A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 24 (Part 1 of 2)

Imlon remembered the next few days as the hardest travelling of his life.

They fled at a brutal pace through the night, never stopping for rest or food and avoiding the roads entirely.  In the awful dark his companions were black shades, occasionally glinting as moonlight struck dull metal.  He made sure to keep them within touching distance, but more than once he failed and the night swallowed him up, only for a sudden hand to grasp his shoulder and a whisper to impel him on.

When bare light flickered up in the east, he saw someone slump to the floor.

“No, Temith,” said Isendrin, hoisting the Erluethan up.  “On your feet now, on your feet.  Well done.”

For the whole day a foul-smelling wind blew across the wetlands and struck their faces, turning Imlon’s cheeks bone-cold.  His stomach groaned and his feet rubbed horribly as water seeped into his boots and over his blisters.  His legs no longer ached, but burned.  His shoulders grew sore from the shifting straps of the baggage.  Iron bonds constricted his ribs.

There would be a pursuit.  They could not stop.  The endless, exhausting hours of the day went on, the landscape of twisted trees and reed-strewn waterways and the sounds of bitter, lonely birdsong never changing, until dusk came and they saw timber dwellings ahead.  They circled around the village, keeping a mile between themselves and the houses, until they were on the opposite side.  It was almost dark.

“Stay here,” said Menentor.  “I’ll get food.  Don’t move.”

Imlon, Isendrin and Temith immediately collapsed.  The astronomer’s eyes began to close irresistibly, his head filling with images of guards chasing after them, the Anthornadian embassy in flames and Theano standing alone against a hundred men, but then a hand hoisted him up.

“No sleep, not yet,” said Menentor, passing him a hunk of bread and a block of cheese.  “We’ll eat on the move.”

The next step was the hardest Imlon had ever taken.  It felt like blocks of stone had been chained to the tendons at the back of his knees.  Night came on, and he was still walking.  Only when midnight approached did Menentor allow them to stop.  The next thing Imlon knew, the Haruyese woke him for the night watch.  As Menentor and Temith closed their eyes, he and Isendrin fought to keep theirs open, shivering under blankets.  He glanced up: the stars were still hidden under the mists of the marsh.  He wondered how close the points of the Anvil had become, before the cold drove his head back down into the blanket.

At first light they gritted their teeth, wiped their eyes, and set off.  The second day passed in the same manner as the first; the third day, as the second.  When they awoke on the fourth morning, Menentor reckoned on eighty miles standing between them and Pekderzhun.  Imlon’s feet ached all the more: it had felt like eight hundred.

* 

“Mist’s lifting,” said Menentor.  “We’re getting close.”

Imlon had been noting the changes for some hours.  The ground was firmer.  The rise and fall of the terrain was more pronounced.  The trees grew more thickly together, and drab bushes thrived around the trunks.  Crumbling dry stone walls kept crossing their path.

Isendrin and Menentor walked at the front, talking earnestly in low tones.

“It’ll never be clear,” Imlon heard his brother say.  “They’ll have rushed men north on the road.”

“We should still look,” replied Menentor.  “We’d be fools not to at least try the valley.  We don’t take those hills unless we must.”

“But there’s...”

“No.  I’ve travelled both, you have not.  We try the valley first.”