Realms of the Arcane - Brian M. Thomsen [41]
For a few moments, the cavalry circled in the air above the rolling dust clouds. The debris soon settled enough to show a massive impact crater and a field of rubble in which no one could have survived.
Still, the griffons lingered, vultures above a new corpse.
By silent mutual agreement, conquerors and crow-riders alike one by one turned westward, toward Tith Tilendrothael. In time, Peregrin banked to follow the others.
It was a weary and burdened crew. Their wings had been nearly spent before they began rescuing Lhaodagms. One hope moved them, that everything would be sorted out at Tith Tilendrothael.
A deep longing swept through Josiah. I can't wait to see those ivory towers and streets of gold… to be warm and safe again… Atrocity and massacre and death… His thoughts ceased above the toil of wings. At last, in despairing tones, he wondered, How many of us are left?
Peregrin quickly counted the griffons before him. The numbers were not promising. Not quite half of the four hundred had won free of the plunging city and its powerful down drafts. Those who had escaped looked ragged, their fury spent. They jittered like a swarm of deer flies.
Too few, he answered.
Josiah leaned forward in the saddle and gazed down at the old woman.
She hung supine, her withered hands clutched up to her chest and her eyes closed as though in sleep. Her long gray hair played gently in the wind. If not for the craggy lines of her face, she would have seemed a little girl.
"What happened to Lhaoda?" he blurted.
The old woman opened her eyes. "It fell, Dear. Don't worry, I'm all right." She seemed to want one of her arms loose so she could pat his cheek.
"No," he said, "before that. Why was the city in the storm?"
"The storm caught us," she said simply. "We've been adrift for three days. Couldn't rise. Couldn't steer."
"Adrift? What do you mean? Your levitation council was still alive. Why didn't you call for help?"
"It would have been the same as calling for plunder."
"But, how did you lose control?"
"The Phaerimm," she replied.
"The Phaerimm?" echoed Josiah. "The Ones Below? They're just myths. And even if they were real, how could they bring down a flying city?"
She shrugged. "The Phaerimm brought down Lhaoda. They will bring down all the others. We must join forces. No more hiding in the clouds. Nowhere is safe now."
"Don't worry, we're safe enough," Josiah said. "We're on our way to Tith Tilendrothael."
"No," she replied. Her eyes were suddenly bleakly desperate, almost angry. "Nowhere is safe now."
"But Tith Tilendrothael is-" His words were cut off by a pang of terror and dread.
Peregrin voiced a raw-throated shriek.
Josiah glimpsed what the griffon already saw: an empty skyline ahead, only plains and stormy skies. There was no gleaming city. There were no ivory towers, no streets of gold…
Gone, sent Peregrin, gone.
The griffon riders and Lhaodagms ahead were descending to land. Many had already gathered beside the impact crater and rubble field-what once had been Tith Tilendrothael. Nothing was left-less than nothing: a deep pit instead of a floating heaven.
The survivors-that's what they were now, not Lhaodagms or Tith Tilendrotheans, but simply survivors- gathered on the verge of that pit. Fletching, Evensong, Glazreth, and the rest of Tith Tilendrothaen's cavalry stood wing and wing with the crow-riders and alley cats of Lhaodagm.
Both cities had fallen. Each had been brought down by-what? Old animosities? Older myths?
Whatever had once separated them now seemed inconsequential. Only the vast chasm mattered.
Peregrin approached. He gently landed, releasing the old crone from his grip.
The woman got to her feet and turned toward the pit. She stared, like all the others.
At first, no one spoke. They only stood in shocked silence, one people-survivors.
The air was so still in that heartbeat that everyone heard the crone murmur:
"We must join forces. When even sky cities fall, nowhere is safe… No more sky cities. No more floating