Epitaph and Elegy
by J. M. Turner
part 1
The sky was leaden and oppressive, as it had been for the last two days; an infinite stretch of gray eager to unburden itself. The blackened ruins of towers and parapets looming like reapers in the distance were all that broke up the horizon. There was a strange sort of beauty in the desolation of cloud, stone and ash. A beauty only loss and fallen splendor could display.
“Gods above!” growled Povel, brushing back rogue strands of his red hair. “The sky and land all run together. It’s like looking into an abyss. A gray abyss.”
While Povel’s complaints normally chafed at her patience, Sylvia now found them a welcome distraction from the grave they were approaching. “I rather like it. Keeps the sun from my eyes.”
“It does do that, I suppose.”
“How many more miles do you think we have between us and the city?”
Povel shrugged his lank shoulders. “Who’s to say? The horses will need to be rested and watered before long. If we keep a good pace, we may make it before dusk.”
“Very well. I am in no hurry.”
Uumm’Balathon. Though she had spent months poring over what fragmented information the guild had regarding the shrouded city, Sylvia was unsure what she should expect to find. Would it be rubble, a glorified pile of stones? Or, perhaps, much like a prepared corpse presented during a wake: dead but still clinging to a semblance of life. She pondered this for the rest of the day’s journey, lost in thought until she passed beneath the shadow of a lone, slouched caryatid.
Sylvia raised her head and beheld the city as it sat in silence; a crumbling monument to the lost. Uumm’Balathon was known to the common folk by many names: City of Ash, the Nameless Place, or the Light That Was Snuffed. To most learned folk, however, it was referred to as either the Tomb of the Scholars or the Cairn of Knowledge.
Countless odd and wonderful artifacts and texts from the city rested in museums and laboratories across the lands, waiting for their secrets to be revealed. Artificers and academics alike spent entire careers struggling in vain to discern the form and function of these mysterious objects.
Though every researcher asked different questions of the relics, there was one inquiry that burned bright in their collective minds: What calamity brought this mighty city, this beating heart of progress, to absolute destruction?
And why do so few visitors come back? Sylvia asked herself.
It was a well-known and accepted fact that the disappearance rate among those exploring Uumm’Balathon was well above the average. And those that did come back were never quite the same. To discern the cause of this phenomenon was the reason Povel and Sylvia gave the guild when asking for funding and approval for their expedition. In truth, both scholars had deeper motives for venturing into the deadly unknown, but they had kept these secrets between themselves.
Their horses sensed the death surrounding them and began to stamp their hooves restlessly. Sylvia took special notice of this behavior, as the mounts had proven themselves gentle and steadfast beasts on numerous occasions during the journey through the Deadlands, and their nervousness would not be without reason. “The horses are spooked,” she said, looking to Povel for a response.
“A common reaction upon entering the city,” he said. “They will settle soon enough.”
“We should keep to the main thoroughfare,” said Sylvia, the disquiet from the horses beginning to crawl up into her. “Try to stay out of the shadows. And if you feel an ache in your head coming on, for the love of the Lady, turn back! There—”
“Yes, yes, the stones found within the autopsied skulls, the human teeth marks on the bones, all the grotesque horror,” said Povel with a smile. “I know, Sylvia, I’ve read the accounts, same as you.”
“Cannibalism.” Sylvia shuddered. “What kind of sickness would make one do such a thing?”
“Madness... or something very like it.”
“Do you think this madness overcame Alexander?”
“That is what I intend to discover.”
Sylvia was silent for a spell, weighing whether to revisit an old argument. “I know I have said it many times before, but I must say it just this last time. You do not have to be here on my account, Povel. The risks here are great, and I would be beside myself with guilt and sorrow if—”
“I am aware of the dangers!” Povel’s interruption was quick and sharp. “And you are well aware that I am here for more reasons than your fool’s errand. So, for the last time, rid your mind of this worry.”
Fool’s errand, Sylvia thought as a surge of indignation began to well up within her. She almost bit back with a snide retort but, seeing the futility of such peevish behavior in a location as treacherous as Uumm’Balathon, she thought better of it.
“Forgive me,” said Povel in a voice more somber. “I spoke in haste. Your quest is admirable, Sylvia, and I am happy to help. Please, let us just focus on our surroundings. The consequences of a misstep could be dire.”
“Thank you, Povel,” Sylvia replied, her anger dissipating. “The road has shortened our tempers.”
“No doubt.”
Povel and Sylvia urged their horses forward through the shattered gatehouse and onto the marred cobblestone streets. The air instantly felt different, thinner, and Sylvia sensed her breaths were less satisfying. She recalled years prior when she stood on the rocky peak of Mount Monastery, gazing down at the fields and rills far below. Her head had spun, and not only from the grandeur of the view, but from the struggling of her lungs to catch a proper breath. She felt a similar sensation now, though where thrill had been in the past, trepidation now took hold.
“I feel it, too,” said Povel, noting Sylvia’s pallor.
