Sunset falls in the City of Light

An Angel sleeps in the still, dark night.

Sunsee was once a beautiful city: the most beautiful in the world, or so it was said. The Angels would perhaps disagree, preferring the soaring spires, ivy-covered walls and leaf-speckled walkways of Fleetfleer in their own land. The ruler of Daroria, King Neodine, certainly dismissed the idea with much arrogant scepticism. There existed no city, he declared, past, present, or indeed ever would be more breathtaking than Crystaltina, or the Crystal City as it was commonly known: a city constructed almost entirely of its namesake and dripping with gold, redstone, precious gems and other riches.

No one argued the fact that Sunsee was the oldest, however. It was well told in every creation myth in every land that she was the First City, built by the Angels when they descended from the Heavenly Spire to settle on Arvanor and learn the ways of the Humans that they had once admired. How could a city built by servants of the Goddess not be marvellous?

But few now remembered the wonder and splendour of Old Sunsee. Even fewer still cared. The destruction of the infamous learning place of the sorcerers, the School of Magical Studies, had scarred her lovely face irrevocably.

The ruins of the School sat atop a high bluff on a rocky promontory that jutted out into a vast, sandy-bottomed, aquamarine bay. The bridge of rock that had once connected the promontory to the coastline had collapsed several decades ago, leaving the bluff with its broken buildings an island with sheer black walls, a lonely, impenetrable fortress that no one dared or desired to conquer.

The residents of the city would have been happy to see the whole, ghastly thing collapse into the sea.

As it was, they avoided the place as though it harboured some terrible disease, and in many respects, their attitude was quite justified. The area directly adjacent to the ruins, and in a half-mile radius around it, was haunted.

A wall had been built, closing off this section from the rest of the city, at its citizens' demand. For a while, slums had flourished there, the impoverished, the outlawed and corrupt dregs of society claiming the empty ancient buildings as their own, living and conducting their business where those who led more comfortable and innocent lives feared to tread.

Then these people began to disappear. Most were not missed, and their numbers steadily dwindled until finally those that were left realised that there was something very, very wrong with the Old Quarter, and quickly crawled back across the wall to the clean, brightly lit streets that they had scorned. Some were caught and questioned, but remained silent, pale-faced and wide-eyed, refusing to reveal what they had seen or knew, even on threat of death. Others had been driven mad with fear.

Now nothing lived in the Old Quarter of Sunsee. Nature itself had shunned it; nothing would grow there, not even weeds. Rats and feral cats scavenged elsewhere. Birds diverted out of their way to avoid flying over it. Magnificent architecture that was once the envy of the world slowly crumbled, and nothing stirred but the dust. And… something else.

Nothing lived in the Old Quarter, but something dwelt there.

Something terrible.

Those were the stories.

Cimmeran knew all the tales, had heard all the rumours that thrived about the haunted city. He had experienced them first hand. Once, many years ago, shortly after he had been forced into his long and hateful service with Arzath, the sorcerer had taken him along with a small party of Griks and two Murons through the tomblike streets, searching for relics.

One by one, all of the Griks had vanished, with no trace or sound. Then the Murons went as well. None of Arzath's attempts to find them using magic succeeded, and he and Cimmeran had been the only members of the party to walk out of the Old Quarter alive. Cimmeran was sure that Arzath had saved his life that day only because he was too useful to lose.

The expedition had been unprofitable, and Lord Arzath, as far as Cimmeran knew, had never returned to Sunsee.

Neither had Cimmeran, until now.

The servant shivered at the unpleasant memory, just one of many horrors he had endured in the name of his old master. He trailed after Captain Sirannor through the sunset-gilded, sandswept streets of the newer section of the city, shoving the fearful images aside and concentrating instead on lifting one leaden foot after the other.

His shabby clothes were still damp, though more now from sweat. The rain had thankfully stopped and the mist dissipated, though shreds of it still lurked in shady side alleys where the sun's burning fingers could not grasp it. The sky was clear apart from a curtain of cloud to the west, a blazing pink and grey veil screening away the last moments of the dying sun. A few small stars blinked sleepily on the fringes of the glow.

