Ferrian's Winter

Book Four: Angelblade

Sand and madness, fear and heat

On Ancient stones the two shall meet.

Wing Commander Re'Vier, leader of the Sky Legion, shot through the hot blue sky like a burning silver arrow. His white wings assailed the air currents, propelling him faster, faster…

He couldn't go fast enough.

Terror chased him like a black bird of prey with outstretched talons.

He was a boy of seven years old once more, desperately, madly, fleeing from the truth of the world, a reality he wasn't ready for, and yet still tried to deny though it clung to him like a trailing, wailing parasite.

Or perhaps the wailing was from his own soul as it twisted in agony.

Yet there were no lofty mountain passes here to engulf him, to reduce him to the insignificance of a tiny white spider amongst the barren grey boulders. No golden-hued forest valleys sprawling out below to shelter him in amber shadow, dotted with purple orchids that nodded daintily amongst things that decayed in their midst, as though nothing bad had ever happened.

There was only an endless bleached plain of searing sand, stretching out to a rippling horizon, scattered with giant bones baking beneath an uncaring sun.

The little girl's body was sprawled on the warm mountain rock, in the middle of the bushes, like a discarded toy. She still carried the Book with her, in her favourite little colourfully-woven satchel.

Reeves had stolen the Book, as though it were the only thing that mattered, in that moment.

He had taken the Book, and left Talia lying there, dead and bleeding on the rocks, like an animal that had taken an unfortunate step in the midday sun…

His child self had wanted to prove that the Book was a lie, that death itself was a lie.

Instead, the opposite had happened. The truth raged through him, uncontrollably, like a fire that could not be extinguished.

Angels died, just like everything else did. Just like Talia, a Human, had. Everything that he had ever been taught, that he had believed with all his heart to be true, was wrong.

And in that moment of liminal madness, a moment of clarity:

It was not Humans that Reeves truly hated, despite their lack of flight, amongst innumerable contemptible qualities.

It was himself.

It was all of his wretched, god-cursed kind.

He hated Angels.

And that was why he was determined to save them; to undo generations upon generations of lies and myths, to make them understand their stupidity, their ignorance. Humans cherished life: Angels threw it away like a gaudy trinket.

They had tossed themselves into their Holy Tower with fervour and gladness, all in service to the stony, godlike Seraphim, who watched on, unmoved. Angel life to them was nothing but fuel, so many sticks on a bonfire, to maintain an Aegis to protect them from their ancient, black-winged enemies, who stalked them in the shadows.

Now Caer Sync was no more.

Reeves had despised the Tower, and had not grieved at its destruction, but instead was filled with a dark, insane thrill, as though the Goddess herself approved of his plan to remake the world.

But there was no Goddess, of course.

There was only him, Re'Vier.

No one else understood.

But now, the Black Pyramid had returned. It had felled Caer Sync like a mighty white tree, shattering the great Tower into untold fragments and spilling the liquefied souls of all Angelkind across the length of Arkana. The Angel homeland was destroyed, forever.

The last hope for the redemption and survival of his race lay in Excelsior, the ancient Seraphim city, lost to time and the sky but still reachable, or so Reeves believed.

He had gambled his entire life on this final truth.

But if the Black Pyramid got to it first…

The Angel soared, a blazing white bird caught between the blue depths and the terrible, bright dead sands, and laughed.

He laughed hysterically, on the outside.

On the inside, he screamed.

The sun set fire to him. As the afternoon wore on, his fear dwindled, beaten into submission by the white heat, exhaustion claiming him instead. The horizon blurred and swayed up and down, as though he were drowning in a rolling, burning sea.

His wingbeats faltered and he glided limply on the updraughts, until the ground finally rose to greet him.

He met it face first and hard, in a wave of dust.

The sand scorched him like embers. He reeled back, spitting and shrieking, slashing wildly around him, his silvertine gauntlets flashing, sand flying everywhere, until his strength gave out completely, and he collapsed onto his back, panting.

The sun swam overhead like a fat white menacing fish, circling him. The light hurt his eyes, stabbing into his brain like teeth clamping onto his face. His skin felt as though it were being torn off…

With a wail of pain, his head rolled to one side, and he caught sight of his silver gauntlet.

His turquoise eyes went wide.

