CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

Lorenzo waited until Florin had escorted Kereveld back to the temple before slipping away. He had kept the merchandise hidden beneath the folds of his shirt and the shape of it had soon etched a hot, red patch of insulation into his skin.

Now, sitting oh his haunches with his back resting against the smooth stone of the corner building, he shifted the goods within his shirt and watched his customers approach.

They walked with the exaggerated swagger of the world’s only honest men, pausing occasionally to glance around them furtively. They looked as though they were about to burst into an innocent whistle.

In fact, as they drew nearer, one of them did start to hum. Florin sniggered and stood up, rising out of the tall-bladed elephant grass like a grotesque apparition.

“Over here, lads,” he hissed. The two men stopped in sudden alarm. Then, deciding that this wasn’t a trap, they ploughed through the grass towards him. The first of them swept off a white-feathered hat and nodded his head politely.

“What a surprise, to meet you here,” he said, his voice lifting with the musical lilt of a Tilean accent.

“Likewise,” Lorenzo replied.

For a moment the three men stood and sweated beneath the gaze of the hot sun, studying each other.

“Is a very nice weather we’re having,” the Tilean said and, despite all evidence to the contrary, Lorenzo nodded his agreement.

“Beautiful.”

Again the three men lapsed into silence. A dragonfly hummed past, its metallic sheen sparkling beneath the scorching sunlight. The Tileans watched it suspiciously. When it had disappeared around the corner the first of them lent forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“You have the map?” he hissed.

Lorenzo nodded and looked cautiously from side to side before retrieving the roll of paper from beneath his shirt. He began to unfurl it, and then paused.

“Look, you might not want it. It’s only one page from Bartolomi’s book, not really a map. To be quite honest, I can’t make anything of it.”

“Don’t keep us waiting.” The Tilean waved away the protest impatiently. “Let us see.”

Lorenzo sighed.

“All right, all right. But if you don’t want it, I have some tea to sell, too.”

And with that he unrolled the piece of paper and held it out for the two Tileans to examine. As the men hunched over the paper, Lorenzo saw the contents reflected in their faces. In a matter of seconds their aquiline features changed from eager to disappointed, from disappointed to exhilarated and then, with an obvious effort, from exhilarated to unimpressed.

“Yes,” the Tilean said. “I see is a very smudged. Very unclear.”

“Sorry,” Lorenzo sighed, and started to roll the map back up. “But I did warn you. Anyway, about that tea…”

The Tilean gripped his wrist and smiled with maniacal insouciance.

“We will take the map anyway. For a souvenir.”

“Well, if you’re sure you want to…” Lorenzo trailed off. “It costs twelve crowns.”

The Tileans seemed genuinely shocked but Lorenzo remained unmoved.

“Take it or leave it,” he shrugged.

They took it, and just in time. Less than half an hour later a trio of Kislevites came slinking along through grass grown dull beneath a suddenly overcast sky.

But that deal was never complete. Before they’d even started to discuss a price a terrible roar from the jungle beyond had sent all three men bolting away like hares from a gun.

 

* * *

 

Van Delft stood on the highest stone tier of the temple and gazed across the world below. From this altitude, with the warm breeze brushing the white mane of his hair back from the flushed skin of his brow, and also keeping the flies at bay, the jungle seemed almost beautiful.

The morning sunlight gleamed on the canopy of the surrounding trees. The brilliant greens and golds were a stark contrast to the dark hollows below. Straight ahead the ground swelled up towards the lip of the plateau—the overgrown earth rising up before the temple as smoothly as a wave before the prow of a ship.

Here and there the canopy was cratered with regular patterns of stunted growth. It occurred to van Delft that beneath these areas lay the ruins of other buildings, buildings which had not enjoyed the protection lavished upon this temple complex—buildings whose remains might contain anything. It also occurred to him that he’d be a fool to tell that to the men below. He’d just about been able to bully them into building a stockade and maintaining some daily semblance of drill, but he knew better than to press them further than that. At least the current wave of gold fever served to keep them within earshot of the buglers he’d posted on these very heights.

Gold fever. It was like an illness with some of them.

Men who had risked everything to escape from their father’s fields could now be seen burrowing into the heavy soil below, tearing at the earth without even peasants’ tools.

Others, contrary to orders, spent their time sneaking around the corridors and passageways that riddled the outer buildings. So far they had discovered nothing except falling slabs or concealed pits.

