Ferrian's Winter

Streets are blinded; heed the call

Upon the Bridge the snowflakes fall.

Gastan Perinnet Charlet had had enough.

He had spent nearly two days and two nights cowering in his hiding place, in the doorway of an abandoned building. For much of the time, he had slept – somehow – and when he wasn't sleeping, he was terrified, until the terror became so exhausting that he slept again.

Now it was dark once more, and he was stiff and cramped, sore everywhere but especially his backside, from hours sitting on hard stone. A noisome fog had oozed over the city walls, seeping into his clothing, making him damp and sticky and chill to the bone, and he was filthy with unmentionable grime from the grotty corner he had wedged himself into, and he was famished.

He had not seen or heard another person, living or dead, in all that time.

Even the mice had disappeared.

What use is it, he thought in anguish, to save myself from the wraith, only to die from starvation and cold in a decrepit alleyway?

Shivering, he wrapped his green velvet cloak more tightly around him, trying to think what to do.

Damn the General for closing the gates! He considered going back there, to see if anything had changed. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, if the army saw that one, dashingly handsome man was still alive, begging to be set free, they might take pity on him?

No. Gastan put his face in his cold, clammy hands. The General wasn't going to let anyone out. He had locked the city down for a reason. Clearly, he didn't want anyone escaping, in case they might be infected.

He'd be just as likely to receive a hundred arrows in his chest, for his trouble.

And what of the Redwick family? Were they holed up somewhere, like Gastan was? Had they managed to conspire their way out with bribes or threats? Or were they dead?

Gastan couldn't imagine the latter. The Redwicks were shrewd; someone would have warned them of the wraith's presence, and they would have taken measures to protect themselves. He was also fairly certain that they would not abandon their city, no matter what menace presented itself. They wouldn't give up their hard-won stranglehold on the border. They wouldn't simply hand it over to the Imperials.

That meant that they were most likely still around, somewhere.

And no doubt extremely angry.

And if they found out that Gastan was responsible for bringing a wraith into their beloved Bridgetown…

A fresh wave of coldness rippled through him.

His stomach cramped and gurgled.

But in spite of his fear and indecision, his own body was forcing him into a course of action. He had to find food and water, at the very least, not to mention a better place to sleep and relieve himself. There was no telling how long this lockdown might go on; it could be weeks…

Grudgingly, Gastan rose to his feet, rubbing the stiffness from his legs. He had a mind to try for the Western Gate. There was a chance that it had not been closed – the Imperial Army hadn't made it that far, after all; they controlled only the Eastern District. And he had seen for himself that some of the Grik sentries manning the gatehouse had been killed by the wraith; perhaps all of them had.

Even if the portcullis was closed, if all the guards there were dead, Gastan could slip into the gatehouse and work the mechanism himself.

Escape might still be possible that way.

But it meant that Gastan would have to backtrack across the entire city, including the Bridge.

And the shining silvertine wraith was somewhere in his path.

It was an incredibly risky undertaking, but Gastan was desperate, and so far he had managed to survive by determinedly not looking at the light.

If he could just avoid looking at the wraith, he could make it…

But merely closing his eyes was not enough – he had tried it. The light penetrated his eyelids, brighter than sunlight, infiltrating his mind with wondrous, comforting visions of good times and friendship.

He hated it, despised the way it made him feel, tricking him with beautiful lies, leaving him cold, lonely and bereft for rejecting it.

Even now, he could sense it calling to him from the slant of illumination upon the wall opposite, even though he had turned himself away and tilted his hat to obscure it from sight.

He could feel the wraith watching.

But he needed something more than his hat, if he was to make it all the way through the city. He needed to cover his eyes with a blindfold of some sort…

He looked around himself, but there was nothing within reach but filthy debris. Half-heartedly, he tried the door that had kept him company during the long hours of his vagrancy – as he had done a dozen times already – but it was immovable, presumably nailed shut from the inside.

