Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

They had been on the road for five days.

Lying on his bunk, Simon watched Riga from the corner of his eye. Since the breakdown, they had each pretended the other did not exist. The tight quarters of the snowcrawler felt even smaller, the muggy air fraught with anger and suspicion. Simon had spent long days and sleepless nights running over what had happened, wondering why.

There was no doubt Riga had attacked him. Even less that she’d abandoned him when he’d fallen down the hill, but when he confronted her, she naturally denied it. With no proof on either side, the others reserved judgement. Simon understood why they wouldn’t take his part. It was galling, all the same.

What would they have done if he hadn’t returned? Would they have searched for him? He wanted to think they would. He wanted to believe Riga’s attack was a momentary outburst of malice, not a calculated plan. The alternatives were too uncomfortable to contemplate.

Vikki and Jonas had responded to the tension by driving non-stop, taking turns at the controls and cat-napping in their seats.

‘I think I see the town,’ Vikki called.

Sark. Light be thanked. Simon rolled out of his bunk and made his way forward.

At the front of the snowcrawler, a small glass porthole allowed the driver to see their way ahead. Snow had covered it, leaving only a small clear patch for Vikki to squint through. ‘Damn stupid... I thought I saw something.’

‘I’ll open the hatch,’ Simon said. For a sight of Sark, he’d happily freeze.

‘Stupid window,’ Vikki muttered. ‘Need something to clear it. Like a broom attached to a lever, or something.’

Simon swung the heavy door open. The coldness of the air snatched his breath away and brought tears to his eyes, but through the falling snow he saw the road curving into the distance and the stone wall of the town. Sark. Relief flooded through him. He hauled the door closed, and it clunked solidly into place.

‘It’s not far,’ he said. ‘Another hour or so, and we’ll be there.’

‘All the little angels be praised,’ Jonas said. ‘Does this rat-hole of yours run to hot baths?’

Simon laughed. ‘I’m sure we can find you a pig trough to sit in. You may have to heat your own water though.’

‘Good enough for me. How about wine? Spirits?’

‘Beer is the local drink.’ Simon peered over Vikki’s shoulder, trying to make out Sark through the porthole. All was white: she must be following the road by feel as much as vision. ‘And something vicious made from potato peel, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

The roar of the engine thrummed through Simon’s bones. He squinted through the snowed-up window again. Hanging out of the hatch, he’d seen the familiar stone walls of Sark. It had to be Sark — there were no other towns on the road — and yet something in the picture was wrong.

He returned to his bunk and closed his eyes. He had only looked for a moment, a brief glance to confirm the town was there, but he was a trained Adept; what he had seen once, he could recall. A light meditative state was required, that was all — and concentration.

Between flurries of snow, under a grey and threatening sky, the town walls a dark patchwork of granite excavated from the mine, no people visible, but that was unsurprising in this weather. They would be at work in the mine, or huddled indoors keeping warm. On a day like this, every stove in Sark would be lit.

And of course, that was what was wrong — not what he’d seen, but what he hadn’t: chimney smoke.

Sa glyph [https://i.imgur.com/plK5EWM.png]

‘Hey, Andra.’ Sam waved to her, and crossed the street to where she waited. As usual, she said nothing, only nodded in greeting. He grinned. ‘You could say hello, you know. Or good afternoon.’

She tilted her head to one side. ‘Why? Is it good?’

She spoke the language much better now, but was still confused by surprisingly simple things. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. It’s just a thing you say, when you meet someone.’

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said gravely.

‘Good day to you.’ Sam bowed, doffing an imaginary hat. ‘And how do you do?’

‘Do what?’

He sighed. ‘Some other time. I can’t stay long today. Nana expects me back.’ He set off down the street, and Andra fell into step with him. ‘That boarding house must be in this area, I’m sure. We’ve tried all the other streets round the Dog and Bear Inn.’

Andra grunted. ‘Perhaps the man lied.’

Sam shook his head. He’d told the barman at the Dog and Bear a convoluted tale about him being Chase’s nephew, and Chase’s family desperately trying to track him down because his uncle had died and left him twenty forints. Sam considered himself an expert in the art of lying to adults, and was sure the barman had swallowed the story. Only all he said was that Chase had mentioned a place named ‘Easy’s Boarding House’ — and he might have got the name wrong, or it might be the other side of the city.

They’d spent weeks tramping the streets around the inn, asking after the boarding house without success. Perhaps the name was wrong. Still Sam was determined not to give up while any slight hope remained.

He stopped on the corner. ‘We haven’t tried here, have we?’ It was a narrow lane, shadowed by tall buildings that might have been grand once, but had seen better days. Windows were boarded, plaster flaking and patched. Few people were about.

Andra sniffed the air. ‘No.’