“Fools,” the commander muttered, thinking of the three bodies that the dwarfs had already recovered from within those buildings. The first two had been merely broken, but the third had been, well, had been…

Had been smeared, van Delft decided, thinking of the man’s jellied remains.

He winced at the memory and turned his attention back to the tell-tale dips in the thick carpet of greenery before him.

No. There was no way he was going to tell the men that the city they sought was out there, hidden beneath a grappling chaos of undergrowth and Sigmar alone knew what else.

The commander grunted as he reached the decision. Then he frowned. On the far horizon, the blue of the sky was disappearing beneath a vast mountain of cloud. The edge of the dismal mass was as straight as a razor, and it was drawing nearer with the speed of a galloping horse.

He ground his teeth and wracked his brains, trying to remember if he’d ever seen a sky quite like this before. He didn’t like it, that was for sure. After a life time spent beneath the choppy weather of the Old World, this hard-edged blanket of cloud didn’t seem natural.

The brooding was ended with a sudden, sharp explosion from below. It had come from beyond one of the outbuildings and, as the commander squinted in that direction, a thin wisp of black smoke started to rise upwards.

The noise died away, swallowed by the jungle. In its place a chorus of ragged cries floated up. Van Delft, his face grim, started to clamber back down the ladder of lashed vines that led up to his high eyrie, his thoughts already turning to what he might find below.

 

During their first foray into the cremetorial stench of the upper chamber Florin had felt many things. Fear especially. But now all he felt was boredom. The crumbling skeletons that surrounded him no longer filled him with anything other than a sort of distant pity. Even amongst the flickering shadows of the torchlight they were now no more menacing than stacks of broken furniture.

True, their lidless gaze sometimes seemed filled with resentment of the warm flesh that still clothed his bones. Or perhaps it was resentment of the fact that Kereveld had succeeded in opening the all-seeing eye of this chamber where they had failed. But what of it? They had long since ceased to have any power in this world, otherwise they would surely have risen up in protest when the wizard blundered through them.

Skulls continued to roll as the wizard barged carelessly past, muttering to himself as he squinted up at the blazing constellations above or down at the paper upon which he scribbled his notes.

Florin watched the old man’s actions disinterestedly and arched his back against the cold stone of the wall. Only van Delft’s order kept him there, stuck protecting the wizard.

What a waste of time.

He yawned, despite the fact that it wasn’t even noon yet, and rolled his shoulders. Maybe he should get in some sword practice. Lundorf had showed him a new trick yesterday, a way of trapping an opponent’s thumb beneath the guard…

He pressed his hands against the wall to push himself off, then stopped suddenly. His expression frozen, he slowly began to slide his fingers through the pale ash which covered the stone behind him. It was dry and greasy, and he could feel rolls of it filling the spaces beneath his nails. Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter that this soot was scorched bone. All that mattered were the finely carved lines that lay beneath it.

Waiting until Kereveld had wandered to the other side of the chamber, Florin turned and scrubbed the dirt off the wall with the palms of his hands. Beneath it, the edges of the grooves as sharp now as on the day they’d been cut, a mass of carved symbols were revealed.

With a quick glance over his shoulder Florin scrabbled for a torch and knelt down in front of the script the better to read it.

At first he was disappointed. This was no writing he’d seen before. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if it was writing at all. There were no letters here, not even the odd little pictograms that occasionally turned up on wares from Cathay. Instead, the ancient masons had marked the walls of their temple with a continuous collage of pictures and images, each fitting as neatly into the next as a brick into a wall.

Florin leaned closer, blinking back tears from the smoke of the torch, and rubbed away more of the soot.

At least he could recognize some of the images. Despite the way that they’d been warped and twisted to fit into neat squares and rectangles Florin could make out snakes and spiders, and some sort of feathered lizard. These carvings and dozens more were crammed together in a higgledy-piggledy mass through which not a single line ran.

His brow furrowed with concentration, Florin smeared more dust away, searching for any clue as to where the fabled treasure might lay hidden. Sweat trickled down his face and he absent-mindedly wiped it away, leaving a grey smear on his forehead.

“What’s that you’ve found?” a voice asked from behind him, making Florin jump and swear. He hadn’t heard Kereveld approach.

“It’s a… hey, what’s that?”