Cimmeran wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The air was thick, warm and sticky, the breeze had not yet turned from the east. Ardance's head was bowed, a sheen of moisture on her ebony coat. The winged passenger she carried remained limp and unmoving.

Cimmeran glanced at him in irritation. He had been forced to give up his seat for that Angel. Blisters stabbed painfully at his feet with every step, just because he had been made to walk beside his own horse. How had the stupid kid managed to smash his wings up like that, anyway? He looked as though he'd been beaten with a sledgehammer, or perhaps taken a tumble off some high cliff. In either case, why hadn't he simply flown away?

If I had wings, Cimmeran thought fiercely, I would fly away. I would fly so high that everyone would disappear from sight, and I would never come back down again. Ever.

His eyes narrowed unsympathetically. He didn't quite know why he had agreed to help the Freeroamers in the first place.

Oh, yes, he reminded himself sulkily, they saved my life.

Although, he was beginning to doubt their motives for that. That odd silver-eyed boy had done the right thing in walking away. It was exactly what Cimmeran would have done in his place. Friends were useless. No one could be trusted.

He stared resentfully at Sirannor's back, though not too hard in case the Captain sensed his gaze. Cimmeran could not care less what the Freeroamers had done to become criminals, nor was he concerned whether the Angel lived or died, but the man walking just a few paces ahead scared him. He would never forget how Sirannor had picked him up and thrown him at the Muron's feet as though his life was meaningless, a thing to be bargained with and nothing more. He had then attacked the Murons and killed one of them, but Cimmeran was certain he had done that only to protect his own friends. Why would he care what happened to a scrawny stranger?

Cimmeran looked away bitterly. The Freeroamers thought that they had tricked him into coming to Sunsee, but Cimmeran had been travelling here anyway. And he had no intention of leading them back into that hell-plagued valley, not for any reason. He would rather die.

All he had to do now was find a way to slip away from the Captain.

They reached the infirmary just as the last rays of the sun faded from the streets, and the characteristic domed roofs of the buildings of Sunsee turned to silhouettes against the skyline. The infirmary was ancient, one of the few original Angel-designed structures that had remained standing through the ravages of time, weather and various disasters. Not one of these had managed to diminish its beauty in the slightest. Its design was deceptively simple, but to create such perfect curves and invisible joints from stone would have required extraordinary skill and artistic vision. There were no sharp edges; every angle produced a vision of perfect aesthetic harmony. The building made even the most well-designed and ornate Human dwellings look almost crude in comparison – a stunning white seashell in a bag full of pretty, but uninspiring pebbles.

Cimmeran and Sirannor could not help but be awed, momentarily forgetting their weariness, hunger and gloomy thoughts at the sight of the building. Welcoming orange light glimmered from crescent-moon windows on all three tiers – here and there the light glowed blue through sapphire-stained glass – and spilled in a bright wash from the wide open doorway.

They walked from the main street up a white stone path, leading Ardance directly into the spacious foyer. Upon hearing hoofbeats on the stone floor, a nurse hurried out of a nearby archway. Sirannor's conversation with her was brief; his young companion had fallen from a cliff, he explained, and was in desperate need of help. The nurse looked astonished at the sight of an injured Angel in her infirmary, but was wise enough to understand the seriousness of the situation and withheld her questions. She ducked quickly back through the arch, calling for assistance, and in moments the foyer was bustling with blue and white uniforms, and echoing with urgent shouts and exclamations of surprise.

Two nurses helped Aari carefully off Ardance's back, transferred him to a linen stretcher and escorted him through another arch at the far end of the hall. The Captain strode after them without so much as a glance at Cimmeran, until he was accosted by more nurses who had noticed his own injury and demanded immediate treatment, ignoring his impatient insistence that he was fine and anxious glances in the direction Aari had been taken.

Cimmeran was left standing alone with Ardance, forgotten in the excitement save by a few patients who had wandered out to see what the fuss was about and were now staring at him.

He glared back at them and led Ardance outside to look for the stables.

