Ferrian's Winter

Sands grow shadowed, time is nigh

Find he who fled and say goodbye.

Paper lay scattered across the sunset-hued sand, like a massacre.

Mekka stood behind the wagon, regarding the mess, while Tander strode back and forth, running his hands through his hair.

The black-winged Angel folded his arms. "Reeves really doesn't like books, does he?"

Tander whirled on him. "No, you don't understand! This book was precious to him! He was obsessed with it! This book was his entire life, it was… it was our mission!" He dropped to hands and knees in the sand.

Mekka lowered himself to one knee, picking up one of the pages. "I thought I was your mission?"

Tander shook his head despairingly. "You were only a part of it: an exchange with the Governor. Your capture in return for… this book."

"From Grath Ardan?"

The Lieutenant nodded.

"And what is your mission?"

Tander half laughed, half sobbed. "I cannot tell you. Especially… not you."

Mekka raised an eyebrow. Especially not me? He was suddenly a lot more interested in this book than he had been.

He looked back at the page he was holding. It was yellowed, and stained brown at the edges. The ink had turned sepia with age. The text was comprised of careful, intricate calligraphy, very small and ornate, running into and over itself in sweeping curves, and slashed vertically with long lines. Like the first time he had looked upon this book, just after Ferrian had rescued himself and Reeves from Caer Sync, he recognised it as Ithillic.

He could not read it, however. No one who had not studied sorcery could. There was something magically inherent in the language itself that defied translation.

"Ferrian should take a look at this," he murmured.

"That is what I don't understand!" Tander said. "We were attempting to track Ferrian down! We were unable to find him and the Commander had given up. He informed us that we were to travel back to Siriaza, stopping at Bridgetown to meet another contact there. But then you and the sorcerer arrived, improbably in that Black Pyramid and…" he clutched at his head in frustration. "It does not make sense! Reeves could have spoken to Ferrian and found the answers he has been searching for, for so long! Why… why would he do this?!"

Mekka frowned around at the destruction. Many of the pages were ripped into smaller pieces, but some were still intact. The leather binding was floppy and barely holding together, but a few pages remained stuck inside it.

This was not conscientious destruction, Mekka thought. It is too haphazard.

Reeves had torn this book apart in a sudden frenzy, an impulsive fit.

Something had caused him to snap…

Mekka's gaze rose to the Black Pyramid, the beginning of a dark realisation souring his gut…

"At least he didn't burn it," he muttered aloud, gathering up the pieces and setting them carefully into the broken cover. "The book is salvageable. And the information still exists in Grath…"

His voice trailed off.

Lieutenant Tander was hunched over, kneeling in the sand, arms folded across his stomach as though in pain. He was shivering, his feathers trembling.

"Tander!" Mekka got to his feet and went over to the Angel, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Tander! Are you alright?"

The Legionnaire made a choking noise, putting a hand to his face. A tear leaked from beneath his fingers.

Something is very wrong.

Mekka glanced over his shoulder at the blue wagon. "I am going to speak to Nix," he said.

Tander did not react.

Getting up, Mekka stuffed the remains of the book into his pocket and stalked over to the wagon's open door. Climbing inside, he found the green-winged Legionnaire curled up in the back corner against a pile of silks, his knees to his chest and his arms over his face.

Like Tander, he was quivering, as though with a fever.

"Nix!" Mekka crouched in front of him.

The Angel did not respond.

Mekka grabbed his wrists, forcing his arms away from his face. "Nix! Commander Reeves was in here with you. Did you speak with him? Did he mention anything about leaving?"

The young Legionnaire slowly lifted his face to look at Mekka.

His green eyes were glazed with terror, his skin deathly pale.

"Did Reeves say anything?" Mekka repeated.

Nix did not reply at once. His eyes wandered around the interior of the wagon. Finally, he whispered, his voice barely audible: "He laughed."

Mekka blinked. "What?"