The noise of the explosion echoed dully through the passageways of the temple, rumbling on long after the first impact had died. Mercenary and wizard exchanged a long, anxious glance. Then they shrugged.

“Well, Menheer Kereveld,” Florin said as the last of the echoes faded. “I wonder if you’d be so good as to tell me what these mean?”

The two men hunched forward in the darkness, the outside world forgotten as they pored eagerly over words that might proclaim their fortunes.

 

The dozen round-bladed axes gleamed as brightly as the eyes of the dwarfs who held them. They stood in a stolid line, their backs to the darkness of the jungle beyond. Between the line and the trees, neck deep in the smoking crater their blast had created, their fellows toiled. Sweat glistened on their stocky arms and barrel chests, slicking the dirt that clung to them.

It had taken almost half a barrel of the precious black powder to blow out the two trees that had grown out of this hole, but it had been worth it. Their root systems had clutched around the dwarfs’ find like a miser’s fingers, pressing it down into the earth. Yet with the help of a single, carefully placed charge, that miser’s grasp had been transformed into an open palm.

The dwarfs worked quickly as they picked it clean. Ignoring the mosquitoes that feasted upon their pounding blood, they laboured with a sense of disciplined effort that kept them silent even as the gaggle of humans gathered resentfully in front of their pickets.

Despite the solid blanket of cloud that blocked the sun, occasional specks of light flashed amongst the steaming detritus of the crater. Sometimes the glint came from shards of splintered onyx, from jagged pieces of glazed pottery, or from carbonised bones. When that was the case these objects were hurled contemptuously into the jungle.

But sometimes the specks of light reflected the bright, maddening yellow of gold. When that happened the nearest dwarf would pounce upon the twist of metal like an owl upon a rat, his gaze becoming fevered as the object flared briefly into life beneath the darkening sky. Then, perhaps with a shudder of self control, he would pass the treasure to Thorgrimm, who would stow it in his satchel.

It seemed that the heavier the satchel grew the bigger the surrounding mob of humans became. Occasionally, a brief struggle would break out as men fought over detritus that had been thrown clear by the blast. But for the most part the spectators just shifted uneasily and watched their fellow mercenaries, waiting with the same restless patience of wolves waiting for their prey to weaken.

Graznikov, careful to remain a good twelve paces away from the nearest of the dwarf axemen, had elected himself their spokesman.

“Hey, leedle man,” he called towards the dwarfs. “Stand clear. We want look for gold too.”

The nearest dwarf glared back at him, his only reply the shifting of his axe from one hand to another.

Graznikov took another step back.

“You stealing from your Tovaritches,” he protested loudly, his voice miserable with cheated honesty. “Better you share.”

Some of the men behind him yelled out their agreement and made an abortive push forward. Thorgrimm looked up from the crater where his dwarfs were working and put his hands defiantly on his hips.

“Bugger off!” he told the Kislevite. “This is our find.”

A growl of protest rose up from the men and Graznikov, to his increasing alarm, felt himself being shoved forward towards the dwarf axes.

“You no find gold beneath,” he shouted, tearing his eyes away from the cold steel. “Not yet. That, we want find.”

More of the men behind him added their voices to the cries of encouragement, and pushed against Graznikov’s meaty shoulders with renewed vigour. This time he was ready for them, though, and dug his heels into the soft earth even as another flash of gold from the pit beyond filled them with a new energy.

“No,” Thorgrimm told him. “This is our find. We will give van Delft half, as it says in our contract. The rest, we will keep. As it says in our contract. And in yours.”

“Let us dig too,” Graznikov challenged him, growing braver as some of the men jostled passed him. “You no own ground.”

One of the mob, a beefy Marienburger, could stand it no longer. He barged forward and tried to shove past one of the dwarfs who, twisting away from his hand, reversed his axe and struck the man’s knee with the haft.

There was a crack of steel against bone and a pained howl as the Marienburger collapsed into the mud. From behind him his mates yelled in protest and surged forward. One of them drew a sword, and the others followed his example so that soon the air was sharp with cold steel.

The dwarfs had seen too much gold for steel to melt their hearts, no matter how much or how sharp. They raised their axes to the ready position and shifted to prepare for a charge, the centre of the line drawing back to entice the enemy forward.

