Losing Trails

They strode through the ash, hand in hand. The brother, the younger of the two, looked up and asked, “Will we die?”

His sister’s face contorted towards a frown and she bit at her thumbnail, not looking at him.

“Well?”

“I don’t know.”

Fires still burned in the distance. But they were low now and dulled to a sombre red. Black smoke choked on the sky; it had been like this for nearly a week and the darkness made the flames cast weird shadows. The heat was oppressive still, but at least they could breathe now.

“Oh!” said the boy. “This was the fairground, wasn’t it?”

They had come here before, once or twice when the bazaar was in town. Palms clasping a few coins to buy some fleeting glass trinket or a wisp of exotic fabric. She knew it was near the edge of the city which was why it hadn’t burned. The immolation had focused on the centre, temple district. This field too was layered in the fine grey dust of charred places and people. The girl shuddered at the thought. For some reason the convulsions went on and she hunched over, making small whimpering sounds. Her brother looked on warily.

“You’re not- not going to die though?”

She met his pale green eye and shook her head. He held out a hand and she took it. She started chewing on her nail again. It was red-rimmed and sore.

*

They came across a gathering of people several hours later, surrounding a patchwork tent, its colours once bright. The brother and sister were able to snatch pieces of the conversation. It was about the attack.

“-been Sen-Alem. Eyeing our trade with jealous eyes.”

“The Pale Dome?”

“Gone.”

“The Pit of the First Saviour?”

“Aye, gone too.”

“Even Faith’s Spire?”

“Look, you saw the blast, they’re all gone! Roasted away like whores on the-“

“-and Council are all dead. Heard Jedeth got away, but that’s all shit.”

But no one talked of their own dead, of families and friends. The girl began to think back again but was mercifully interrupted by a hacking, fluid cough. It came from inside the tent. The flap opened and a short, thin man stumbled out and almost fell. A pair of well-built women guarding the entrance caught the sorcerer and the crowd stilled. He couldn’t have been more than forty but his skin was ashen and seemed to sag on the bones and when he grimaced in pain his teeth were stained red. A rivulet of blood trickled from his mouth.

The girl bit her thumb again, but this time out of nerves.

“You’re all wrong!” He spat out a crimson glob. “And too damn local! No petty rivalry or long-held feud. This was an attack on ideology. A message against belief. Your city burns at the hands of distant Tarsseilles, by the Devil King and his famed mage legions!” The man started coughing again and his apprentices propped him up. “They wove the spell in concert. I’ve studied the fucking subject for years so I can tell you that it was no light piece of work!”

“Is he a real devil?” It was the brother. “Or possessed?”

“Neither. It’s but the name he chose. He is just a man. Just a man.”

“Oh,” said the sister. Her fingernail had slid off with the least resistance. She felt sick and spat it out.

The refugees took the two in and gave the girl what treatment they could, mostly hot tea.

The mage died two days later.

*

“Hey!” The boy leaned over the girl, slapped her lightly on the cheek. “Hey!”

She awoke, still a little feverish and said, “What?”

“We should leave.” His eye glittered by the lantern he was holding.

“Whuh-” It was still night, for what it mattered. Everyone in the group kept to a normal sleeping schedule, even though the blotting clouds of ash had preceded them out of the city.

“I said we should leave.”

“Why?”

“I’m leaving,” he turned away and his sister reached out and grabbed onto his sleeve.

“What are you doing?” said the girl.

He licked his lips. “I… I heard them talking. They’re going to sell us. As slaves, I mean. To buy them passage out of the country. They’re going to meet with some Sem I mean Sen-Alem traders an’ they’ll take us away to, to work in the-“

She put a finger to her lips and, taking the light and hooding it, slipped out of the cot she had been sleeping in. They exited the dead man’s tent and padded out of the small, makeshift camp. Powder soft, the ground made no noise as they went. They were over an hour away and her head was pounding when she stopped him.

“Were you lying?”

He shook his head.

“You were lying.”

“No.”

“Yes you were. Why.”

The boy rubbed his nose and sniffed. “I dunno. ‘Cos they were all giving you stuff and paying attention. Mother and father always-”

She was on her brother faster than a thought, beating at him on the face and neck. Her blows came quick and savage and she didn’t stop until they were both crying, the tears leaving clear trails on their soot-darkened faces. Without a word she held out a hand. He took it. She pulled him up and they turned around, walking towards the camp. Two figures clinging together in a cindered wasteland.

Comments

[Stephanie Furlan]

Wow! This was really good!

I love the clear imaginary and how I could just jump into the story.
Awesome job Darien.