‘Right. Stay here, I’ll ask around.’ Sam slouched down the street. A shop, he thought, would be the best place to ask. Shopkeepers were usually happy to chat if they weren’t busy, and they knew their neighbours.

There were two shops to choose from, a cobbler and a herbalist. Both were small, makeshift constructions wedged into gaps between buildings. As Sam glanced between them, a sudden rush of inspiration gripped him. He stared at the herbalist’s shopfront. It was a shabby place, far from inviting. Withered roots and rotting bunches of herbs were piled on a bench outside. The shopkeeper didn’t fear thieves taking his stock, apparently.

Sam sidled over, and there it was: garra root, black and twisted and sour smelling. Chase chewed garra root. He was sure now he was in the right street, or very close. He poked his head through the open doorway of the shop. ‘Hello. Anyone home?’

He entered. No one was there, only a table piled with small jars with symbols scrawled on them — not proper glyphs, he didn’t think, or not ones he knew. He peered at the nearest and picked it up. It smelled like soap.

‘I don’t think you need that, young sir.’

Sam started and nearly dropped the jar. The speaker, who had appeared from a doorway in the corner, was a tall, skeletally thin, dark-skinned man. His eyes gleamed white, like milk.

Sam put the jar down carefully. ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for someone. A man called Chase. He’s my uncle—‘ He broke off and took a breath, realising he’d lost track of what story he meant to tell. ‘He’s staying at a place named Easy’s Boarding House, or something like that.’

The dark man laughed. ‘You’re over young to be looking for someplace like Easy’s.’

‘You know it?’

‘Oh, yes, I know it very well. But I don’t believe you’re Chase’s nephew. Are you?’

Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

The steady grumble of the snowcrawler’s engine faltered.

‘Simon?’ Vikki called.

Holomy and Riga sat on their bunks. She stared at him as he squeezed past and made his way forward.

Vikki rubbed at the fogged porthole. ‘The gates are open. Do we drive straight in?’

Simon peered through the condensation-streaked glass, half-covered with caked snow. The town’s timber gates sagged outward; one seemed broken. That wasn’t usual. More alarmingly, he could see no people. The townsfolk certainly would have heard the snowcrawler coming, even if they weren’t watching the road. Such an unusual vehicle couldn’t fail to excite curiosity. The whole town should have turned out to see their arrival, but no one was visible, inside or outside the gates. ‘Something’s wrong here. Drive on slowly.’

The snowcrawler rolled down Sark’s main street. Its tracks broke the crust of a fresh layer of snow.

Not waiting for Vikki to stop the engine, Simon flung the hatch open. The heavy metal door clanged against the side of the snowcrawler. The sound echoed into snow-softened silence. He hung in the hatchway, staring at the town that had been his home for twenty years.

The first few houses stood just as he had last seen them. Beyond was devastation.

The earth had opened beneath Sark like a hungry mouth; houses tilted and sagged on the verge of collapse, teetering on the brink of a sheer-edged pit. The mine’s lifting gear loomed over the town at a vertigo-inducing angle. The chapel had entirely vanished.

Simon stepped down from the snowcrawler. His boots crunched into undisturbed snow. Numb with shock, he walked toward the pit that cut the street in two. Distantly, he was aware of others following him, trying to speak to him, their voices a buzzing in his ears.

Here should be the blacksmith’s forge. Vorn, the smith, with his three children and his wife, lived in the house adjoining. Half of it stood — sheared cleanly away, exposing the rooms to the cold wind. Snow covered the children’s empty beds.

Simon stumbled over something in the snow and stopped. Something dark lay at his feet: a body, face down, thinly covered by snow. He crouched and tugged at it. The stiff, unwieldy thing resisted.

Jonas joined him, and together, they turned the body over. A sob tore from Simon’s throat. It was Cora — one of his wife’s best friends. Their children had played together.

‘What happened here?’ Jonas said. ‘Simon?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The mine must have collapsed,’ Vikki said. ‘A sinkhole. It happens, sometimes.’

‘No.’ Simon stood. The dark lumps of more bodies lay beneath the snow. Bodies alone, and in pairs, and in small groups. ‘That’s impossible. I worked here, I lived here. I’m an Earth Adept. I would have known if the mine was unstable.’ The geology of the area, the structure of the mine — it was part of him, sunk into his soul. He couldn’t be mistaken about something so fundamental. He couldn’t.

‘Simon…’

‘We must look for survivors,’ Simon said. ‘There must be someone. Someone will know what happened.’

He walked along the edge of the pit. Away from the centre of the destruction, many houses still stood undamaged. Not everyone could have been killed. There must be survivors — huddling in their houses, injured, perhaps, or in shock. Sark people were tough. Whatever had happened here, they wouldn’t abandon the town. They couldn’t. There was nowhere else to go. Outside the town walls were only unending miles of snow and ice, without shelter or food.