Darkness follows, stormy air

The one who haunts you isn't there.

Dry leaves tumbled across the dark highway, borne on a strong, cool wind that blew not from the sea, but from the mountains to the east. The Great Ocean Road was one of the oldest roads in Arvanor. The Angels had built it, in that time – remembered now only in faded history books on dark shelves – long ago when they had treasured beauty and freedom, when their hearts had been open, before they had become indifferent to the world's problems.

Over the span of untold generations, the road had been worn down, repaired, destroyed, rebuilt, abandoned, discovered and worn down again. It had endured the tread of countless feet, had helped to carry every burden imaginable. It was an important trade route, and was usually littered with travellers of all persuasions, but tonight the great highway was strangely empty – apart from a lone rider on a horse as dark as a silhouette against the evening sea.

Cimmeran lifted his head and sniffed the air. Rain, he thought. The storm is coming at last.

He blinked his eyes wearily. He was exhausted, but strangely, didn't feel like sleeping. He supposed he was so tired that he was beyond feeling sleepy. He no longer felt hungry, either, even though he'd had nothing to eat since leaving Tulstan except a few wild plums and (out of desperation) grass.

Dimly he wondered at his lack of appetite and desire for sleep. It couldn't be a good sign. Perhaps it was his body's way of letting him know that it had given up, that it didn't care what he did to it any more. His mind had ceased to care, as well. As long as his body held out long enough for him to reach his destination, he wasn't concerned.

The thought of his destination was the only thing that had kept him moving through the brutal, scorching days. Just one more day of travel, and he would reach Sunsee. If he could reach Sunsee, he would be all right.

He had long since given up looking over his shoulder for the Red Watch. Perhaps they would chase him all the way to the city, perhaps not. Perhaps they had given up already. Perhaps, he thought, they had never been chasing him in the first place. He had not seen a single sign of them throughout the entire journey. Either they were extremely incompetent, or they simply couldn't be bothered running all over the country through furnace-like temperatures looking for a petty thief. The latter was more likely.

Whatever the reason, once he reached Sunsee, he would quickly disappear in the narrow streets, losing any potential pursuers. The city had its own guard – the Blue Watch – but it would not concern itself with a minor criminal from a country town. After that, it was simply a matter of buying passage (or, failing that, stowing away) on one of the ships – any of the ships, he didn't care which – and no one would ever find him again.

As if to test the strength of his resolve, a fierce gust of wind shoved him sideways. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on Ardance's reins. At first, he had welcomed the breeze: the coolness of it was soothing against his sunburnt skin. But he had quickly come to despise it: it had nearly blown him right off Ardance's back once or twice, and its constant pounding was aggravating his stiff, aching muscles.

The horse endured the wind silently and without faltering, although Cimmeran could tell she was just as exhausted as he was. Her steps were becoming heavier, and her neck was lowered as though she didn't have the energy to lift her head.

Cimmeran felt a pang of guilt for the way he had treated Ardance over the past two days in his desperate attempt to escape the Red Watch. He had managed to mount her without too much difficulty, although getting her to do what he wanted was much harder. He had not ridden a horse for a very long time: in fact, he'd only ever ridden once, and then only because Lord Arzath had forced him to. It hadn't been a very pleasant experience then, and it wasn't much better this time. Ardance had come to him on her own accord, but she still didn't fully trust him. And Cimmeran didn't trust her. But they tolerated each other out of mutual need: he needed her speed, and she needed someone to look after her.

The pain and frustration had been worth it, however. Once he had managed to coax her into a gallop, they had made excellent progress. Pardo Rynall had not exaggerated when he'd said she was fast. Ardance flew over the ground like a dark eagle through the clear summer sky.

He had ridden her hard through the day and night, following fields and farm tracks, and keeping to the shelter of trees where possible. He had paused only to drink from whatever water source they could find. He had passed more farmhouses, but he kept well clear of them, trying to ignore the terrible hollow feeling in his stomach. Now that he had finally gained control of Ardance, he did not dare to let go of her reins for fear that she would have a change of heart and flee.

On the third day out from Tulstan, Cimmeran had decided to chance the main road. His fear of getting caught was slowly dissipating, eroded by heat, fatigue, and the continued failure of any red cloaks to appear, and the highway made for much easier and swifter travelling.

He glanced at the sky. It was heavy with swirling clouds. The stars had been consumed like stray crumbs on a beggar's plate, and the moon was visible only as a dim grey glow behind him in the north. The ominous dark clouds that had been banking against the mountains over the past few days had pushed forward to smother the coastal sky, but not a drop of rain had yet fallen. The clouds were holding back, waiting as though in anticipation...

A fresh gust of wind swept over Cimmeran, tossing Ardance's mane into tangles and throwing invisible dust into his eyes. He rubbed at the grit in annoyance.

