Chapter Seventy. Whereupon It Is All My Fault.
Seventy
Whereupon It Is All My Fault.
“Stop here. While we’re still in the trees.”
As Merc mutters the words, we both pull up our horses.
It’s about an hour after we all had our fill by the stream, and though our trajectory has remained south, we’ve piloted a course through the forest with an easterly angle in an attempt to stay away from the stream—and whatever’s taking meals at its shores.
Overhead, the sun has begun its tilt into the horizon, and because of the density of trees, it’s remained cool.
“What’s wrong?” I say softly.
“There’s something up ahead.”
“Like what—”
“The trees end in about seven lengths. But I don’t hear the ocean. I don’t know what we’re going into.”
And that’s when I see it as well. Up ahead, there’s just sky through the trunks and branches … almost as if we’ve reached the end of this part of Anathos. But that can’t be. Unless the Kingdom of the South has broken off the continent and been swallowed by the sea.
“Again, I don’t hear waves,” he mutters. “So it’s not the ocean.”
When we restart, I notice that the wind increases as we press forward, and the closer we get to the forest edge, the more my instincts prickle. Something is very different, and all I can see is the horizon—
We break through the trees all at once, and I gasp.
As Merc’s horse throws its front hooves into a stop, and even Lavante shies back, I can’t take my eyes off the vista that unfolds below.
We’re on the lip of a steep slope that drops down to the ancient ruins of a city made of marble.
Set within a crumbled wall of the creamy stone, there are the bare bones of columned temples and buildings, and statuary set on plinths that are missing pieces, and obelisks that are laying on the ground, not standing upright in the air.
The layout of streets is set at right angles, and everything appears oriented around a tremendous center statue of some kind of goddess.
It seems a miracle she’s still vertical on her massive base, as there’s debris everywhere, blocking off whole sections of the—
Abruptly, the aches and pains that have been plaguing me since I fell off Lavante coalesce in between my temples.
“There’s no way around so we must go down there,” Merc says.
I force my tired eyes to focus again. On the far side of the metropolis, there’s another rise, just like the one we’re on the precipice of, but a fog—or maybe it’s low-lying clouds—prevents me from seeing what might be on it.
At least the view to the east is clear, and it takes my breath away—
“Fates,” I breathe. “I’ve never … seen the ocean before.”
It’s the most beautiful thing I ever have set my eyes upon.
The vastness, the slight arc where the water meets the sky, the tremendous waves that crest and fall against the shore—so big they’re obvious even from this distance.
I can imagine the sun rising, pink and peach rays stretching out overhead and coloring the blue-green expanse with flashes of precious gems.
As I trace back to the ancient city’s grand, decayed entry, my eyes scan a vast plain of vegetation.
It’s not hard to envision grazing fields and herding pastures linking the ocean to its walls, and I can almost hear the chatter, the music, the lives being lived in what once was surely a peaceable kingdom.
“We don’t have much light left,” Merc remarks.
He’s right. The jagged peaks of the western mountains are already cutting off the sunshine, and as I measure the claw-like shadows that are thrown across the ruins, I feel like I’m witnessing a death that transpired long, long ago.
“What happened here,” I murmur. “And I suppose it’s been forgotten, cut off by the Crystal Gate and the mountains—”
“We have to keep moving.”
We urge the horses into a zigzag descent that is steep enough to require them to engage their hindquarters and for us to lean far back in the saddle, but not so angled that footing is lost. Though Merc is on the lookout all around, I’m consumed by the metropolis.
And my headache continues to worsen, until my heart starts to skip from the pain.
To distract myself, I focus on the ground—and that’s when I see the footprints.
In and among the low ground cover, pressed into the earth, there are lines of markings too numerous to count.
That they are like no animal foot I’ve ever seen is no surprise.
I haven’t recognized any part of anything in the landscape for a good while now.
“Keep sharp,” Merc says, as if he’s noticed the same thing.
Though we’re still a distance off, trails in and out of the ruins become obvious, the snaky paths through the collapsed marble border trod by many, many crossings, with dirt tracked in.
I try to see where whoever or whatever go after they leave the confines of the ancient remains.
There’s no way of telling. And inside the abandoned city?
I can see no one and nothing moving along any of the lanes or the toppled architecture, some of which seem to be draped in some kind of white cloth.
I’m not reassured in the slightest by anything I’m seeing.
I do start to notice the inscriptions, however. The stone pillars and columns are etched with pictures as well as writing in a form that’s unfamiliar to me. The images are beautiful, even from a distance, and if I squint, I can make out—
“Are you okay, then?” Merc asks.
I come to attention. “I’m sorry? I mean, yes, of course.”
“Thought I heard you groan. Like you were in pain.”
“It’s been a long day.”
As my temples thump, I tell myself it’s because I haven’t eaten enough, and maybe because when I fell off Lavante, I hit my head.
But that’s not it. And I don’t think I want to know what it is.
I feel surrounded by things I can’t explain about myself, and the further into this trip I go, the more that is revealed.
As we approach the bottom of the slope, we cross into the shadows cast by the mountain spires.
They’re extending so much farther than they did when we were at the top of the descent, and with the prevailing wind coming off the ocean, the cold goes quickly through my clothes.
Tucking into my saddlebags, I retrieve the red felt skirt.
Turns out it can double quite handily as a cape.
Predictably, Merc shows no reaction to the chill. Then again, given how the broadsword is up by the mane of his horse, it’s clear he’s most worried about us getting ambushed.
We continue along the very edge of the flats, moving parallel to the ancient city in the crease where the land accommodates both the slope and the flat land that serves as a base for the marble constructions.
