Ferrian's Winter

Chapter Four

New lives started, old ones gone

Another life shall be reborn.

The golden heat of the afternoon sun melted through the open window and speared like liquid gold at an angle across the polished black marble floor. The chamber was clean, but pitifully small and contained only a bed against one wall and an old wooden table with its single, lonely chair against another. The furnishings were sparse, but adequate, and this tiny chamber was where the servant Cimmeran had lived for the past ten years of his life.

It was at the small, arched, north facing casement that he stood now, staring out the window of the gloomy black keep, not feeling the burning light which seared through his plain black servant's garb and shoulder-length, gold-blond hair. He was leaning dangerously far out the open window, heedless of the two-hundred-foot drop directly beneath him, staring in utter disbelief at the waterfall at the northern end of the valley.

He had witnessed, in its entirety, the vicious fight between the two sorcerers. He had watched in horrified fascination as they met on the rocky ledge at midday, the exchange of magic, the ensuing fight and finally, Arzath's demise. Now, he stood in shock, his thin body so still it could have been carved from stone. But the shock he felt was not due to horror, or anger, or even fear - but pure, unmarred joy.

Arzath was finally dead! After all these long, torturous years, his evil, hateful master was finally gone. He had hated Arzath with a passion, but had feared him like he had never feared anyone before...

The Memory was creeping back up out of its hole, dark tendrils searching...

Squeezing his eyes shut, he blocked it, forced it away. It was a repulsive thing, a horror that could not be allowed to reach his consciousness. It would destroy him if it did.

He would not allow it to ruin the profound joy of Arzath's death. He deserved to revel in the glory of this momentous event!

After a few moments, he noticed the heat from the window burning his face like a red hot iron. Opening his eyes, he stepped away into the shade. His black robes were cooking him, making him sweat as surely as if he were in an oven, so he ripped them off and threw them into the corner.

Enough thinking about the past, he thought determinedly, it's time to concentrate on the future! He strolled over to the bed where his travelling clothes were stored.

Reaching under the bed into the musty darkness, he groped around until his hands found the ancient chest. He dragged it out and blew the thick layer of dust off it, the tiny particles swirling up into the beam of sunlight, gleaming like little specks of gold dust. He waved the dust away from his face with a bony hand and opened the worn, battered chest carefully. Inside lay a plain grey tunic, dark grey leather pants, boots and a matching travelling cloak, all neatly folded. Cimmeran smiled and touched the garments fondly. It's been so long since I wore these, he thought wistfully, and he hoped they still fit. He had lost a lot of weight since Arzath had kidnapped him and forced him into servitude.

He shuddered. The Memory was surfacing again. He beat it back down, angrily, distracting himself by trying on the clothes.

A little shabby, he thought, but they still fit reasonably well. Then he remembered that time was of the essence, so he took off his cloak and bundled it neatly under his arm. Then he closed the chest, shoved it back under the bed and hurried to the door, leaving without a backwards glance.

Cimmeran descended the stairs quickly, hoping to leave while the place was still in chaos.

And chaos it was. It seemed everyone in the castle had either seen or heard about the fight on the waterfall, and Arzath's death had caused a wave of uncertainty amongst his followers. Cimmeran hurried through the long, dark hallways, keeping to the shadows. But he needn't have bothered. No one paid him any attention. Griks lumbered around in stupid confusion, and Cimmeran ducked behind a marble pillar as one of the winged reptilian Murons slunk past, black as the darkness, eyes yellow coals glowing in its narrow head. He had no wish to mess with those. No-one was sure of what to do, or who was in charge now that Arzath was gone. Arguments broke out everywhere, quickly turning into fights, and Cimmeran hurried by, just another servant amidst the bustle.