The silvertine was melting, streaming over his arm in rivulets, sparkling and burning and turning his skin black as ink, burrowing into his veins, cold and terrible…

He screamed again, clawing at his arm, his body, his face; screamed and shrieked until he couldn't hear over the throbbing roar in his head, and his vision closed in at the edges and finally, mercifully, he spiralled away into thundering, agonising darkness.

When Reeves drifted back into consciousness again, the sky was lavender, and a warm breeze had picked up, sand slowly covering his body, like a blanket. His wings were almost completely buried.

With a monumental effort, he forced himself into a sitting position, wings pulling free and streaming sand. The pounding pain in his skull returned with reinforcement, and his stomach lurched with nausea, almost causing him to black out again. His throat burned so that he could hardly swallow; his mouth dry as parchment.

I need… water…

Groggily he patted himself, searching for a waterskin.

He did not find one.

He had nothing, he realised. No water, no food, no equipment, no weapons. No…

A sudden choke constricted his throat.

No Book!

He clutched at his head, fingers twining into his blond hair until it hurt. His eyes screwed themselves shut.

The Book was gone. He had torn it to pieces, in a fit of anger and despair.

The way to Excelsior was lost.

Everything was… lost…

Lowering his hands from his head, he looked at them. They were trembling, but the silvertine seemed normal – it was not black, or melting. He still wore his long white coat over the top of his armour.

He was hot, his entire body damp with sweat, but he hadn't the energy to take any of it off. Strangely enough, he didn't want to, despite the horrifying hallucination he'd had earlier…

A wave of shivers rippled over his skin.

I left them all behind… Tander… Nix… that damned Winter sorcerer… Mekka…

He shoved his hands into the sand in front of him, and something that was half cry of anger, half sob wrenched itself from him.

That rotting, hell-damned crow! What did his damned Pyramid do to me?! His eyes burned with tears. I will find him and kill him! There is no First Law now…

There was no nothing, now.

All of his plans lay in ruins around him.

Another breathless laugh escaped his cracked lips, but it was weak, and turned into a coughing wheeze. The tears ran down his cheeks, and their trails stung. They plopped onto the sand in little craters.

That Black Pyramid was the death of everything. It would torture and transform all life on Arvanor. It was made of trigon; it fed on misery and pain, it knew nothing else. That was what the Iriphim had done; it was why the Seraphim wanted them dead, had refused to allow them to exist.

The Pyramid would not stop at destroying the Angel nation.

I MUST find Excelsior! Reeves thought in anguish. But the Seraphim city was doomed if he uncovered its hiding place…

He lifted his gaze to the darkening sky, where the first few stars winked alight, like the tiny silver lanterns of distant mansions.

Perhaps Excelsior never was reachable, he thought hopelessly. Perhaps I have been taken for a fool…

No! a fervent part of his mind refuted. The Seraphim themselves showed it to you, in their vision! The city exists!

Then why, his teeth gritted, had they not shown me the way? Why must I prise secrets out of decaying shreds of dead parchment and ink?!

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The pinpoints of light splintered into watery shards, and Reeves looked away in frustration.

That was when he noticed the strange rock formation.

It rose from the sand in a smooth, curving arc, like a stony wave, silhouetted against the silvery western horizon.

Reeves stared at it.

There were no other landmarks on the flat, empty plain. No giant skeletons, no outposts, no highway. The White Dragon, his companions, his enemies were nowhere in sight. There was not another living thing to be seen, anywhere. It occurred to him that he had no idea where he was or how far he had flown, other than a vague sense that he had fled roughly south. But this country was unknown to him.

He was lost, alone and exhausted in this vast, ashen graveyard.

I am going to die here.

There was no emotion to the thought: it was a simple statement of fact.

He wasn't even sure what death meant, any longer.

He supposed he was about to find out.

Without water, he wouldn't survive long. He couldn't tolerate another day of that scorching heat; he would tear himself apart in his madness. This was likely to be his last night.

He felt suddenly hollowed out, like a shell picked clean, unable to summon passion for anything, even his own life.

Then I will die by that stone, if it is the only thing left to me…

He wasn't sure he had the energy to walk there, let alone fly, but he forced himself to his feet anyway.

After a few steps, the world tilted crazily and he was back on his knees.

He pushed himself up again.

