She allowed herself to fall back against the tree she’d taken shelter behind. She draped her arms over her knees and let out a long breath. It was over — yet what was over? Just what had happened? From her encounters with Ardata, and from what they heard, she could only guess that the being was somehow holding on to everything. The past, the present, the future. Grasping them all at once and not letting anything go. Not even discerning between them. And perhaps she could live like that, as one of these Elder Gods. But what of others? What of her daughter? If indeed the girl truly was her daughter — not that she had to be. She deserved a life regardless. Even if it would be a hard one.
Everyone lay where they had fallen, breathless, almost dazed. The mages groaned and held their heads, wiped dried blood from their faces. Sitting back, Shimmer studied the western horizon and the setting sun. She saw Black the Lesser approach K’azz and the commander rose to take his hand and they shook.
So we are reunited. As we should be. One company. One troop. One … family?
Her gaze went to the girl. She appeared to be asleep now, nestled in the lean woman’s arm.
Shimmer let her head fall back. Yes, sleep. Could use some of that now. Have a look in the morning. She shut her eyes and allowed the muscles of her neck, shoulders, back and legs to unclench and fall into relaxation. And only then, finally, after weeks of fruitless searching, did she finally slip into a proper slumber.
*
Jatal opened his eyes to a landscape of undifferentiated grey. Pewter ash filled the air like a thick storm of drifting snow. It covered everything in pillow-like humps: the field of fallen tree trunks lying scattered for as far as he could see, the broken stripped branches, the scoured-smooth ground between. Even his arms, hands and legs lay beneath a downy layer of the flakes. He raised a hand to brush it away.
‘Ah!’ announced a disembodied voice nearby. ‘You live!’
He peered about; he could see no one.
An ash-fleeced boulder nearby moved. It stood and stretched. The slate-hued powder fell away in great clouds.
‘So, my friend — they missed!’ Scarza announced. ‘Us, in any case.’
‘Mostly,’ Jatal added, managing a self-mocking twist of a smile.
‘Ah-ha! Glad to be alive, hey?’
Jatal’s smile fell away. ‘We must search for him.’
‘I believe we will find him beneath a very large rock.’
‘None the less.’ Jatal struggled to rise. The half-Trell pushed him down. ‘Do not attempt that yet. Rest. Recover.’ He held out a singed black carcass about the size of a rat. ‘Eat.’
Jatal took it and held it up to examine it. ‘Did you cook this?’
‘The firestorm did,’ Scarza offered blithely. ‘I believe it used to be some sort of tree-dwelling rodent.’
‘Firestorm?’
‘You do not remember?’
‘No.’
‘You saved my life.’
‘I did?’
‘You most certainly did.’
Jatal tried to tear some meat from the dry carcass. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘“The stream!” You shouted that right away. I hadn’t thought of it. But running back to the stream saved us.’
‘What stream?’
Scarza bent and dug up a handful of clotted mud and ash. ‘This one.’
‘Ah. I see.’ He felt his tattered robe and shirt. They were damp. He touched the back of his head where only bristles of hair remained. ‘All I remember is that flash. Like the world ending. Golden light.’ He did not mention that when they were running he thought he saw another bright gleam of light. It had come from the western horizon and had flashed a vivid emerald green.
He glanced up to the sky, squinting. The Visitor still glowed there, fat and monstrous, like a gibbous moon behind the thick churning black clouds. He pushed himself to his feet. There was no sense hanging about here. Nothing to eat or drink; they would only weaken — better to do that on the march. He struggled past Scarza who watched him go, his face falling into a deepening frown.
‘You are in such a hurry to die?’
‘Live or die, it matters not.’
Scarza called, ‘There is nothing left of him!’
Jatal halted, peered back. ‘No. He still lives. I am sure.’
The half-Trell rose, rubbing his jowls, and followed. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I am.’
They walked a nightmare landscape of blasted jungle and sludge-choked streams. Everywhere lay the flash-seared fallen trunks. Ash smothered everything. It still fell from the roiling clouds in great flurries that cloaked the distances. Jatal tore off a strip of cloth and tied it over his nose and mouth. It was like the sandstorms they sometimes endured in their homeland. Scarza merely tramped on, uncomplaining, brushing the powdery layer from his arms.
The trees, Jatal saw, had all been flattened in one direction — roughly angled from the southeast — the point of impact, he realized. If the demon were to be found anywhere, he imagined, it would be there. He started following the line marked by the fallen trunks.
‘And if we find him?’ Scarza asked much later that day. ‘What then? I wanted to kill him. But now I’m tired of it. I’d rather just have a drink.’
Jatal ached with thirst as well, and he hungered. Such urges, however, were mere demands of the flesh — brute expectations of continued existence. An expectation he did not share. Sometimes he fancied he could see her face in the swirling clouds of ash. She was smiling down upon him.
Soon, my love. Soon. I shall give myself to you.
*
Saeng started awake from a strange dream; a sensation of drowning, oddly enough. Not since she was a child had she dreamed of drowning. Yet it hadn’t been water she’d been slipping into — it had been a strange glowing liquid more like molten gold or some other white-hot metal.
Aside from the nightmare of that struggle, she felt physically rested, renewed even. Better than she had since leaving home. She stirred and opened her eyes: she lay in what she recognized as the temple grounds. Dirt covered everything, and over that lay a pillowy layer of ash. White drifting flakes still fell in a light snow. All was eerily silent. Her ears rang with the quiet after the constant cacophony of the jungle.
She tried to stand and reached out to steady herself. Her hand rested on a hump next to her that felt familiar. She brushed the ash and dirt away to reveal Hanu’s gleaming mosaic of inlaid armour. She rushed to clear his helmed head.
‘Hanu!’
She listened, her breathing heavy, but he did not answer.
‘Hanu — speak to me!’ she sent to his thoughts.
Still he was silent. She ran a hand down his chest to find a sticky layer of congealed ash and dirt. Her hand came away smeared.
Oh, Hanu … I’m so sorry …
She gently lowered her head to his side and wept.
After that she slept again for a time. When she awakened once more she kissed his helm on its forehead and pushed herself up. She’d been wrapped in a loose cloak, and this she adjusted as best she could. She remembered, vaguely, that there had been others as well — the Thaumaturg mage, Pon-lor. She looked back to the main temple: it had collapsed into a heap of cut stone blocks. So, he too. I am sorry, Thaumaturg. I misjudged you.
She turned away to trace her route back. Her sandalled feet pushed through the thick blanket of ash. The pale flakes dusted her robes, hair and eyelashes. Soon, she came to a trail through the heaped layers. She followed it to one of the colonnaded walks of the temple complex that led to a hall and an arched opening facing west. The arch was tilted rather alarmingly, and the stone floor was uneven, the stones having been pushed up here and there. Sitting in the threshold of the pointed arch, facing away, was a familiar figure: the Thaumaturg himself.