Graznikov swallowed nervously and wriggled backwards as a brief heartbeat of silence seized the warriors. Chiming into that heartbeat with perfect timing floated a distant voice, a single word. It was a beautiful word, a magical word. It was the only word powerful enough to stop the violence towards which they were falling.

 

“Gold!” Orbrant called, his voice quivering with the effort “Goooold!”

He peered around the corner behind which Lorenzo had been doing business to see if the call was having any effect. It was: the tight huddle of mercenaries that had surrounded the dwarfs opened up, the men’s faces turning to the cry as flowers turn to the sun.

Orbrant took another deep breath, filling his lungs before repeating the cry.

“Gooold! It’s Gooooold!”

The first of the men turned their backs on the scrum that surrounded the crater. Casually, as if they were going nowhere in particular, they started walking towards his position. Orbrant watched them impassively, waiting until one of them began to trot, before repeating the call.

More men drifted away from the dwarfs’ claim.

Orbrant stepped around the corner in time to meet the forerunners.

“Go back.” He told them, holding his hands up as if to ward them off. “There’s nothing here. I was mistaken.”

Their enthusiasm fuelled by denial, the first couple of men rushed past him. Orbrant watched them blunder around the corner of the building, their fellows following them on their wild goose chase. Then he strode through the trampled elephant grass to the remaining knot of men and dwarfs, ignoring those who scampered past him after their fellows as he did so.

As he drew up to the skirmish line he realized how close it had been. The air between them was almost shimmering with hostility.

“Captain Graznikov,” Orbrant singled out the Kislevite, who’d remained to hover like a vulture behind the imminent bloodshed. “Go and make your report to Commander van Delft.”

“Don’t dare to tell me what to do,” Graznikov sneered. “I am the… the captain.”

But beneath the solid impact of Orbrant’s granite stare Graznikov felt his confidence melting away. After all, if a mere sergeant dared to address him like this he must have a reason—must have. Perhaps he’d heard some rumour; that dog Drobnik could never keep his mouth shut.

“Yes, you are a captain.” Orbrant drew closer to him, his eyes as hard as sapphires. “Now go and make your report to Commander van Delft.”

Graznikov licked his lips and took a step backwards. At the best of times he’d always found this slight man with his peasant’s dress and his aristocrat’s weapon a little unnerving. Now, as he so casually risked a flogging by talking to an officer in this way, he seemed positively frightening. What did he know?

With an obvious effort the Kislevite returned Orbrant’s gaze. He held it for almost a minute before, sweat trickling down his brow, he turned on his heel and swaggered away with assumed nonchalance.

When the captain had gone, Orbrant turned to the Marienburgers, who had been watching the show with every sign of enjoyment. Even the man whom the dwarf had felled seemed to have forgotten his grievance for the moment. He and his opponent stood side by side, united in their appreciation of Graznikov’s humbling.

“What happened to your leg?” Orbrant asked him as he staggered forward.

Marienburger and dwarf swapped a glance.

“Bashed it, sergeant,” the mercenary said.

“Hmm.” Orbrant, who’d seen the look, nodded approvingly. “Get one of your mates to help you back to the Bretonnian quarter and we’ll give you some liniment for it. The rest of you can stay here and breathe down Captain Thorgrimm’s neck, if you want, although you’re wasting your time. Dwarfs love gold, but they love honour more. They won’t cheat you. Isn’t that right?”

“Aye,” said the dwarf who’d cracked the Marienburger’s knee. Then he winked at his victim. “More often than not, anyway.”

Orbrant joined in with the uncertain laughter and wiped the first fleck of rain off the smooth dome of his head. Glancing up, he saw the last distant blue slash of sky vanish beneath a rolling expanse of black clouds, dwarfing even the pyramid they pressed down on, fat and heavy-bellied with moisture.

Another spattering of drops pattered against the leaves and a first rumble of thunder growled out in distant menace—a drum roll for the commander who came stalking across the fields towards them.

“What’s going on here, sergeant?” he asked, eyes flicking from the line of men with their unsheathed swords to the line of dwarfs with their unbelted axes.

“Nothing at all, sir,” Orbrant told him with a crisp salute. “Just a spot of digging.”

“Really? You’d better carry on then.” And with that the heavens opened.

 

“So,” said Lundorf, with hearty good cheer. “We seem to have come to the right place after all.”