It was while he was blinking his vision back into focus that a strange, uneasy feeling began to develop deep in the pit of his stomach. He paused, thinking it was his tired mind playing tricks on him; that his old doubts and fears had resurfaced to haunt him, but the feeling not only persisted: it grew stronger.

It was the feeling that he was not alone: that he was being followed.

He spun immediately in his seat, but the roadway behind him was deserted. Nothing moved except for the trees and the black waves rolling on the sea.

He stared down the roadway for a long moment, his weariness instantly forgotten, his eyes fully awake and shifting, searching for the slightest hint of anything out of place. When nothing changed, he slowly turned and faced forward once more.

You're being paranoid! he told himself firmly. But the thought did nothing to slow his thumping heart.

What if it's the Watch? he thought, familiar dread clenching his stomach. Was he mistaken in thinking that he had lost them? What if they had been following the highway the whole time he was running across the countryside? Of course, if they had missed his tracks back outside Tulstan, that's exactly what they would have done…

The skin on his back prickled as though spiders were crawling down it. He spun again, breathing hard, but still there was nothing.

A sudden crack of thunder ripped the air directly above his head, so loud that it almost deafened him. Both he and Ardance started violently. Ardance's head whipped up in terror and she began prancing in sudden movements, threatening to throw him off.

Cimmeran scrabbled for Ardance's mane, having lost his grip on the reins, and struggled to keep his seat. "I-it's alright!" he choked breathlessly. His heart had almost leapt straight out of his throat. "It's just the s-storm!" But the wind carried his words away to join the dead leaves blowing across the roadway.

When the thunder had died away, Ardance calmed slightly, but she was still tossing her head nervously. She turned and stared back down the road just as he had done, her ears pricked.

She knows something, he thought. I'm not imagining it! Ardance can feel it too!

He looked around wildly. The rush of wind and the crash of the waves on the shore seemed too loud, the trees filled with too much movement, too many shadows…

And then he saw it. A scrap of shadow in the north-eastern sky, visible only because it was caught against the clouds closest to the moon, which were a slightly paler shade than the surrounding sky. It was impossible to identify what it was. At first, he thought it was simply a piece of debris, a branch perhaps, blown out of the forest by the strong wind. But the wind did not bear it out to sea, as he would have expected. Instead, it hovered in the sky, battling the wind, like a moth caught in a spider's web. Then a second shadow appeared, and Cimmeran realised that they were not hovering at all, but flying directly toward him!

His heart rate increased even further. He peered at them intently, trying to make out their shape in the gloom. What are they? he thought. Are they birds? No… they were much too big to be birds, and they were flying too fast and purposefully. They were becoming larger and more substantial by the second.

Realisation swept through him in a sudden, chilling wave. "No," he whispered, disbelieving. "It can't be…"

Beneath him, Ardance became anxious again. Cimmeran was barely aware of her. He couldn't take his eyes off the advancing black shapes.

"Murons!" he gasped.

Terror exploded inside him, sending burning shards into every fibre of his body and disintegrating all other thoughts.

What are Murons doing here?! he thought frantically. Who could have sent them? Arzath is dead!

One of the Griks, perhaps? Kyosk? No, he shook his head in desperate confusion. Griks hate Murons! And Varshax would never take orders from Kyosk in any case…

What then? What do they want with me?!

He watched the Murons soar toward him with incredulous horror. He was just a servant! What concern was it of theirs if he had escaped? Whatever the reason, Cimmeran knew without a doubt that he was the one they were looking for. It was not a coincidence that they were both on this highway on the same night.

He stared at the black creatures, paralysed on Ardance's back. Every one of his instincts was screaming at him to run, but he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He just watched the creatures approach like a nightmare he was powerless to prevent.

Ardance, however, had no such hesitation. She turned and broke into a gallop without waiting for her master's command. There was a predator on her tail and her only thought was to flee.

The sudden movement jolted Cimmeran back to his senses. He grabbed the reins and jabbed his heels into her sides much harder than he needed to, but he was overwhelmed with panic. "Go!" he screamed. "RUN!"

Ardance increased her speed in response, her hooves clattering loudly on the paving stones. Cimmeran crouched low over her neck and tucked his limbs as close as he could into her body in an effort to stay on. The wind whipped Ardance's mane into his face, stinging his eyes. He could feel heat and fear radiating off her like a furnace, seeping into him and fuelling his own terror. He didn't know what the Murons wanted with him, but he had a vivid mental picture of his head torn open and pieces of his brain splattered all over the highway.

He twisted his head and looked over his shoulder, to see how close the Murons were, and screamed. They were nearly on top of him already! He could see the yellow slivers of their eyes and hear the leathery swoosh of their huge wings, even over the wind. His breathing became as rapid as his heartbeat. He had to do something! The Murons would catch them in moments if they stayed on the highway. Ardance was swift, but no horse in Arvanor could outrun a Muron.