There were no other doors or windows in this alleyway, no residences he could enter. Opposite him was the sheer face of the city wall, and nothing else. No material of any kind to be found anywhere, or at least not anything he cared to put on his face.

Taking up the edge of his fine cloak, he fondled it.

The hem was embroidered with golden thread in an artful diamond pattern. He had stolen it, of course, swiped it off the saddle of a nobleman's horse while the fellow was engaged in conversation. It had been the easiest thing in the world. Gastan had taken the cloak because he fancied it; he had never seen another one like it.

"Oh, my lovely," he whispered, lip quivering. "Forgive me…"

Slipping the silvertine dagger from his belt – another stolen item – he hesitated, hand shaking, as though contemplating cutting off his own fingers. Then, with a sharp breath and a quick motion, he sliced the hem from the cloak.

With a cry of pain, he slumped against the door and sobbed for a few minutes before regaining control of himself. Sheathing the dagger, he dabbed at his face with the strip of cloth, then wrapped it tightly around his eyes.

He tested it by turning in the direction of the light.

Nothing.

The fabric was thick, and clothed him effectively in blissful darkness.

Sagging, Gastan let out a deep sigh of relief. Then, gathering himself, checking all of his belongings, he groped his way off the porch and started down the alleyway.

The man in shining armour floated in the middle of the Bridge, suspended in mid-air about fifteen feet off the ground. Snowflakes fluttered around him like frozen butterflies. Tall, elegant buildings framed him on either side, and everything glistened golden-white, like sun on morning snow.

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His armour was impossibly finely crafted; intricate details shifted subtly, constantly, as though with a life of their own, each new pattern more beautiful than the last. Multi-coloured reflections danced over its surface. His face, the only glimpse of skin visible on his entirely silver-clad body, was pale and serene, almost childlike, his eyes closed.

Two white, Angelic wings stirred the air at his back, the long flight feathers rainbow-coloured, rising and falling in a slow, dreamlike motion.

Beneath him, a large crowd had gathered, drawn out of the surrounding houses, lured from every corner of the city onto the Bridge. They stood motionless and silent, oblivious to the freezing cold and each other, faces all turned upwards, into the light, filled with nothing but adoration.

Sergeant Starshadow Flint was one of them.

Flint had never encountered anyone who had stolen his heart the way Hawk did now.

He was the most wondrous holy warrior that had ever existed. The light radiating from him filled the world; it was extraordinary, all-encompassing, a power that sought out the deepest shadows and banished them with its warmth. An absolution of all sins, a cleansing of guilt. Fear withered, sorrow lifted into joy, pain faded into pleasure. He bathed in its glow, and realised that it was the only thing that mattered, now. Nothing else was important.

Flint had been mistaken. He knew this man. He loved him. Flint had always loved him. How could he have forgotten?

He had fallen to his knees in the snow. The icy cold of the Winter continued to tear at him, but he could no longer feel its claws. He couldn't take his eyes away from Hawk – he didn't want to…

He wanted only to gaze at Hawk until he died.

Slowly, the silver-clad man's eyes opened, and he lifted his head.

For a breath-stopping moment, Flint thought that Hawk looked at him, acknowledged him, reciprocated his feelings… then he realised, with an agonised sense of gut-wrenching betrayal, that Hawk looked past him, or through him, to something else…

The light radiating from the silver-clad man gently diminished, withdrawing like the sun pulling itself discreetly behind a cloud.

The sense of loss that Flint felt in its wake was so great that he forced himself to his feet, letting out a wail of despair, staggering forwards…

He stopped abruptly. His sense of self re-established itself with an unpleasant prickling sensation along his skull, as well as the biting cold.

Shivering violently, he shook his head.

What… what the hell just happened?!

The sudden realisation caused him to let out a strangled gasp. He stumbled backwards.

It was then that he caught sight of something behind him.

Ferrian.