Once again, I have the eerie sense that we’re being watched, and my eyes dart around.
The spreading eclipse in the lee of the elevations is unsettling, almost as if a pall has come across the land as opposed to it just being a lack of sunshine.
And things are only getting darker.
With every footstep the horses take, more and more of the sun is cut off, the hard line now slicing across the whole of the city, even the goddess statue in the middle.
I watch as the shadow extends out toward the sea, as if a force is claiming the land.
Glancing behind me, I tell myself it’s just an effect caused by the alignment of cliffs and summits, that as the sun continues on its journey to the western horizon, things will realign and light will shine for a little longer—
Movement. By the wall…?
Or is it just the uneven surfaces of the fallen blocks of rock and toppled obelisks.
“We have to cut across now,” Merc announces. “I don’t want to get too close to the marshland as fates know what’s in it.”
Oh, so it isn’t a meadow for grazing. At least not all of it.
I nod and follow along, even though Lavante is still not happy with being second in line.
The trajectory Merc sets takes us across the front of the ancient city, while the darkness strides out ahead, extinguishing the light toward the ocean length by length.
It appears as though we’re chasing the night, but what I feel is that it’s trapping us—
Lavante stops.
“Go on then,” I say softly, giving him a little encouragement with my heel.
When he just jogs in place, I look down—
For some reason, my hands have gripped the reins and pulled back.
I command my fingers to loosen, and they do not.
And then as Merc continues ahead, my head turns on its own.
I’m precisely aligned with the entry of the ruins, the two towering statues on either side degraded to the point where there’s no identifying what they once were, the main thoroughfare that leads down to the enormous central temple congested with crumbled—
Between one blink and the next, the gloaming and the decay are gone.
What replaces them are a vision of prosperity and grace.
All becomes bright and sunny, and suddenly, I see a painted wooden gate big as the mountains.
The two panels are well fortified with copper bands and rivets that wink pink, and against a creamy background, there are rows of pictographs showing people wearing draped clothing offering alms to the poor, and tilling crops, and making mead, and reading books.
And on either side of the entry, the statues repopulate and I see them as they once were.
On the left is a beautiful woman, with long dark hair spilling down her draped gown, her face toward the ocean as if she’s greeting the rising sun.
On the right … a man in a high-collared sheath. And he’s looking at her with a dark expression—
Hide.
As the old familiar command blares in my head, the imaginary gate opens.
The effect is so real, I hear the creak of the great hinges, feel the whoosh of air, smell scents of flowers and incense.
On the other side? No ruins or crumbled statues, no partial buildings where only the strongest supports are still upright.
Everything is pristine, the marble columns like beautiful trees with their ornate headers and bark of pictographs, the lane clear of debris, the structures solid and welcoming.
The goddess statue around which all is oriented gleams with beauty.
She is standing with one foot slightly in front and the opposite hand stretched high over her head.
Her hand is open, her palm flat, as if she’s receiving something from the heavens, her resplendent face staring out over her city to the sea.
But no one is inside the walls.
The streets are empty of pedestrians, and somehow, I know that all the buildings, homes, and temples are vacant as well.
This is … a mirage, and not just because my mind has imagined something. In fact, the vision has replaced reality—
“Sorrel, come on.”
Everything instantly disappears, and I jerk to attention. And I mean to go catch up to Merc, who’s a length ahead on his slow-poke horse.
That’s not what happens as I release the pressure on the reins and urge Lavante forward.
Instead, my hands steer him in between the crumbling statues of the man and the woman.
As we hit the chipped pavers of the lane, his hooves sound out and echo into the fallen blocks and degraded columns.
The going is slow because he has to step over white marble tile piles that have fallen off roofs and exterior walls, and all the statues that have been knocked over and shattered into chunks and pieces.
And then there’s the “cloth” I saw from farther away.
The draping turns out to be some kind of frothy spun fiber, and there are pods of it, here and there—
Merc pulls up beside me, and I know he’s speaking, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. My mind is ricocheting between the present I am not feeling clear on and a past that I shouldn’t know anything about.
I’ve never been here before.
And yet I swear I have—
Merc pulls in front of me, blocking my way with his steed. His arm slashes in frustration, as he frowns at me and no doubt keeps yelling.
“I’m so sorry,” I cut in hoarsely. “I just had to see. This place is—”
The streaming attack comes out of everywhere.
Giant black spiders with bulbous hairy bodies and legs that terminate in red knobs flow out of crevices and corners in all directions.
The wolf-sized insects are the stuff of terror in the gloaming, fast as a horse, numbered like a herd, their racing progress tapping over the paving stones.
Red, angry eyes lock on us, and mouths with great black pincers open and hiss as they close in.
The first of the silk ropes shoots out and captures my waist. The next comes from the opposite direction and latches on to Lavante’s front leg.
As Merc swings his broadsword to avoid being captured, the horses panic and rear up, but it’s far, far too late.
We’re caught fast, tied up in sticky balls of webbing that hinder hands and feet, bodies and hooves.
The fact that our attackers keep our heads out and the horses’ nostrils free suggests they’ll hold us alive as they feed on our bodies.
And still the spiders keep coming, mounting roofs and swinging down from obelisk tips, the incessant sound of their scurrying process something that I will remember forever.
Not that we have that long.
Trapped in the cocoon that locks me in, I strain to look over at Merc. He’s fighting against his own confines, his broadsword sticking out of the white silk that imprisons him.
“Fates,” I croak out, “what have I done.”
“You’ve killed us,” he snaps as more of the arachnids close in.