The expedition’s share of the gold, which Thorgrimm had carefully weighed in front of the entire expedition, sat in an empty powder chest before van Delft’s feet. There were perhaps three or four hundred crowns worth all told, and there were no two pieces the same, from tangled clumps of golden wire to snapped off lengths of thin piping.

“It’s strange,” Florin said, lifting one twist of metal up beneath the suspicious eyes of his brother officers. “But it almost seems like old scrap.”

“It is,” said Kereveld, who’d already dismissed the find as irrelevant, as he looked up from his pipe.

“No, I mean rubbish. Like in the middens back in my city.”

“Yes, that’s what it is,” snapped the wizard, who’d burnt his fingers.

“How can it be? Look, it’s all gold.”

Kereveld inhaled a lungful of smoke and nodded.

“You forget,” he chided the Bretonnian, a sudden rush of nicotine soothing his irritation. “The beings that built this place had no particular love for gold. They had so much that they used it as we do lead.”

In the gloom of the corridor the men shifted uneasily and peered out into the rush of rain that fell like a veil over the premature dusk. It had driven them and the rest of the expedition into the dubious safety of the outer buildings where they huddled, as restless and steaming as beasts sheltering in a cave.

Only the sentries remained outside. When they were relieved they sloshed into the shelter of the dingy stone walls, their sodden clothing leaving trails of water behind them.

Van Delft had considered calling them all back in. It wasn’t as though they’d be able to see anything against the blinding grey of the driving rain. But he knew the value of routine and he’d decided to stick to it, even though it would mean doing his rounds through the torrential downpour.

How my daughters would scold me if they found out, he thought with a smile that lifted the tips of his moustache.

The drumming of the rain also kept the other officers locked up inside there own little worlds. Graznikov thought of Orbrant, and of revenge. Lundorf thought of Vienela, the daughter of Baron Grulter, and what he wished he’d said to her. Florin thought of cards, for the first time since he’d fled Bordeleaux, and toyed with the idea of setting up a game.

It was Kereveld who broke the mood. “How long do you think that this rain will last?” he asked van Delft, who just shrugged.

“Sigmar knows.”

“But it won’t be longer than four days?”

“I doubt it. But for all we know it might last for four months. Why?”

The wizard, who’d been chewing the end of his pipe, just muttered and looked away.

“What is it?” Florin pressed him, but the wizard just waved the question away, one pale hand fluttering like a moth in the dismal light.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try us.”

“Well, all right. It’s really not that complicated, I suppose. It’s all down to my discovery of the planet that used to be known as Obscuria. We’d always guessed that it was somewhere out there, because of the doppler effect it has on the magical field. But until I discovered it we’d never been able to accurately calculate its ellipse. I’ve decided to rename it Bartolomia Primus, by the way.”

The wizard paused, as if waiting for the applause that only he could hear to die away. Florin and Castavelli, who was sitting across from him, nodded blankly. Lundorf opened his mouth to ask a question, then thought better of it and closed it again. Thorgrimm began to snore.

“Anyway, now that I know the ellipse and can extrapolate the cyclical speed of its orbital rate from the observations I’ve made in the star chamber, I’ve made a wonderful discovery.”

He waited expectantly for a moment, then Florin obliged him: “What discovery?” he asked.

“I have discovered, at least, I think I have discovered, how to cast Heiermat’s Last Theorem.”

He leant forward, eyes shining with an almost religious fervour.

“Do you realise what that means?”

“No,” said Lundorf, to the wizard’s evident surprise.

“It means that I’ll be famous. Of all Heiermat’s twelve theorems, it’s only the last that we’ve never been able to follow. If I can cast it I will have made one of the greatest breakthroughs of any human mage.”

He beamed at the assembled men who smiled politely back.

“Well done,” Florin told him, and Kereveld smiled modestly.

“Thank you, thank you,” he muttered. “Although of course my real genius was in finding this place. I think that old fool Tiphianus only voted to give me the money for the expedition because he thought I would fail. Ha! Well, now I’ll show him. If only the rain clears in time, I’ll cast such a spell that the whole college will be forced to recognize my genius.”

Seized by a sudden fit of combative energy, Kereveld sprang to his feet and stalked over to the tunnel entrance. His silhouette was black against the pearly sheet of the downpour.

“How long do you think the rain will last?” he asked.

This time it was Florin who answered. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? A week or a day? When it clears you can get to work.”