He looked around in panic. To his right, the sea was an endless black plain. To his left: a forest of dry eucalyptus and scrub, the high branches of the trees reaching out over the road as though trying to shelter him. The forest! he thought desperately. The Murons would not be able to follow them as easily through the trees…

He yanked hard on the left rein, swinging Ardance's head toward the trees. Ardance swerved wildly, leapt down a short embankment and plunged into the forest.

Cimmeran was almost knocked from the saddle with the force of her landing. If the reins had not been twisted so tightly around his hands, he would have fallen. As the horse pounded through the trees, he clutched her mane with one hand and the pommel of the saddle with the other, and pulled himself into a safer position. Branches snapped across his arms and whipped over his head, and he crouched low again to avoid them.

He glanced at the sky. The tops of the trees were flattened and swaying in every direction with the wind. Everywhere he looked, there were shifting shadows. He could not see the Murons anywhere, but he was not foolish enough to believe that he had lost them. They were still out there, he just couldn't see them.

If anything, that thought scared him even more.

Cimmeran realised suddenly that he was shivering: from fear as much as the chill of his sweat-dampened clothing. He could hear Ardance panting, her breath coming in rough gasps. Fear had given the horse a fresh burst of energy, but she was tired and starving, and Cimmeran doubted she could keep up this pace for much longer.

He closed his eyes and lowered his face into her black mane. Even if she could keep running, there was nowhere to run to. There were no towns nearby, and the city was still an entire day away. They had not passed so much as a barn for hours. There was nothing out here but scattered forest and empty fields. No matter how long or how far they ran, the Murons would catch them eventually.

I was so close to being free, Cimmeran thought in despair. Just one more day, and I would have been free. How could everything change so quickly? Why are the Murons chasing me? What is the reason for it? Why won't everyone just leave me alone?!

Hot tears leaked from the edges of his eyes and streamed across his cheeks. He choked a sob.

He raised his head just in time to see something black and enormous drop from the treetops like oil spilled on the night. It landed directly in their path, increasing in size as the creature spread its wings to their fullest extent, creating an impenetrable barrier that none could pass.

Ardance screamed and skidded in the leaves, trying to stop her forward momentum. She reared sharply, causing Cimmeran to lose his grip and tumble from her back.

The hard ground knocked all the air out of his lungs and left him dazed, his head spinning crazily. He could see nothing but a confused mass of moving shadows. He heard a sharp hissing noise, like a giant snake frighteningly close, he felt the ground vibrate with thumping hoofbeats, and then there was only the wind.

For a few moments he simply lay there, catching his breath, feeling pain throbbing through the shoulder that had suffered the worst of the fall. The tiny part of his mind that had remained detached and rational wondered if it was broken. He moved his arm tentatively, and was relieved to discover that it still worked.

It was then that he remembered the Murons. He scrambled immediately to his feet, fear returning in a sharp rush, and froze.

Both of the Murons were standing there, watching him, not more than ten feet away. Ardance was nowhere in sight. He was alone.

The Murons made no move to attack. They simply stared at him as though waiting to see what he would do.

He reached for his knife, but it was not there. He remembered suddenly that he had left it behind in Chellin's tavern. He had absolutely nothing on him at all, except for his clothes and the money box, which was still tied around his waist. He'd been too afraid to put it in one of Ardance's saddlebags in case she took off again, but it was useless now. All of his previous worries seemed almost laughable in comparison to the threat that now faced him.

"W-what do you want?" he cried.

"To take you back," one of the Murons whispered, his voice almost lost in the sudden gust of wind that scattered leaves against Cimmeran's trembling legs.

"Back?" he replied uncertainly. It was not what he had expected the Muron to say. "Back where? To the keep? But…I don't understand! Lord Arzath is dead!"

There was a long, deep pause in which the Murons stared at Cimmeran unblinkingly, almost curiously, the wind humming through their massive wings and creaking the branches of the trees around them.

And then they laughed.

It was a low, scratching, hissing sound, like a rusty piece of metal being dragged across wet stone. It jarred Cimmeran's senses and set his nerves on edge. "Lord Arzath livesss," the Murons hissed. "And he wantsss to sssee you!"

Cimmeran felt as though someone had sliced him open and all the blood was draining out of his body. No, he tried to say, but his throat had seized up and strangled his voice.

"You're lying," he finally managed in a hoarse whisper. "You're… lying… YOU'RE LYING!" He screamed the last word so loud his throat burned, as though the sheer force of effort would make it true.

"You know we do not lie," one of the Murons said in a cold, mocking tone.

