The Elder's Curse by Andrew Walbrown (superbooks4u .txt) 📗

way inside. If that happened it could be a death sentence, depending upon how much entered and to what degree it spoiled the water.

He quickly closed his canteen and buried it deep in his backpack, and then used both hands to hold down each side of the blanket. The rumbling outside had become louder than thunder, and with the arrival of the first flakes, the world was enveloped in darkness. Amantius closed his eyes and clenched together his lips, focusing all his attention on preventing the ash from penetrating his cloth fortress. Nothing else to do now but wait.

Though they had weathered at least one ash storm each day, Amantius was once again surprised by the initial blast of wind. Its ferocity was unlike anything else he had ever experienced, not even some of the worst thunderstorms on Accaria had such strong winds. If he had not wrapped himself in the blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon, the gale would have stolen the cloth directly from his back. Luckily only the first winds were any serious threat because within seconds the layers of ash started piling all around the group, preventing any blankets from flying away in the storm.

No matter how long the storm lasted, to Amantius it would seem to continue for days. Aside from the first few moments when he would have to cling onto the blanket or reposition himself so ash would not go up his nose, there was not much to do during the storm except wait. Sometimes he thought about the immediate future; how long could they survive in the Ashlands, where they could find food, and other similar thoughts. But more often than not, Amantius found himself reliving the past, slipping into a realm of memories. Specifically, he dreamed of Accaria’s blue horizons, her verdant trees teeming with life and succulent fruits, as well as the sun-kissed maidens giggling in the shade beneath. When he focused hard enough he saw Mount Meganthus, the mountain which watched over the island like a silent sentinel. He relived dozens of festivals and dreamed of scaling Kevea’s Spear again someday. He saw his mother’s face in his memories, prayed to Kevea that she was well, and hoped the island had not torn itself asunder with violence. In his mind, Accaria looked the same as it always had, forever unchanging, but deep inside Amantius knew this was no longer true. A part of him wanted to return to Accaria’s white powder shores more than anything, to cast off the ash-laden blanket on his head and run to the nearest port to book passage. But intermingled with that desire was a quiet terror, the fear of finding the smoldering remains of not only his homeland, but of himself as well.

Amantius felt a quick jab into his side, light, but strong enough to pull him into the present. He no longer felt Nilawen’s body at his side, nor did he hear the rumbling of the ash storm.

“Storm’s over,” Nilawen said as her foot tapped him again before turning to Ulam. “If he suffocated then I’m claiming his water as mine.”

Ulam grunted.

“I’m not dead,” Amantius said as he stood, shaking flakes of ash from his body. He coughed as he spoke, his voice as dry as the surrounding wasteland. After he returned the blanket to his pack he checked his canteens of water, relieved to see they were all ash-free. Thank the Gods.

The storm had lasted for many hours, ending minutes before dusk. By the time the last remnants of displaced ash settled, night had fallen on the Alakuum. In a stroke of good luck, the moon was high and unobstructed, gifting a blissful light that illuminated the land. They used this opportunity to cover as much ground as they could, hoping to reach an oasis or a settlement before sunrise.

Traveling at night was far more dangerous than it seemed; the relative tranquility hid dangers in plain sight. Though temperatures were much cooler than in the middle of the day, they still ran the risk of succumbing to dehydration. Not only that, but as the moon appeared so did legions of nocturnal creatures, scurrying out of their hiding places after the storm had passed. Small bushes with razor-sharp thorns littered the ground, some submerged by ash, others reaching as high as Amantius’ hips. A cut from one could easily turn into an infection, and with no signs of civilization around, contracting a disease or illness would be fatal.

They moved at a faster pace than usual, only slowing to climb the small ash-covered dunes. For hours they continued in this way, taking breaks at the top of every hill or when they spotted another obelisk. While they rested at the base of one, Amantius looked to the eastern sky and saw the first flicker of orange across the horizon. He sighed, knowing that soon the sun would rise high above them and set the ground ablaze. He shook his canteen again, heard the faint splashing of water inside, and chose to return it to his backpack. He did not know when the next oasis would appear, or if one would before they perished; he just knew he needed to ration every last drop until they found a water source.

Amantius turned around, staring at the way they had come. The Crescent Mountains had long disappeared behind them; any chances of returning to the fortress and resupplying were just as hopeless as they were deadly. He shifted his gaze to Ulam, who, as always, had determination burning in his eyes. Amantius could tell his foster-brother was winded from their journey through the Ashlands, but Ulam had always taken pride in his stamina, and the Orc was far from exhausted.

Even though Nilawen fared much worse than the other two, Amantius was impressed by the grit she showed. He would not have ever said anything aloud, but he did not think she was going to last this long. Amantius believed she had lived too much of