Sirannor sat in the dim room with his arms resting on his knees and his weathered hands clasped so tightly before him that the knuckles were pale. His wound had been cleaned and dressed beneath his long brown overcoat (he had refused to let the nurses take it away for cleaning, despite the fact that it was splattered with grime and dried blood). He had, however, accepted the free meal offered to himself and Cimmeran. He had eaten it quickly and mechanically, and then gone immediately to the room where Aari rested.

The Angel had been given a small, private ward on the top floor. The head healer of the infirmary seemed to have taken a personal interest in Aari's condition, and a swarm of nurses and assistants had administered to him for three hours, before finally allowing him to rest.

Sirannor had asked the head healer bluntly of Aari's chances of surviving his injuries.

The expression on the healer's face had told him all he needed to know before a word had left his mouth. The healer had shaken his head and told the Captain quietly that everything that could possibly have been done to save the Angel's life had been tried… all except one last thing.

He had not spelt out what that last thing was, but he did not need to. It was as Sirannor had predicted but silently prayed against ever since Aari had collapsed in the forest. He was now faced with a horrific decision that he had no right to make.

Should he permit the healers to remove Aari's wings to stop the spread of the infection and save his life?

Sirannor had taken this news in silence, and had been sitting by Aari's bedside ever since. A single oil lamp on a tiny table in a corner lighted the room. Cimmeran sat beside it, hunched on a chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, his expression as dark as the shadows that crowded the edges of the room. The servant had been sullen and grudgingly communicative ever since they had rescued him, and even more so after encountering the Watch. He seemed preoccupied and haunted by his own thoughts. Sirannor had seen such unguarded expressions before, and it usually meant trouble. He was fairly certain the servant was planning on running off at the first opportunity.

He decided to keep Cimmeran within close sight, but right now he had not the energy nor inclination to worry about what the servant was or was not thinking. All his thoughts were focused on Aari.

He gazed down at the young Angel lying face down on the bed before him. No nightgown would fit him, so his torso remained bare, bound only in the bandages that held his shattered wings in place. He had stopped shivering and muttering, but his skin was still sickly pale. Dark copper hair fell into the shadowed hollows around his closed eyes.

Sirannor sighed, softly and brokenly. A dull ache pounded in his shoulder from the gash left by the Muron's claws, but it was nothing compared to the agony clenching his heart. He did not have much time left to make his decision, but he already knew what it would be. It was the same one that Aari himself would have made had he been conscious to make it.

Aari'Zan was an Angel, and always would be.

Tears blurred Sirannor's vision, and he turned his gaze away to look at something else. It fell upon Aari's silver Sergeant's badge, sitting on the bedside table next to a basin of water.

Sirannor took it in his fingers and stared at it for a moment. It depicted a chained sword imposed over a stylised half-sun. He unpinned his own badge from his sleeve and compared the two. The Captain's badge was identical, except that his sun was three-quarters full. He pictured Grisket's badge in his mind – a full sun and one extra element: a Dragon in flight.

Dragons, Sirannor thought. The Commander of the Freeroamers was the only person who dared use a Dragon as a mascot. Images of the creatures had been banned in all forms, even art, due to the hatred they evoked. Much like sorcerers, they were feared because they were misunderstood. Grisket disliked Dragons as much as the next person did, but in a strange way, he also admired and respected them. Those creatures, too, were prisoners, bound by chains that they could never break, but they never let those chains crush them. They never gave up fighting for freedom, even knowing that freedom was an illusion.

Sirannor returned the badges to their places, took Aari's hand in his own, and squeezed it hard. His gaze turned hard and fierce. "Don't give up, Aari!" he whispered. "You haven't seen the Dragons, yet…"

* * *

Grisket wondered how long he should stand around waiting for Ferrian. He had been forced to light the lantern; the mist now turned dark grey with the approaching night, soaking up the shadows like ink. The lantern was more for mental comfort than a source of light, as it was barely bright enough to light the stones at his feet, and certainly not warm enough to dry him out. He felt as though no amount of blazing fires or dry clothes would ever get the water out of him again.

He shifted uncomfortably in the clinging drizzle, staring at the drops of moisture glittering on the sides of the lantern. He did not expect Sirannor to return before sunrise. He would want to stay with Aari and see him through the night.