It was true, of course. The Murons were more Dragon than Human. They never lied. Nevertheless, Cimmeran's mind refused to accept what he had heard. "I saw him die!" he shouted. "I saw him!"

The Murons regarded him with dark amusement. One of them laughed again. "Then your eyesss deceived you," the other whispered. It started forward slowly, its yellow reptilian eyes pinning him, like a cat regarding an insect it has caught beneath its paw. "Now you mussst come with ussss!"

Cimmeran stumbled backwards. The full weight of the Muron's words settled on his shoulders and threatened to buckle his knees. Arzath is alive. And I… I ran from him. I ran… I escaped… He had tried to escape Arzath once before. The Memory… the dark, terrible Memory that he had tried so hard to bury began to creep to the surface of his consciousness, slipping between the cracks in his sanity. He won't torture you this time, the Memory whispered mockingly. He'll kill you.

That's why Arzath wants me back, Cimmeran thought feverishly. So he can murder me personally.

"No!" he sobbed, still backing away. "I can't go back, don’t take me back! Please…" Yet even as he spoke the words, he knew they were a waste of breath. Murons did not understand compassion or sympathy, or even pity. He would have had better luck pleading to the trees.

Or perhaps even they, too were against him… His heels banged into something solid and immovable, and he tripped and fell backwards into a hard trunk. The Muron continued to advance unhurriedly. The second Muron watched silently.

Cimmeran looked around in a last, desperate effort to find some way to escape, but there was nothing. There was no one to help him. There was nowhere to go. He was completely defenceless. Wind howled through the trees like a final lament. Thunder rumbled again, the sound of his world crashing down around him.

He could feel tears running down his cheeks, but he didn't care if the Murons thought he was weak. The vision of the advancing Muron was overlaid with a vision of a coal black castle. A prison, a stone to which he was shackled by an unbreakable chain. He felt once more the coldness of the stones beneath his worn shoes, the heavy, choking dust, the nauseating, ever-present smell of Griks and rats. The long stone staircase: three hundred and sixteen steps. The polished wooden door at the top, the lavish chamber beyond.

And… him. Him, with a voice that could set the air on fire. Him, with those terrible green eyes that blazed like emeralds in a forge... And then an even more sinister image arose, from somewhere further back in time, from deep within his subconscious mind, where he had locked it away, forsaken it, denied it.

A room, cut into the raw stone in the bowels of a mountain. A pitch black room so deep that no sound, no scream could escape…

The scream was born from the very heart of Cimmeran's soul, taking shape from the Memory and rising, gathering force, until it burst from his throat in a primal, inhuman wail of pure terror and anguish. It rose above the wind and shattered the air. It was a scream filled with madness. Even the approaching Muron hesitated at the sound.

And then something happened that the Muron did not expect.

The scrawny little Human attacked.

With astonishing suddenness and a fury that took it completely by surprise, Cimmeran tore the money box from his belt, charged forward and threw it with every ounce of strength he had at the Muron's head.

The box hit the Muron directly in its face and exploded into a thousand pieces, green and silver coins scattering through the air like glittering rain.

Cimmeran was running before the coins hit the ground.

He ran harder than he ever had before in his life, crashing recklessly through the undergrowth, barely able to see where he was going in the gloom, and not caring.

His mind was disjointed and swirling. He had no idea why he had attacked the Muron. He didn't know what he was hoping to achieve. He couldn't outrun them on Ardance, let alone his own useless, blistered feet…

Tears blinded him, and something hard smashed into his face.

He staggered to a halt and fell to his knees. Even the trees hate me! he thought.

He knelt in the dirt, not bothering to get back up. Great sobs shuddered through his body.

Freedom had never been within his grasp, he realised. It had all been an illusion, a dream. A hopeless dream. He should have just accepted the destiny he had been given. He was a servant.

He was Lord Arzath's servant, and so it would be until his death.

"I'm sorry!" he cried aloud to the windswept night. Sorry for Chellin, for the old beggar in the alley, for Ardance. Sorry for everything. All of it had been pointless.

He wept freely, finally resigned to his fate. The rush of anger that had consumed him briefly had died, replaced with bitter despair. He could not escape the Murons, just as he could not escape Arzath. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable.

As he lifted his head to look for the Murons, his blurred eyes caught a glimmer of brightness in the dark. He tensed in terror, but as his vision cleared slightly, he realised that it was not the eye of a Muron. It was a fire.

It took him several seconds to recognise the significance of what he was seeing. A fire? If there was a fire out here, that meant there were people as well. And where there were people, there might be weapons. There might be someone who could help him…

He climbed painfully to his feet. A tiny spark of hope, just a speck, had ignited in his heart. If I can just make it to that fire…

Summoning one last, desperate burst of speed, Cimmeran sprinted for the light.