Slowly, with his dusty wings carving furrows behind him, the Angel Commander slogged through the sand until he reached the outcropping, and collapsed against it with ragged breaths.

The stone was more textured than it had looked from a distance, covered in long, finely etched lines and overlapping ridges that, although worn smooth by the ravages of the desert, were strangely recognisable.

Almost like…

Feathers?

Curiosity briefly quenching his despair, Reeves followed the sweeping ridge of rock until it descended into the sand. He stepped over it to see what lay beyond.

What he saw there startled him. With a strangled gasp, he stepped backwards involuntarily, tripping on the edge of stone and falling into the sand.

It was a face. A gigantic head submerged in the Bone Sea, facing skywards as though the statue had drowned in the pale sand.

It was a Seraph.

Its features were softened by age and the scouring winds, but otherwise perfect; beautiful, serene and eerie in the failing light. It was intact, undamaged, almost entirely buried; it must have lain here for millennia undisturbed and forgotten in this lonely, lifeless stretch of wasteland.

For long moments, Reeves was breathless with mingled awe and terror.

But there was no sign of life from the statue.

Then his heart kicked him in the chest like a wild animal, and he was suddenly scrambling to his feet. Surging forward, he threw himself onto the head. Pulling himself up onto the smooth stone, he crawled across the face like an insect – over the lips, past the nose, until he reached the eyes.

They were closed.

But the third, smaller eye set in the forehead was open.

Or at least, there appeared to be a faint outline of an iris and a pupil, barely discernable in the deepening twilight.

"Where… is… Excelsior?" he croaked.

Silence. Wind swept granules of sand across the eye. They gathered against Reeves' silver gauntlets.

"Where… is it?!" he gasped. "Tell me!"

Nothing. The Seraph did not stir.

"TELL ME!!"

Reeves' scream was carried away into the uncaring desert. Night draped him in soft, warm shrouds.

He collapsed onto the eye, a wailing sob tearing itself from deep within his chest. He clawed at the eye, pummelled it with his fists, as though to wake it, hurt it, provoke some reaction, though he knew it was long dead. His own tears leaked onto it.

"The… Angel… blade," he wept. "I must… find it. We are… dying…"

The Seraph did not answer. It was gone; they were all gone. Soon all of the Angels would be extinct with them…

He lay with his cheek upon the warm, sandy, starlit stone. His tears ran freely now, quicker than the warm wind could dry them, glimmering down his own face onto the massive visage below him. "Why," he whispered. "Why did… you show me… what was lost? The Black Pyramid… will consume us… will destroy… what is left…"

He heard the sound then. It was distant, very faint, wafting to him from some indeterminate direction. It was wondrous, like divine singing or chanting, but there was something discordant about it, a keening undertone strangling the beauty…

Reeves' blood ran cold. He clamped his hands over his ears. "No…" He pushed himself into a sitting position, squeezing his eyes shut. "N-no!"

The sound became louder.

Reeves' mind began to splinter once more, opening raw wounds anew. Panic flooded him, his sense of self searching wildly for a place to flee. His breath came in rapid gasps as he tried in vain to retain his hold on sanity…

His eyes opened wide, and he was ready to launch himself into the air, when he caught sight of another stone.

It was off to his left, and looked like a huge hand. Or rather, the first two fingers of a hand – the forefinger and the thumb. The forefinger was bent and slightly tilted, but pointing into the sky.

Trembling, Reeves looked.

Instantly, everything was forgotten: blasted away in a vision of pure glory.

A city hung upon the night sky; a city vast and regal, like a grand palace of white and gold. Crystalline glass spires soared amongst the stars. The buildings were curved and elegant, tall and symmetrical, like seashells or flowers. They glowed with a mysterious inner light, as though the sun shone upon them forever, as though no darkness could touch them, not even the infinite shadow of the Universe.

Excelsior.

Reeves could not look away, did not want to look away, lest the vision be proved just another mad conjuring from his own broken mind…

He became aware that the singing continued, that it washed over him, filled his whole soul; that it flowed between the shards of his consciousness and melded them back together. The screeching was still there, the tortured agonising echo of the dying, but it was fainter, and there was a purpose to it, a melody; it was an integral part of the rhythm of the holy music.

Gradually, softly, both the city and the music faded back into the quiet, windswept solitude of the night.

The desert seemed dull and bleak in their wake.