The young sorcerer stood there in the blizzard of his own making, his eyes still aglow. His grey cloak flapped about him and his pale hair tossed itself over his face. He clutched his Sword in one hand; black and silver mist leaked off it into the wind.

He was not looking at Flint.

The Freeroamer backed away from both Ferrian and Hawk.

Gods, he thought in horror. Oh, Gods…

Gastan edged his way along the wall, fighting the freezing wind that tore at his clothes and hat. At some point in his journey, a storm had hit the city, the temperature plummeting shockingly, but he kept his blindfold resolutely in place and struggled on.

He had no idea where he was – it felt as though he had been walking for days. Constantly, he kicked and tripped over things on the ground which felt disturbingly like bodies.

He whimpered, forcing himself not to think about them.

The blindfold kept him safe, kept the wraith's light at bay, but the storm was eking out his strength.

Numb from the cold, Gastan was beginning to think it wise to stop and rest, to seek shelter. Perhaps he could take a tiny little peek to check his bearings…

A Human cry sounded frighteningly close, making him jump out of his skin.

P-perhaps I won't stop just yet… Gastan thought, trying to put his heart back into his chest.

Yet he couldn't seem to make himself move, as though frozen solid against the wall.

He couldn't bear it any longer. If there were other people alive in this city, even guards…

Reaching up with a trembling hand, he nudged the blindfold, just a crack…

He appeared to be, by some miracle, on the Bridge. A white glow illuminated the street, emanating from his left. There appeared to be people standing around – many of them, all facing the light – rigid as statues, perhaps frozen, Gastan couldn't be sure… Gastan almost choked on his own startled breath – the wraith was horribly close, in fact hovering in the snow-filled air above the mass of enthralled citizens...

Perhaps the wraith had affected him after all, guided his steps here, unknowingly…

Horror lanced through him, and he looked quickly away. But the light was strangely muted, its call to him dull, half-hearted, as though distracted or weakened.

He found out a second later why.

A young, blond-haired man stood some distance away in the mist, just within the Golden Gates. His eyes glowed, and one hand held a wicked, glimmering long sword. Silver vapours streamed off the blade, and an inky black miasma curled over the hilt in tendrils that insinuated themselves around the man's hand and up his arm.

"Oh no," Gastan breathed aloud. "Oh, Gods, oh Gods, oh Goddess have mercy!!"

Ripping his blindfold off completely, he scurried along the wall until he found a darkened portico and threw himself into it, crouching down into a ball in the corner, pulling his hat down over his face.

Don't look this way, he prayed. Don't look. I am not here. I am an insignificant speck of dirt, not worthy of your attention…

Flint backed away until he came up against a wall. There he dropped into a crouch.

Neither Hawk or Ferrian had moved. Both remained where they were, staring at one another through the storm.

Hawk's Light had faded into a misty nimbus around him, his influence retreated to a dull wistfulness. Gloom descended onto the Bridge, the fading dregs of the night reclaiming what they could of the ravaged city. The Winter raged as fiercely as ever, a tempest that screamed in a frenzy of anticipation.

The crowd beneath Hawk began to stir as their minds were released. Some collapsed to their knees, others staggered into each other in dazed confusion. A few around the edges caught sight of Ferrian and cried out in terror, regaining their wits enough to flee.

Panic spread in a rapid wave, and suddenly there was chaos. People scattered in all directions, some for the gates, most into the surrounding buildings.

No one approached Ferrian.

Flint hunkered down against the wall, squinting against the snowflakes whirling into his eyes, waiting until the crowd dispersed and the last stragglers had stumbled well out of the way. Then he brought up his crossbow. His numb fingers fumbled with the safety catch; it took several attempts to get it off.

He felt cold all the way through.

Hawk and Ferrian were about to kill each other.

Flint lifted the loaded bow, leaning on his knee to aim, trying to still his shivering. His gut twisted into a painful knot of fear, but he had to do something, or none of this was going to end well…

"What are you doing? Are you mad?!" the sudden voice right beside him startled him so badly that he yelped, almost dropping his bow.

