The strikes ceased only when they reached a larger ruin. A massive slab of black stone jutted right from the crest itself. It resembled an arch, or perhaps the collapsed roof of some grand pavilion. One side remained buried deep within the dune, while the other swept upward in a warped crescent, scorched smooth by impossible heat. Great sections had sheared away, but what remained still rose a metre above the ground in places, and nearly to a wizard’s height in others. Around it lay several more big stone fragments; columns that were burnt, broken and buried in various degrees. Beyond the arch, lightning continued to burst across the unseen crater. Each strike flashed white along the outer curve of the ruin, yet no light passed above or around it, into its inner face. It was the first structure that offered real cover.
Yves slipped in behind it and crouched low between two broad, flattened boulders. The heat was devastating. His skin was nothing but salt and grit and long-crusted blood. The skin on his face cracked every time he blinked. The tears in his eyes dried before they fell, if there were any left at all. It was the same for his throat. He could not swallow. Yves pressed both his scarf and the sleeve of his coat against his mouth and nose. The air was stale and heavy, saturated with the stench of scorched minerals. If his stomach were not utterly hollow, he would have long vomited. It felt like he was about to suffocate.
In the other hand, he held the pendulum. The vibration had intensified so much that he could no longer bear the artefact against his palm. He held it by the chain instead, at arm’s length. It was a mess of twisting, trembling oscillation.
Carefully, his hand extended towards the stone arc, with the pendulum quivering beneath.
Nothing changed.
Yves crouched forward.
Slowly.
.
.
.
Pages:
Pages:
Pages: