A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 24 (Part 2 of 2)

Imlon did not so much dream as think of the stars as he slept. His last memory of the previous night, as his eyelids drooped, was of the Anvil; his first thought in the morning, before even he opened his eyes, was of the new stars.

"Any change?" he said to Menentor, the last watchman of the night. He had instructed his companions to keep their eyes on the heavens.

"No," replied Menentor. "But the Anvil was the last to go, as you said."

Imlon wriggled out from under the uncomfortable blanket and stood up, stretching his back. Temith still slept. Isendrin was not present.

"Come, then," said Menentor, pointing upwards. "What's my future, astrologer?"

"Menentor, I don't read futures, I..."

He stopped when he noticed the pathfinder's grin.

"Still," said Menentor. "Four new stars and a collapsing constellation. I would call that a sign."

"Of what?"

Menentor's expression turned doubtful. "I don't know. You should tell me. The gods are at war. Where the gods go, men follow. Maybe Pekderzhun and Anthornadia will fight and it will spread and burn us all. Maybe your brother will go back to Emmares and set it aflame."

Imlon shuddered. "Do you really think that?"

"No," said Menentor, shrugging his shoulders. "I have no idea what will happen. You can talk of your charts, Temith can talk of his theology. But do you want to know what we common peasants think? We're wondering how the gods are going to ruin us next."

With that, the Haruyese trudged away from the camp. Imlon stared around the hollow. More than ever it seemed like the hind end of the wilderness. Despite the hard ground, a part of him wished to lie down once more, hide his face beneath the blanket, and never be seen again.

*

Half an hour later the four of them were walking up through the foothills in the pale dawn light. Menentor and Isendrin took the lead, scouting over every ridge before signalling to their companions to follow. Temith followed obediently, fearfully. Imlon trudged along, hardly feeling as if he were accompanied at all.

The ground rose steadily, the clouds grew darker, and the trees dispersed. Before them lay a stretch of wild, rough moorland, strewn with brambles and gorse, and worryingly open. Great grey tors dominated the landscape. There was no sign of life for miles.

"It will take us a day to cross," Menentor had said before they set off. "If all's well we'll manage it unseen. But if it comes to it, fight with everything you have. Arcani rely on concentration. If you give them a moment, they will destroy you. If you stop to take a breath, they will destroy you. Fight them unrelentingly, do not let them think, and they will break. And never, never flinch from striking."

The moors were vast. Crows croaked in the distance, and the shadows of the clouds crept over the landscape. Imlon continually glanced around, heedless of his footing on the uneven ground, sprinkled with rabbit holes. In the marsh, he had always thought the enemy to be behind them, and at least the mist cloaked the hunted along with the hunters. Here, though, a keen-eyed scout, crouched in the heather, could spot them from miles away and from any direction. Imlon stared over the broad, forbidding hills. They would never spot the scout.

They stopped once, well past noon, in a rocky outcrop. Rivulets ran between the giant boulders and Imlon, Temith and Menentor went to drink and refill their water skins. The astronomer turned at a strange scraping noise: Isendrin was sat on a rock, vigorously sharpening his sword. Imlon watched as his brother repeatedly lifted the blade to his eyes, observing the edge, before taking the whetstone to it once more. The skin at his side was empty.