He whirled, bringing the bow back up.

His eyes met a pair of frightened blue ones in a handsome, deathly pale face, with a fastidiously-groomed moustache, beneath an extravagant, snow-dusted hat held to his head with one hand.

Recognition flashed between Flint and the other man like a dagger, shocking in its intensity.

"YOU!" Flint shouted.

The thief turned from white to a sickly shade of grey, his eyes gone wide. "Oh!" he said in a weak voice. "Haha! Yes! Me!" He lifted a hand in a small wave and smiled, which was more like a grimace. "Hello!"

Then he got up and ran.

Cursing, Flint shoved himself to his feet and gave chase.

The thief was fast, but the wind tossed his green cloak within Flint's grasp, and he managed to lunge forward and snatch it, almost strangling the man as he did so. Spinning him around, he grabbed the front of the man's tunic with his free hand and hauled him into a nearby entryway. There he slammed the thief up against a door, pressing the loaded bow to the side of his head.

"WHERE THE HELL IS MY CROSSBOW?!" he screamed.

Lifting a quivering hand, the thief pointed.

Flint shifted his hand to the man's throat and squeezed. "THE ELIMINATOR, DAMN YOU!!"

The thief was choking. He released the pressure, enough for him to speak.

"The… s… smith…" the man gurgled.

Flint's grip tightened again. "I just CAME from there, you thievin' rat! Saw no bloody sign of it, an' the smith was a wraith! Barely escaped with me goddamned SKIN ON!"

The man looked terrified. Flint eased his grip again, but not his murderous glare.

"I… I…" the thief spluttered.

"SPIT IT OUT!"

"I TOLD THE SMITH TO SELL IT!" the thief screamed. "T-t-to…"

Flint slammed him against the door.

"TO THE REDWICKS!" the man wailed.

Flint's eyes went so wide they threatened to bulge from their sockets. "You WHAT?!!"

He throttled the man.

The thief's face began to turn blue. In fury, Flint released him.

The man crumpled, sliding down the door, gasping and clutching at his throat.

"I oughta' put a bolt right down yer miserable gullet!" Flint snarled. Then he turned away. "But I ain't got time for the likes o' you!"

He peered around the doorway, out into the storm. Worryingly, Ferrian had begun to advance on Hawk.

Dammit!

He raised his bow again, leaning against the wall, buffeted by the wind, trying to concentrate. It was a difficult shot in the wind and darkness, but he didn't expect to penetrate Ferrian's magical shield in any case. He hoped that just hitting it would be enough to distract him.

It was desperate, but he didn't know what else to do…

"No!" the thief cried. "You will attract the attention of the wraiths; you will get us both killed!! You cannot destroy them!"

"They ain't wraiths!" Flint shouted back. "One of 'em's a Freeroamer, the other's a sorcerer! An' I ain't tryna kill 'em, you idiot! Ferrian's me friend! But if I don't stop 'im, he's gonna kill Hawk!" He shook his head in despair. "Damn it all! This wasn't supposed to happen!"

"A… sorcerer?" the thief quavered from behind him.

"What's yer name?" Flint demanded.

There was silence.

"YOUR NAME?"

"G-Gastan!" the man stammered. "Gastan P-P-Perinnet Ch-Charlet!"

"Good! I'll write it on a bolt an' send it back to ya, when I get a chance!"

"Th-thank you, sir!" Gastan sobbed. "You are a most honourable gentleman…"

Flint wanted to kick him in the head. Instead, he sighted down the crossbow and pulled the trigger.

There was a brief flash of light and the bolt spun away, landing as a twisted lump of smoking metal in the snow.

Ferrian didn't pause. He didn't turn; in fact, he didn't even appear to notice.

He kept walking, slowly, deliberately towards Hawk.

Flint lowered his crossbow in dismay.

"Crap."