Sylvia pulled the hood of her cloak over her dark hair while she cast a wary eye on the tumbling stone structures. There had been no reports of any sort of living thing in Uumm’Balathon, but she could not shake the sense of being watched. She tried imaging the city during its golden age of prosperity. Instead of collapsing masonry and ash-choked fountains, Sylvia saw proud, whitewashed edifices and verdant ivy crawling walls and walkways. The colossal spire she could see reaching toward the sky from deeper within the bowels of Uumm’Balathon was no longer battered and bruised, but glowing in splendid sunlight with a hundred banners snapping in the warm breeze.
“That must be the library,” said Povel as he raised a finger toward the towering feat of architecture. “That’s our goal.”
Sylvia’s mouth formed into a tight line. “Could we make it in the dark?”
“I am hesitant to travel these streets at night. Let’s keep an eye out for a suitable campsite.”
They pressed onward for almost an hour more, passing countless piles of rubble and ruin all indistinguishable from one another. It was not until they reached the barren grounds of a decrepit palace that they stopped for the night. Where once a grove of cedars might have grown, vigilantly tended to by caring hands, now skulked barren husks. The long dead trees stretched toward the sky like the bony fingers of a dying man, begging the gods to give them a merciful end to their facade of an existence.
“Seems as good a place as any to spend the night,” said Povel, dismounting to prepare his horse’s feedbag.
“You are not the first to think so,” said Sylvia.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Sylvia nodded towards one of the desiccated trunks where sat a skeleton, mouth hanging open as if struck dead amid a fit of laughter. Weather-beaten rags clung to gnawed ribs and a pair of surprisingly preserved boots covered the feet of the remains.
“Gods,” said Povel, a shudder traveling the course of his body. “Should we find somewhere else to camp?”
“Does not matter to me,” said Sylvia. “The dead do not scare me.”
“Well, you’ve spent the better part of your life around the sick and dying. But, as for me...”
“We can find somewhere else to camp, Povel.”
“No, no, I’ll be all right. I just... I just won’t look at it.”
Sylvia stifled a smile and dropped from her saddle. “Perhaps we should bury them.”
“Why? Is it Alexander?”
“It does not appear to be, no.”
“Then perhaps we should leave it be,” Povel was quick to reply.
“It’s beyond me how one could make it so far as an alchemist with a fear of corpses as debilitating as yours.”
“Fear is a bit strong a word. I prefer ‘aversion’.”
Sylvia approached the remains for a closer inspection of the bones. With a simple thought, she willed a ball of warm, yellow light into the palm of her hand to drive away the encroaching darkness. Aside from the teeth-scarred ribcage, there were no other obvious signs of violence left on the skeleton.
“Sylvia, will you leave it alone?” Povel was exasperated. “Help me pitch the tent so we can get some rest.”
“Give me a moment. I’d like to figure out how this fellow reached such a fate.”
“Why?”
Sylvia turned back and held Povel with a blank stare. “Because I would rather not end up in a similar fashion.”
Povel rolled his eyes. “I suppose you have a point.”
The clouds shrouded the moon and stars, allowing only the most meager amount of light to filter down onto Uumm’Balathon. Though the soothing whistle of the wind could be heard outside, Sylvia was finding sleep elusive. Anxiety, diminutive but persistent, was digging its way to the forefront of her awareness. I have been on edge all day. My nerves are overworked, she told herself. Best not to think about what tomorrow brings.
“Can’t sleep?” Povel’s voice asked in the darkness of the tent. “Are you frightened?”
“A bit, perhaps. What about you?”
“A bit. Not nearly as much as I expected.” Povel was quiet for a moment before venturing another question. “Are you not excited? You are closer to finding answers now more than ever.”
“I cannot count the number of times I’ve believed myself close to my goal,” said Sylvia, a hint of sorrow in her voice despite her best effort. “I learned to temper my hope long ago but, yes, I am eager to see what tomorrow’s delvings provide for us.”
“We will both find what we are seeking,” Povel firmly stated. “I am sure of it.”
The morning sky was sundered by a savage rain that mercilessly pelted the canvas tent. It was like sitting inside of a drum, and Sylvia’s ears ached by the time the downpour began to slacken. Despite the dreariness of the morning, Sylvia was eager to be off. There was knowledge to be found.
“I am unsure of what I prefer: the library’s undoubtedly eerie atmosphere or the bone-chilling wetness of the outdoors,” said Povel, his cloak drenched through before he could even saddle his horse.
“I know what I prefer,” Sylvia replied. She was already saddled and goading her horse towards the road.
“In a hurry are we?”
“Do you wish to linger in the rain?”
“I don’t think a little haste will make a difference. We’re already soaked.”
Syliva could not explain the feeling that was creeping within her. There was an urge, almost like a tugging force, to reach the library as quickly as possible. Every moment spent motionless was like resting her feet too close to a fire. “I suppose I’m just a bit excited.”
“Apparently so. Well then, lead the way.”
Copyright © 2022 by J. M. Turner
