his left hand; Ferrian's Sword held in his right.

"This is unnecessary!" the thief complained. "I do not have your crossbow, and I don't know where it is! I have nothing to do with any of this!"

"You've got everythin' to do with any of this!" Flint growled around the cigarette still stuck in his mouth, bringing the Sword up threateningly close to the man's neck. "I'm arrestin' you, and draggin' yer colourful arse back to the Guard House."

"That is highly inconvenient for everyone!"

"I could kill you instead, but I ain't a Bladeshifter any more." Flint kicked him in the aforementioned backside, sending him sprawling into the snow, then yanked him roughly back to his feet.

Gastan spit snow as the Freeroamer snatched up his preposterous feathered hat, shoved it back on his head, and pushed him forward once more.

They found themselves back in the middle of the Bridge, where Ferrian and Hawk had fought their terrifying battle. People were milling about, looking uncertain. A nobleman was having his servants dig his carriage out of the snow. Others were digging out bodies. Some were kneeling and crying.

Gods, what a damned mess, Flint thought unhappily. I never should've let Ferrian come with me.

He shook his head. How could I have stopped him?

His eyes turned to Gastan, burning holes into the man's back. And if this godforsaken thief hadn't brought Hawk here in the first place…

Then what? Hawk would likely still have turned into a wraith, just somewhere else: perhaps at Forthwhite. It was Flint's bolt, after all, that had triggered his silvertine armour.

Damn it!

He pulled Gastan to a stop, looking around. "Eh. Where's Hawk?"

Gastan glanced around as well. "Hopefully wandered off the side of the Bridge and fallen into the Chasm."

Flint kicked him in the back of the knee, glaring at him. "Not a half-bad idea." He spat his cigarette out into the snow. "Which one's the Redwick Manor?"

"That… one…" Gastan said in pain.

"Which one?"

"The redstone building to your right."

Flint looked. They were literally standing beside it.

This whole battle happened right outside the Redwick Manor?! Flint thought, horrified. Hell's bells!

He stared up at the ornate windows, expecting to see the rulers of the city seething back at him with undisguised fury.

The windows were all dark.

He saw no one looking back; no movement within.

He lowered his gaze to the black-marble pillared portico, at the gleaming, gilded doors standing firmly closed within it. They were made of dark wood, embedded with golden crests depicting eagles flying above flames and sheathed swords.

There was no sign of any Guards.

Flint looked around again, eyes roaming the frost-battered city. No Guards anywhere, just distressed citizens.

Must have been the first to fall into Hawk's deadly light, he thought morbidly. A shiver passed through him at how close he had come himself.

He started walking towards the Manor, seizing the thief's arm and pulling him along.

"What… No!" Gastan said fearfully. "What are you… are you going to simply walk up and knock on the front door?!"

"Yep."

Gastan gaped at him. Then he tried to squirm out of Flint's grip. "Oh, Goddess have mercy," he sobbed, "we're going to end up in the Chasm!" He whimpered as he was dragged up the steps onto the portico. "Could you at least hide that damnable Sword?!"

Flint's response was to rest the Sword on his shoulder. "Knock," he ordered.

Gastan stared at him, despairingly. "I can hardly…"

Flint levelled a hard look at him. "I can use yer head, if you prefer."

The thief sighed. Then, awkwardly, he held out a leg and hooked one of the gilded knockers on his boot. It was shaped like a ring of fire being held in the beak of the eagle.

He lifted it, then let it drop.

They listened to the echo ring ominously through the hall beyond.

Gastan cringed back against Flint.

A long moment of silence passed, broken only by the sounds of the mourners behind them, the soft crunch of shovelled snow, and water trickling off the portico roof.

Then a slot opened in the door, just above the head of the left-hand eagle, so abruptly that it made them jump.

A dark eye appeared there. "Who are you?"

"Sergeant Flint of the Freeroamers," Flint replied. "And a thief going by the name of Gastan Perinnet Charlet." He inclined his head. "Requestin' to speak with one of the Redwicks."

Gastan cringed even further, trying to hide under his hat.

The eye stared at them for another long moment – a very long moment, unblinkingly.

Then the slot slammed shut.

There was more silence.

And then they heard the distinct sound of laughter.

The laughter went on for a disconcertingly long time.

Finally, it died away.

"Perhaps," Gastan whispered, leaning close to Flint, "now might be a fine time to… run away?"

The Sword appeared at his throat. "Or better yet," the Freeroamer hissed back, "to Shut. Up?"

There were scraping and clanking sounds behind the doors then, of a heavy bar being raised.

Flint tightened his grip on the thief's arm, so that he made a noise of pain.

The doors opened, silently, slowly, into a darkened hall.

They could see no one within, only red and white polished tiles leading to a shadowed, gleaming interior. A grand staircase could be seen curving away at the far end. Carved stone busts of statues stood brooding on side tables. Grim, mysterious paintings clung to the red-and-gold wallpapered walls. Several open doorways led off the hall, to rooms unknown.

Gastan whimpered again. Flint yanked him forward.

The lack of lighting was odd, Flint thought, frowning, as he passed through the doorway. He lowered the Sword from his shoulder, holding it warily. Not to mention that no servant or Guard had stepped out to escort them.

The busts watched him, balefully. Vague shadows crowded the corners, beyond the chill dawn light spilling from the entrance.

Dammit, he thought uncertainly, the hairs raising on his neck. The thief was right. This didn't seem—

The doors slammed closed behind them, so loudly that they both spun.

The heavy beam crashed back into place. In the gloom, two figures clad in dark leather slouched against it; a slim young man smiling at them from beneath a sweep of blond hair, and a lean, tall, muscular woman with spiky black hair and a gold nose ring.

The blond man grinned. "Did you miss us, Starshadow Flint? Thought you'd gotten rid of us? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Fliiint. Did you think it would be that easy?"

The Freeroamer stared at them in disbelief. The damned Bladeshifters are HERE?!

"What the hell…?"

There was a cheerful laugh from somewhere behind him; a woman's laugh, like someone's mother greeting unexpected guests.

"Well, look who's turned up to join us for breakfast! And brought our friend Gastan along, too! Excellent!"

Gastan directed a slow, burning glare at Flint, as though attempting to murder the Freeroamer with his gaze alone.

Flint turned, slowly.

A large, rotund woman had entered the hall, draped in long crimson and black robes. Her hair was curled up in an elaborate style, speared with long ebony pins which matched the twin black bars tattooed down her face. Her eyes were darkly shaded, her lips bright red, and she grinned as though she had just been gifted the country. Gold glinted amongst her teeth.

Two impossible, equally horrifying thoughts flashed through Flint's head at the same time:

One, that Jewels was a Redwick.

Two, that she held in her pudgy, ring-encrusted hands an enormous, wickedly-gleaming silver crossbow, which was loaded with a bolt and pointed directly at him.