The pristine city spread around the group of ten, Ragul of the Green Tempest and his nine companions, explorers in this dying world. Arms spread, eyes closed, Ragul muttered a chant in the higher tongue. He opened his eyes, disappointment colouring his face.
“Its empty, like the others. Let us see if we can find any records.”
They picked up what they could carry of their supplies and followed Ragul down a tree-lined concourse deeper into the city. The nine of them keeping careful watch of the towering buildings around them. The architecture held a note of familiarity, like the empty towns they had grown up in, before the old had died, before the group had found each other.
Some of the buildings were free and open, their doors long swollen from exposure. There were restaurants, mostly tidy but for a single plate of long rotten food. Its mould was slowly colonising the table with tendrils of fluff and ooze. Food was always strange, Ragul could remember his grandmother cooking for him as a child, but then food was just always available. In another room of the vast buildings they lived in, bubbling in a pot of a camp they made that very day. Since the advent of magic a few decades ago the world had become convenient—in ways that were hard to grasp.
Piles of boxes littered the streets, some in neat piles, but most were toppled and empty, their contents long scattered by the winds and looters. Flashes of colour whipped by within the piles, creatures nesting and startled by the group.
The low growl was the only warning they had, but it sounded like wind shifting one of the piles.
A banner of orange and black rippled in the wind, from behind a low pile in an arc towards them. Allen was limp within its jaws, twitching as his white shirt stained red. The striped cat leapt again, leaving Allen in a pile of himself as Fyon raised her pack before her in defence. It bounced off and swiped at her legs, bringing her to the floor. As it readied to pounce again a blue bolt screamed from Ragul’s outstretched hand and drilled into its flank. Ice and frost spread quickly, sealing the creature in place, Allen’s blood now a deep red icicle hanging from its jaws.
“Ragul, it won’t stop bleeding!”
The panicked cry of Fyon snapped Ragul from his thoughts of violence. He rushed towards Fyon, eyes darting around the street.
“Cyfr, bring some bandages, I must ward us and repel any other creatures! Attend to Fyon until I can heal her!”
A squat man rummaged in his pack for white cloth, while Ragul began a series of complicated gestures with his hands, scribing marks on the ground with his toes. A tense minute passed with everyone ready to fight before the spell finished. There was a pulse of yellow, and a far-off growl. They saw two of the creatures fleeing down the street with supernatural speed.
“We are safe for now, Fyon let me see to your leg, then let us put poor Allen to rest.”
Fyon was finishing tying up the bandages around her leg, but blood was still gushing through even with the extra pressure. Ragul’s hand glowed with a black nimbus above the wound, and the gushing stopped.
They all gathered around Allen’s body, some with tears, all with determination.
“He will not be forgotten, his tragic loss will be the last, if God smiles on us, and may we find the answer here in this city.”
The five survivors managed to lift Allen between them and move him to a clean table in a small house. Within a cupboard Fyon found a silk tablecloth of the cleanest white, and they draped it over him. A fitting shroud for a man who kept religiously clean. Ragul spread his arms wide and spoke a single syllable. The table, shroud, and body turned to marble.
“I do not wish for his body to be defiled. Come Darraigh, Trudi, Anhead, my friends. Let us stay here tonight, within the protections I’ve cast, and set vigil. Tomorrow we can find the records we need.”
It was a quiet night as they all contemplated those they lost. Ragul remembered his grandfather dying from a long disease that not even his magic could cure, his brother dying from a fall. Not even his skill could heal a broken neck.
He had travelled so far and for so long with his friends, and to lose Allen was like an open wound within his heart. Ragul did not sleep that night, and neither did his companions. Quiet sobs filled the silence of the city and all their eyes were swollen and red at daybreak. They had long run out of matches, so Ragul lit the fire with a gesture and Anhead began preparing their breakfast of tea and bacon.
The three ate in silence, before packing their bags from the always present excess, and heading out into the waking world.
The men weaved their way through the detritus left on the street and followed it to a large cobbled square. It was lined with statues and in its centre rose a great arch of remembrance. The palace was on the other side, and they made their way beneath the arch.
“ALSIHAR YALTAHIMUNA”
The phrase was painted in red letters on the base of the arch. No one understood the language, and Ragul was impatient, so they continued to the palace and its giant door. It was bronze and there was still oil on the hinges, yet it would not yield to them.
“Standback my friends, I will unlock it”
Raguls hands pressed against the door, then sank within it. A great burst of smoke billowed from the doorway, and it was gone. A doorless frame, ready for them to enter. Anhead nodded to Ragul, and the pair entered the building. Hopefully to find the answers they had both sought for so long.
They walked through the opulent building, seeking the office of its Plutarch. Tapestries, frescos, and paintings lined the halls. More people than they had seen in their lifetimes. They climbed wide and echoing stairs until at last they found it. A large room with a desk of red stone. Behind it was a balcony that commanded incredible views of the city.
They had made it, finally they may have answers. Where had everyone gone? Would they find someone else to share their lives? They always found food, sometimes cooked as if prepared for them. They always found somewhere safe to sleep. Perhaps they would find a path to hear someone else’s stories, for they had exhausted their own long ago. Allen’s would be silent forever now.
Anhead passed Ragul a book, but it was all written in Old Assyr. Closing his eyes, Ragul chanted a spell, and the words made sense to his eyes. The Plutarch’s diary!
Alone, Ragul hoped this book had the answers he needs. He hoped Allen didn’t die for nothing. He filled his pipe and put it to his mouth, narrowing his eyes. The lit pipe fell to the desk, its sound gigantic within the silent city, as the last curls of man-made smoke drifted away.