"He… laughed. He laughed. And wouldn't stop laughing…"

Slowly, Mekka released Nix's wrists.

Then he turned and scrambled from the wagon.

"Mekka!"

Ben came running over to him. "You'd better come quickly," the boy said urgently, "something weird's happening with Li!"

Mekka's eyes widened. Dammit!

Spreading his black wings, he leapt into the air and soared over to the campfire.

Ferrian and Lady Araynia were already there, as was Sergeant Flint. Some distance beyond them, the Dragon's neck rose in an elegant S-shaped curve, her huge silver eyes regarding the group, reflective and intense.

The sun had disappeared now, the evening sky turned purple. The hazy shadow of the Pyramid's long blade crept across the sand until it was dissolved by the campfire. Li stood lit by the flickering flames, staring fixedly up at it, like a statue, oblivious of Ferrian's attempts to speak to her.

Mekka came over and crouched in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Li," he said gently.

She did not answer, or look away.

"Mekka," Ferrian asked worriedly, "what's happening now?"

The Angel let out a breath, rising to his feet. He rubbed at his face. "The Watcher. It is… influencing them."

"Influencing them?!"

He turned away abruptly, slashing a hand in frustration. "I ordered the Watcher not to attack or abduct anyone, but I didn't anticipate that it would… argh!"

Ben's eyes went wide in realisation. "Only Angels are affected!"

Mekka nodded miserably. "Angels were created by the Seraphim. The Watcher considers them…" he hesitated, frowning. "Not a threat, as such. More like… something it cannot abide."

Ferrian circled Li, confronting him. "Mekka. What exactly is it doing to them?"

Mekka met his gaze grimly. "Driving them insane."

There were gasps and curses from everyone in the group.

"Is there anything I can do?" Araynia offered.

Turning to the noblewoman, Mekka shook his head. "No. Your magic will not work for this. The Watcher is too powerful."

"Can't you do something, Mekka?" Ferrian asked desperately. "Can't you stop this?"

Mekka sighed. "I can try."

Walking away a few paces, he put his hands to the sides of his head. The glowing blue head-piece was still in place – it had never left him – the others had been shocked when they had first seen it, but after a lengthy explanation, everyone was quickly getting used to it, including himself. It enabled him to communicate with the Watcher, so he had stopped trying to wish it away or banish it. He did, however, remain vaguely unsettled by its presence.

But now that he was no longer fighting the Watcher, he felt much more in control of his own thoughts and emotions. The disturbing effects that the Sky Legion were currently experiencing – and Li as well – were similar to what he, himself had suffered upon first entering the Black Pyramid. Their thoughts were being twisted in upon themselves, their fears and insecurities slowly leaking out of them like blood from a puncture wound.

And the Watcher was feeding on them, he was sure; it fuelled itself with negative emotions.

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Watcher, he commanded it, as sternly as he could manage. Cease! Whatever you are doing to these Angels, stop it at once!

The Watcher did not reply. It did not communicate in words, only pictures, emotions or symbols. Sometimes, Mekka comprehended things without quite knowing how or why.

This time, he received an impression that the Watcher could not change its own nature; that it was ancient and immutable and made of trigon, and that the Angels were being adversely affected by its presence due to no deliberate intervention on its part.

It also showed him a vision:

The back door of the wagon opened and Reeves climbed unsteadily out of it. He staggered around to the far side, shadowed from the noonday sun and from everyone else. Leaning against it, he pulled his book from his pocket and stared down at it for long moments. Then he seemed to hunch over it as though in pain. All of a sudden, with furious brutality, he wrenched at the book, tearing at it with his silver-gauntleted hands as though it alone was responsible for all of his lifelong anguish. Scattering the pieces onto the sunlit sand, he launched himself into the air, flying swiftly in a glittering blaze to the south, without looking back.

That was all.

Mekka was dismayed. The vision had not shown him anything he had not deduced himself, other than the direction Reeves had fled.