“No, no, no.” The wizard shook his head impatiently. “The planets have to be in correct alignment. In particular, Morrslieb has to eclipse Obs… Bartolomia Primus.”

“Why?”

“How do I know?” Kereveld snapped. “It just does.”

“Morrslieb,” Castavelli muttered dubiously, taking off his cap to fidget with the feathers that crowned it. Their bright colours had vanished beneath a layer of grime and the quills were almost threadbare. “I don’t like Morrslieb. It’s a bad omen.”

“Paah.” Kereveld dismissed him, and turned back to watch the rain.

“The lunatics are always particularly energetic when it’s full,” Lundorf added. “I took Vienela to see them once, and… well…”

“Lunatics!” Kereveld scoffed. “What do they know? Morrslieb is no more dangerous than warpstone, if you know how to use it.”

Florin glanced around, satisfying himself that Orbrant hadn’t been in earshot of that particular comment, then got up and joined Kereveld by the entrance.

“Let’s go back to the star chamber while we wait,” he said airily. “We can have another look at the, um, stonework.”

“Why?”

“To pass the time,” Florin told him, already thinking about the inscriptions and what they might tell him. “To pass the time.”

 

* * *

 

That night there was no let up in the downpour. The rain danced upon the stone of the temple and beat into the clearing beyond. It filled the ditches the men had dug, the mud swimming into a dirty brown as the water rose up to slurp at the ankles of the stakes above, and a white mist rose from the jungle, as thick and blinding as the smoke from burning straw.

The next day it grew heavier.

Kereveld spent this time gazing up at the great open universe that lay sprawled before the all-seeing eye of the star chamber, scribbling away as he watched distant worlds spin through their orbits. If anything on those alien spheres had looked back it would have seen nothing of the temple, even if it had had the eyes or the art to pick out such detail. All it would have seen would have been the cyclone—the vast spiral of its body roaming across the lush green face of this continent with the silent grace of some grazing animal.

Had Kereveld known the size of the weather system, or its lethargy, he would have despaired. For two days it barely moved. Then, with three days left, it twisted to the north, only to be beaten back by some unseen, rival force.

Time ground past, as effortlessly and remorselessly as the stars which turned above. Morrslieb drew near, and, when there were no more than two days until its rise, Kereveld began to think about casting Heiermat’s Last Theorem despite the storm that raged outside. Deep in his heart, though, he knew it would be too dangerous to unleash such energy into the blindness of driving rain—who knew what might happen? It would be madness to cast the incantation without being able to see how it progressed.

Twenty-four hours later, the night before the heavens’ appointed hour, he changed his mind: danger or not, he had to know. That night he neither slept nor ate. Instead he paced up and down the chamber like some wild animal trapped in a cage, pausing only to stare up into the clouds above. Then Morrslieb rose over the distant horizon. Although hidden by the streaming cloud from the men outside, within the star chamber it could be seen with a perfect clarity.

It appeared like a bloody tumour, a cancer malign enough to blot out whole galaxies as it rolled across the universe. Its surface seemed horribly near beneath the magnification of the ancient lens, the vast expanse of the visible hemisphere as inflamed and pockmarked as a plague victim’s face.

Not even the wizard could bring himself to look at it for long. Every time he did so he began to get the feeling that the moon was looking back at him. The suspicion filled him with the same sort of horrible unease that, on the other side of the world, was already sending the lunatics of Marienburg thrashing against their chains.

Florin hardly noticed how thin the wizard’s nerves were wearing. The old fool had never seemed really sane from the beginning anyway. Besides which he had problems of his own. Every time he thought he had cracked the code of the ancients’ writing, a cross check would bring his theories crashing back down.

As yet nobody else knew about his find, and he wanted to decipher it before they did. The gods had gifted it to him, and he fully intended to wring whatever advantage he could from the information before anybody else could. If that meant matching Kereveld’s sleepless vigil, so be it.

So it was that, on the morning that the bloated corpse of Morrslieb rolled into conjunction with the rest of the solar system, Florin and Kereveld were both as exhausted as each other. It took them both a moment to realise what the billowing golden mist they stumbled out into meant.

“It’s a miracle,” the wizard decided as, beneath the scorching heat of the tropical sun, the mist began to clear. The sky above was perfect.

“Help me with my notes, would you?” he asked Florin. Ignoring Lundorf s greeting, he started to clamber up the rough hewn ladder that led to the upper tier of the temple.