It's here, Reeves thought, stunned. Excelsior is HERE!

He tried to keep it in his mind, to remember every detail, particularly its position against the stars, but an immense tiredness suddenly overcame him; his limbs began to feel impossibly heavy. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

Perhaps… I will… rest, he thought numbly. Just… a little…

His eyes closed even before his body slumped onto the stone.

A faint, silvery mist leaked from him, and danced away on the night currents.

In the shaded hours of the morning, when the moon had grown tired but the sun had not yet risen, when the wind had ceased to play and the desert lay dark and hushed and barren, and full of unknowable dreams, another shape materialised against the sprinkled wash of stars.

This was not a sublime and shining city, but a mess of triangular shards, cutting a black hole between worlds.

The Pyramid glided soundlessly, its huge, downward-pointing blade slicing the dry air, until it came to a halt some distance from a cluster of smooth, oddly-shaped stones. A tiny shred of blackness and blue light detached itself from the chaotic shape, drifting in a wide circle before finally coming to land near the stones.

Mekka looked around warily. The rocks appeared to be the remains of a Seraph. There were hundreds of such fragments scattered around the Bone Sea, along with the carcases of mortal creatures, but these were more intact than most. The Watcher curiously kept its distance, seemingly reluctant to advance any nearer.

The black-winged Angel frowned. Surely, this single, lonely Seraph was long dead, and no possible threat? Still, he kept his hands on the hilts of his daggers as he moved forward.

With a deft flap of his wings, he leapt on top of the head.

A pale shape lay at the far end of the stone.

Mekka crept forward noiselessly.

The blue glow from his winged head-piece illuminated the body.

It was Reeves. He lay motionless, curled on his side between the Seraph's three huge eyes. He did not stir as Mekka approached.

Guardedly, Mekka crouched. "Reeves?" he said aloud.

No response.

The Sky Legion Commander looked in rough shape. He was covered in sand, and the harsh desert sun had taken retribution on his fair skin. His lips were dry and cracked; his blond hair a tangled mess; his perfect white feathers all awry. His helmet was missing, as was his spear, and he carried nothing with him; no pack, no water, no supplies, though he still wore his armour and long white coat.

Mekka could see no blood or anything he might have used to hurt himself with, but lack of water alone was enough to kill a man, out here.

Shifting closer, he carefully shook the Angel. "Reeves!"

Nothing.

Anxious now, Mekka removed his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. He reached out to check the Angel's pulse…

Reeves' arm flashed up so quickly that it took Mekka completely by surprise, seizing his wrist and twisting it aside. In the same movement he threw Mekka onto his back, rolled on top of him and clamped his gauntlet around Mekka's throat.

"Fine morning, isn't it?" he said, grinning.

Mekka's breath was being choked out of him, Reeves' armoured hand squeezing harder and harder. In a terrifying moment, looking into those insane blue-green eyes, he realised that the Angel fully intended to kill him.

Even more alarming was the fact that the Watcher did not intervene.

Mekka's right hand went for his belt and snatched out a dagger.

Reeves' free hand stopped it.

"Now, what do you think you're going to do with that?"

Pain and lack of air was causing his vision to narrow dangerously. Mekka struggled for a scrap of breath. "N-nothing," he managed to rasp, "I have… another!"

His left hand pulled out his second dagger.

And Reeves only had two hands.

The Angel Commander realised that just in time. He was forced to release his hold on Mekka's throat to prevent the second dagger stabbing into his thigh.

This left him open to another obvious attack, however, and Reeves sprang backwards with a curse, releasing his victim altogether as Mekka's head lunged forward.

Mekka followed it up immediately with a sweep of his leg, but Reeves danced aside and grabbed Mekka's right hand again, expertly twisting the dagger out of his grip and into his own, then slashed it at Mekka's head.

Mekka parried with his remaining dagger, the silvertine blades clashing off each other, and both Angels rolled away.

Mekka clutched at his throat, coughing and heaving for breath. "Well," he wheezed, "this is fun. But I did not… come here… to kill you!"

"Oh, indeed?" Reeves rose smoothly to his feet, and straightened his coat. "Then perhaps you can tell me why you are here? To kiss me goodbye?" He grinned.

"As impossible… as it may be to believe," Mekka replied through gritted teeth, "I was… concerned for… your well-being!"