He turned back to the others, shaking his head.

"The Watcher insists that it is incapable of stopping the madness."

There was a pause as everyone fell into stunned gloom.

"Seems simple enough to me," Flint grunted, hands on hips, cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth, "we all get the hell away from this goddamned Pyramid!"

"Yes," Mekka agreed. "An excellent suggestion. But there is one problem." He shook his head. "Now that the Watcher has found me, it doesn't seem inclined to let me out of its sight. If I try to fly away, it will follow me. If I send it away, I suspect that it will refuse to go." He closed his eyes. "I… must go with it."

Ferrian swept forward. "What?! No—"

"Ferrian," Mekka headed off his friend's furious argument, expecting this reaction. Striding up to him, he raised a finger. "You will not, under any circumstances, attempt to use your Sword against the Watcher. Remember what I told you. Promise me!"

Ferrian's eyes glimmered. His hands were balled into fists, his fingerless gloves embroidered with delicate, spidery traces of frost. The hilt of his Sword rose over his right shoulder, now wrapped tightly in a scrap of grey cloth cut from his cloak, the trigonic dagger smothered from view. "This counts as necessary!" he insisted, but there was deep terror beneath the anger and bravado. His face was very pale.

"No," Mekka told him, not softening his expression, though something crawled up into his chest and clawed his heart. "I am in no danger."

"There are monsters—"

"I can handle them. And if I keep this Pyramid away from other people – especially other Angels – then no one else will be in danger either! Besides," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have to go after Reeves."

Ben scoffed. "Why even bother? Let him die out there in the desert!"

"Ben!" Araynia chided.

"Because I brought the Watcher here!" Mekka replied. "I asked it to find the White Dragon, and so it did! I am responsible for its presence here, and as much as I find Reeves despicable, I have no wish to see him lose his mind and kill himself in the desert!"

"An' what're you gonna do when you find 'im?" Flint pointed out.

Mekka ran a hand through his hair. "I… don't know," he admitted. "But there are no other options. The Watcher is capable of finding him—"

"So is the Dragon," Araynia suggested quietly.

"Indeed, but she is needed elsewhere." Mekka turned back to Ferrian, to find that he had walked off a few paces and was standing with his back to them all, staring out at the darkening desert. The footsteps that he had left in the sand sparkled with tiny ice crystals.

"Ferrian," his voice assumed a gentler tone. "I need you to head to Bridgetown and find Hawk. If he turns into a wraith, there will be trouble. If he is burned alive—" he paused, shaking his head. "That is not an outcome that will leave any of us sleeping well at night."

Walking over to the sorcerer, he pulled the mess of a book out of his pocket and held it out. "And take this. See if you can make any sense of it. It may reveal what Reeves is up to."

Slowly, Ferrian reached out and took the book from him, and stared down at it. He said nothing.

Mekka glanced over at the wagon, then back at the others. "Someone should keep an eye on Tander, Nix and Li. They should recover once the Pyramid has gone, but there is no telling how long that might take…"

Flint tipped his hat and started walking in the direction of the wagon. Ben nodded and sat down beside Li, who had not moved at all during the entire conversation.

"You're leaving now?" Ferrian said quietly.

Mekka nodded. Reaching out a hand, he placed it on his friend's shoulder. "Take care, Ferrian."

Ferrian was silent.

The Angel turned to go.

"Mekka."

He paused, turning back. To his surprise, Ferrian flung an arm around his neck. "Come back," he said into Mekka's shoulder. "Come back, or I'll never forgive you."

Mekka patted him awkwardly on the back, fighting an overwhelming swell of emotion. He furiously blinked back tears. "I will meet you somewhere," he promised. "I do not know where, but I'll find you."

"If Reeves murders you," Ferrian quavered, "nothing on Arvanor will stop me from using my Sword on him."