Grisket sighed, and stared out into the gently swirling darkness, his emotions torn between concern for Ferrian, anxiety for Aari, and frustration at the fact that at this moment, he seemed incapable of helping either of them.

He tried to put his thoughts of Aari aside. The Angel was strong; he was a fighter. He had survived the flood, and the cliffs and the demons, and a lot of other things besides.

He tried to ignore the voice whispering that perhaps Aari had used up all his chances.

Grisket took a deep breath to steady himself. Sirannor is with him, he thought. He couldn't think of anyone he would rather have by Aari's bedside.

However, he did not share the Captain's confidence that Ferrian was level-headed enough to return. Even if he was regretting his decision right now, to return would mean forgiveness, and forgiveness would mean an apology, and that would mean admitting he was wrong. Grisket doubted he'd be willing to do that, especially considering the Freeroamers were the ones who had deceived him.

And Commander Trice had only done that because he'd known exactly what Ferrian's reaction would be, and the blasted stubborn boy had proved him right!

Grisket scowled in frustration. It was a painfully awkward situation for everyone. But it seemed almost trivial now, when laid against the possibility that Ferrian had gotten himself into serious trouble because of it.

Ever since the boy had stormed off, heavy claws of dread had slowly tightened around Grisket's stomach. He could not explain the source of this feeling. It was natural to be worried after everything that had happened, but this was somehow much deeper. His instincts were telling him that something very bad was going to happen this night.

Or had already happened.

Unsettled and unable to keep still any longer, Grisket started walking, if for no other reason than to convince himself he was actually doing something productive, not just standing around waiting for whatever terrible event was coming to crash over him.

Lantern held high, he peered into the soggy gloom, searching for any sign of movement. Once or twice, he thought he saw dark shapes materialise ahead, but they turned out to be trees. He glanced dubiously at the forest on his right, unable to banish the vision of the wounded Muron from his mind. They had never found the body of that one. And who was to say there weren't more of the damned creatures out there? They were after the servant, true, but they would have anything but mercy on their minds if a wandering boy stumbled into their path…

Muttering to himself, Grisket turned his attention to the road, trying to make out a hint of Ferrian's tracks. It was a near impossible task on the dark, rain-slicked stones. His tracking skills were adequate, but he was no expert. Sirannor would probably have fared better. Once again, he regretted sending the Captain on ahead. He had done so because Sirannor was injured as well, and the last thing he needed was anyone else getting sick.

He went on, slowly, searching the ground and the mist as best he could, shivering as the mist dispersed and a chill, clear night breeze blew over him. He followed the highway for three-quarters of an hour before it occurred to him just how freezing that wind had become.

He stopped and straightened abruptly in shocking realisation. Gods, he thought. Of course!

He quickened his pace, and the temperature plummeted. Debris from the forest littered the road, and the puddles were iced over. The wind picked up dramatically, until it was so strong that Grisket nearly dropped the lantern. He clutched at his hat to keep it on his head.

"Ferrian!" he called out into the wind.

There was no reply.

He shouted Ferrian's name several times, waiting desperately for a response, but none came.

But there was no mistake about it. Ferrian was close by – he had to be.

Grisket looked around himself, and then a glint of light caught his eye. He almost dismissed it as moonlight glinting off a puddle or chip of ice, but something made him take a closer look.

It was Ferrian's knife. He recognised it instantly: the charred hilt and black stains from the Muron battle the previous night.

He crouched down slowly and picked it up, his heart falling and the claws of dread threatening to squeeze him to death.

Ferrian would never leave his knife behind, nor would he be so careless as to drop it accidentally. It was the only weapon he possessed.

That left only one possible explanation…

He had been disarmed.

But by who… or what?

Grisket cursed, and stood up. He began to scrutinise the surrounding area, his lantern held close to the ground.

He finally found what he was looking for in the mud by the side of the road; a clear set of tracks leading out of the forest, and another set leading back in.

Muron tracks.

Grisket hesitated for a moment, looking back towards Sunsee, then pulled his badge off his sleeve, pressed it into one of the prints, and set off after the trail.