Reeves laughed. "How quaint! Well, as you can see—" he spread his arms. "I am perfectly fine!"

Mekka looked him up and down and snorted. He rose to his feet, still holding his dagger out defensively. "My mistake," he muttered dryly.

He wasn't sure what was going on here, but he didn't like it. Reeves was agile and alert, his eyes sharp, with no sign of fatigue, despite his physical appearance. Something had energised him…

Mekka's eyes flicked to the massive face of the Seraph they were fighting on. He felt suddenly extremely uncomfortable.

And then he noticed something that made him even more uncomfortable.

Reeves was twirling the dagger in his fingers. His pose was relaxed, but Mekka could tell that he was about to launch another attack. But that wasn't what bothered him…

The dagger. It was leaving silvery trails in the air. His armour, too – his gauntlets and his breastplate and his boots – it all had a misty, unreal look to it, and it was too bright in the darkness, as though the moon shone upon it – but the moon had set.

"Reeves…" Mekka's eyes widened. "Your armour…"

"What of it?" Reeves replied, casually advancing towards him again. "Regretting you haven't any?"

"On the contrary…" Moving sideways, Mekka attempted to put the Seraph's protruding nose between himself and the Angel Commander. "Take it off!"

Reeves raised a salacious eyebrow. "Oh my. If that's what you wanted, you need only have asked…"

Mekka slashed a furious hand. "I'm serious! This isn't a game! You need to take your armour off, now! It's affecting you!"

Reeves snorted a derisive laugh. "The only things affecting me are you—" he pointed with his dagger at Mekka, and then at the Watcher, "and that wretched Pyramid!"

Mekka shook his head in frustration. "The silvertine isn't protecting you, Reeves!" he insisted. "It will turn you into a wraith! It will kill you!"

"A wraith!" Reeves laughed again, cheerfully. "How fanciful!"

They continued to circle each other around the Seraph's nose. Mekka's heart raced as he tried desperately to sort through his confusion. The Watcher had influenced Reeves, and the other members of the Sky Legion, and Li; that much had been plain to see. But something else was now becoming awfully clear.

Reeves had always been insane. The Watcher had not changed him; it had simply pushed him over the edge.

But something had triggered the silvertine.

The Watcher? The Seraph? Reeves' own deranged mental state? All of these things?!

Whatever the catalyst, it had happened, and it was bad.

How can I convince him to take it off?!

He had to do something; distract Reeves, knock him out…

He looked back up at the white-winged Angel, walking towards him, shining in the dark, smiling, and a very odd feeling embraced him, like a sudden, unwanted hug.

He liked Reeves. Why was he fighting the Angel Commander? Reeves was a virtue, everything that Mekka was not. His immense self-assurance, his resilience, his incredible beauty…

Mekka gasped, clutching at his head, crushing the treasonous thoughts as hard as he could. No! It's the silvertine!

He staggered around to the other side of the stone nose, trying to keep some distance. I have to stay away from him…

A small dark blob was perched on the raised tip of the nose. As it swam before Mekka's lightheaded vision, two tiny, blurred golden discs looked back. Then they disappeared, and the shadow seemed to contract into itself.

Mekka stumbled past it, rolling his shoulder around the carved nostrils. As Reeves drew close behind him, the dagger a bright gleam in his hand, the shadow leapt…

… and landed straight on his face!

Reeves' surprised shriek broke the spell.

Mekka moved quickly. Vaulting over the bridge of the nose, he kicked Reeves square in the chest, sending him and the shadow flying off the face of the Seraph. The dagger clattered away somewhere into the sand.

Mekka leapt down beside him. "Watcher!" he cried. "Take him! NOW!"

Reeves had just pushed himself furiously to his feet when he was launched into the air, and not of his own accord. He screamed, twisting and flapping his wings, attempting to break free of the invisible force that snared him, to no avail.

The Watcher reeled him in like a gleaming fish.

Mekka crouched in the sand, listening to the Angel's diminishing screams, taking a few moments to recover his breath and his sanity. He got up and collected his dagger, slipped both weapons carefully back into their sheaths, and then stood waiting for the trembling to stop.

The little black shadow wandered over. Kneeling, he scratched under its furry chin. "Well done, little one," he breathed in relief. "Well done."

The Cat rubbed itself against his leg, purring.