Despite himself, Mekka barked a laugh. "If Reeves murders me, you'd better bring me back so I can kill myself out of shame!"

This forced a laugh out of Ferrian, but it was quickly choked off by a suppressed sob.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, the Angel pulled away. Raising a hand in farewell to the others, he departed quickly, before they could see the pain filling his eyes.

In moments, the gathering night and the shadow of the Pyramid swallowed him up.

A few minutes later, the entire Black Pyramid silently winked out of sight, as though it had never been there at all.

* * *

The blanket-wrapped bundle thunked hard onto the workbench, displacing several tools which fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Over by the forge, the ringing of a hammer on a shining piece of metal stopped abruptly. "Oi! What's this about, then? Bargin' into a man's forge, makin' a mess?"

Gastan cast a glance at the various offcuts, pieces of wire, rusty tools, liquid puddles of silvertine and assorted other debris littering the floor of the smithy, and refrained from making a comment on 'mess'.

"Ah, well… yes… my apologies, Master Rammund… but I am in a bit… of a hurry… to put it… very mildly…"

Gastan was short of breath after his mad dash to the smithy carrying an extremely unwieldy, oversized and heavy object which he had cursed vehemently with every step and regretted ever stealing in the first place.

"It's… rather urgent," he added, as Master Rammund went back to hammering his piece of silvertine plate. His hammer flashed with every swing; it, too was made of silvertine: the only material able to dent it. Rammund had once explained to Gastan that black moltmetal – now known as trigon – had originally been tried, but tended to bounce off the silvertine with some force, not to mention make the wielder, as he put it, go 'odd in the head.'

"Well, it ain't gettin' less urgent, so it can wait till I've finished me piece."

Gastan removed his feathered hat and fanned himself with it. He was hot from running, and it was even hotter in the forge, and he was sweating profusely into his nice clothes.

And he was about to do something else into his nice clothes if the smith didn't hurry up…

Sidling over to the open door of the forge, he peered carefully out.

The street outside seemed normal. A cart had trundled up to the warehouse across the way, and two men were unloading it, sharing banter and laughing as they did so. Gastan didn't dare lean out far enough to look all the way down the street to the gate, but he couldn't hear any shouts or cries of alarm from that direction. Nor could he hear whatever that commotion was on The Line.

He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.

Surely, the Guards would have found the bodies by now?

Gripping his hat to his chest, he edged back into the shadowy interior of the forge, and leaned his back against the workbench, still nervously eyeing the sunlit street.

"Now, what've ye brought me today, eh, Gastan?"

The smith's sudden loud, booming voice startled the thief almost clear into the ceiling rafters.

He recovered in time to see the smith whip the blanket off his prize.

For a couple of seconds, Rammund simply stared down at the massive, gleaming, sleek silvertine crossbow, while Gastan retrieved his crumpled hat from the floor.

Then the smith burst out in a laugh so raucous that it almost flattened Gastan into the floor. "Are ye havin' a laugh? Of all the blazin' things, ye bring me the Eliminator??"

Gastan winced. "One of yours?" he asked in dismay.

"Hah! Nah." Hefting the giant crossbow in his burly arms, Rammund sighted along its length with a look of appreciation. "This is Jamath's work, down in Selvar," he said. "Always knew the lass was a finer smith than me. Look at the mechanism on this!" Letting out a long whistle, he eyed Gastan. "Ye got the bolts, too?"

Gastan shook his head. "No. I… ah, misplaced them…"

I left them behind in the cart, he thought. With that… thing…

Master Rammund was a stocky man with a voluminous silver beard cascading like a tentacled creature over his leather apron, and grey hair held back from a tanned, wrinkled but cheerful face. Loops of silver hung from his earlobes, and the backs of his hands were marked with artful, shimmering silver tattoos.

This was a detail that Gastan hadn't given much thought to the last time he had bartered with Rammund.

Now, however, those curling, vine-like tattoos filled him with indescribable horror.

Is Rammund aware that silvertine is capable of turning people, not just 'odd in the head', but into… wraiths?!

Gastan's knees felt weak, yet he was gripped with a strong inclination to start running again. "I… assume this means that you cannot be persuaded to… melt the weapon down?"

The smith looked at him as though Gastan had suggested throwing his newborn child into the forge. "Melt it down? The Eliminator? Are ye daft?! It's a blazin' masterpiece!"

Gastan fidgeted with his hat. "Not even a little bit?"

"A little bit?!"

"Just… a corner?"

"Gastan!"

The thief threw his arms up in exasperation. "My good sir, I have reason to believe that the previous owner of this crossbow is after me with a vengeance, and if this man happens to lay hands upon it again, there is every likelihood that he will use it to separate my handsome head from my well-tailored shoulders! So forgive me for my strong preference that this monstrous weapon be eradicated from the face of this fine world as quickly as that can be reasonably arranged!"

Rammund set the Eliminator down upon the bench, very carefully. Then he put his hands on his hips.

"No."

Gastan put his face in his hands.

Rammund stroked his beard thoughtfully. "But I did promise ye I'd pay for any silvertine piece ye brought me," he said.

He walked off into a back room.

Peering through his fingers, Gastan looked at the crossbow, then at the blazing forge, and back again. Perhaps he could wrangle it in there while the smith's back was turned…

But Rammund was back in a matter of seconds, tossing a pouch to the thief.

Gastan caught it deftly, immediately pulled it open and shook its contents onto his hand.

He stared in dismay at the handful of silver trevens and one gold gruble glinting in the orange light of the forge. "Is this all?"

"How much d'ye think Sergeant Flint is gonna pay to get his crossbow back?"

Slowly, Gastan raised his head in horror. "You are going to sell it back to him?!"

Rammund let out another hearty laugh. "'Course I am! I've got a business to run!" He grinned.

Folding his hand around the coins, Gastan threw himself to his knees, clasping his hands on the workbench. "Master Rammund, I beg you! If you refuse to melt down the crossbow, sell it to someone else!"

Rammund cocked his head. "Any suggestions?"

Gastan thought desperately. "One of the Grik Guards? An Imperial officer?"

The smith snorted. "They ain't got two javens clinkin' together."

"ANYONE!!" Gastan all but screamed. "The Redwick family! The blasted Emperors! I don't care!! PLEASE!" He heaved with sobs.

"Lords!" Rammund exclaimed. "Get up wi' ye, Gastan! Git out o' me forge! Gah!"

Gastan rose to his feet. Slipping the triangular coins back into their pouch, he secreted it into a pocket. Picking up his hat, he shook it out and placed it carefully on his head, adjusting it to a fashionable angle. Delicately, he brushed every bit of dirt off his clothing, and shook out his green cloak.

Finally he straightened, and bowed to the smith. "Farewell, then, Master Rammund, and may the Gods be with you!"

Then he bolted from the forge as though his life depended on it.

At the western gate to Bridgetown, within the shadow of the gatehouse, the morning sun rose a second time, beaming out across the reddish stone walls and dusty cobblestones with almost unbearable brilliance.

Except that this was not the sun.

Directly surrounding the source of the illumination, bodies lay motionless upon the ground – Human and Grik alike – and wherever the light reached, people fell to their knees, transfixed with awe. Some had their hands pressed to their chests in prayer; tears rolled glimmering down rapt faces and wide eyes reflected the gold-white light. Past them, others stood stunned to the spot and further out, still others clamoured over each other, vehicles and animals for a glimpse at the wondrous thing.

Spectacular wings unfolded from a silver-armoured man, filling the gatehouse, encompassing the city; the world.

It was as though the God of Light himself walked Arvanor.

The man carried no weapons.

His eyes were brown and tinged with gold and kind, though rainbow colours swam in their depths, for those doomed enough to see.

And there was a faint smile on his face.